In possibly the worst news since Sonny turned to Cher and said “You know….I may be wrong, but I get the idea I may have a little bit of a violent side.  Lets find out!”, I can’t help wondering how the coffee percolator thing ran out of fiters, meaning I am nil by filtered coffee and am instead drinking that “boil the kettle” crap. 

My eyes are bloodshot and I have in the last week had a handful of hours sleep.  Incase you dont know how many you get in a handful, or are thinking “Yes, but you may have inexplicably large hands and have basically just hibernated for an entire week…”, it amounted to roughly 2-3 hours a night for 5 days.

The reasons are twofold.  Number 1 is that I was up late watching the Ashes cricket (look it up if you don’t know..) as it is played in Australia.

Number 2 is that my wife and children are currently sunning themselves in South Africa.  Leaving me alone.  In an empty house.  With a TV with every channel under the sun.  And a fast Internet connection.

I am hoping they come back soon because I am going to be either going to run out of tissues, go cross eyed or go completely blind at this rate.

No man should be left to fend for himself.  Especially me.  I think they had been in the air on their way to SA for about 2 hours before the house looked like a tornado of crap had appeared and left it’s mark.  I haven’t cooked dinner for a week (can’t be bothered, I actually enjoy cooking normally) yet every single pan seems to be dirty.  The dirty plates have started mating with each other making smaller dirtier plates with soiled nappies of dried food all over them.  If they were children, they would have been taken away from me by now and would have been given to a family of wild bears as it would be deemed better for their general health and wellbeing to be with an animal that will probably end up eating them.

Every single knife and fork has somehow been used. Possibly twice.  But I am at work all day and then am home sat in front of the PC…erm….looking up interesting news articles that I can write about on here.  So who is using them?  And why aren’t they washing up after themselves?

It took me 3 days to work out why every single time I went to the kitchen the cats were there.  Meowing.  Begging.  Pleading.  What the hell for!  What is wrong with them?  Have they been using the cutlery and plates?  Then I realised that maybe…just maybe….my wife feeds them, and they don’t actually open the sachets of food and put it in their bowls themselves.  I thought I had intelligent cats (except the boy.  The dumbass) but it seems that they are as needy as I am.  So that is me and 3 cats all alone not sure who is looking after who.

And that is the other thing.  Since they have been gone, the cats wont leave me alone.  As if they are saying “look, they have gone…PLEASE DONT GO TOO!!!”.  Except that if all three of them don’t stop bugging the crap out of me, they are going to be homeless.  Especially the long haired one.  She is in trouble.  Because I am now living alone, I have given up all personal hygiene.  I haven’t shaved at all.  So when said long haired cat comes up and rubs herself against my face, I am left looking like an extra from a ZZ-Top video.  But that is the thing with personal hygiene.  It is so overrated.  Sure, I smell now.  Worse than normal.  My fingernails are black.  Hair is a mess.  Overall body odour is in keeping with what comes out of a Great Dane’s bottom after holding it in for a couple of days…and he hadn’t been on a healthy diet.  But no one is there to know.  OK, the people at work at starting to question the arrival of the flies, but I am blagging that bit.

But I think the very worst thing so far to prove that I shouldn’t be left alone is that I found out that there was a distinct lack of toilet paper left.  And I didn’t find out when I thought I would blow my nose either.  It could have ended worse, but I got ingenious.  I wont explain why or how, you may be eating your breakfast or something.

My wife comes home in 12 days time.  I expect to be dead in a pile of my own feces by then.  Come prod me with a stick every so often would you?  Just to make sure I am OK.

Right.  Been touching this keyboard long enough know that it needs disinfecting.  See 2 paragraphs up and don’t think about it too much…

Happy new thing.  I hope that you have all made your new year resolutions and have accepted that 6 out of 4 resolutions are broken within an hour of making them.

I only made 2.  1 is to be a better father (hell, I really can’t get any worse…) and 2 is to be a little less dumb than I was over the last year.  You would think that the second one is going to be pretty easy, but you know how these things never quite work out. 

Of course, at a time when millions of people rip that burning cigarette from their dry lips and say “To hell with you…I shall start afresh.  No longer will I be a slave to your inhalation goodness.  No longer will you make me feel good.  I shall no longer suck from your teat of nicotine goodness and shall cast you to the en…..ohhh…okay…one more drag…” while saying “Yeah well, I could give up whenever I want, but I choose to do it…” and then fail miserably within the first week where they turn in to some kind of monster whose sole aim is to be the single most miserable person on the planet talking about how hard their life is and that if there is a God (there isn’t) he is punishing them, I started the new year with a cigarette in my mouth. 

Before I get any grief from family and friends…it was a joke having it in my mouth.  I haven’t actually started smoking.  Geez.

The thing is, I have never actually smoked.  Ever.  Nope, but I decided to bring the new year in with an action packed punch of bending over fireworks with a lit cigarette in my mouth trying to set off a rocket or two.  It’s how I roll. Fortunately it didn’t go as badly wrong as it could and I am still here.  Or unfortunately, you know…depending on if you read this site hoping that one day it will be my obituary and you can walk away thinking “well, it isn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.”

But lets not look forwards. That’s just silly.  Lets look back.  To what I achieved (or failed miserably at depending on how you look at it) over the last 12 months.

Not a lot.  Well, not that is it a short list, but it is so mind blowingly boring that I am afraid that I may manage to increase the post Christmas suicide levels all on my own. 

One thing I did do was to try my hand at a little plumbing.  Well no, actually I tried to unblock a clogged sink.  You will notice the word “tried” there.  Unlike someone who types “Successfully gave plumbing a go”, I sadly couldn’t.  It is in part because I don’t really think when I do stuff.  See, there was a blockage, but I don’t know where.  So I decided “Hey, I will take the u-bend off and see what is in there.” Except that I am fairly lazy so didn’t empty the cupboard first, I just worked around the items in the cupboard.  Taking the u-bend off and it being full of water, I realise I hadn’t got a bowl with me to put the water in. 

So I poured it down the plug hole.  Cue water pouring in to the cupboard where I had just removed said u-bend which I hadn’t been bothered enough to actually empty.  A good start.  Also a very good place to stop my venturing in to the world of plumbing.

Talking about plumbing, I also found a slight problem with my daughter when she wants to pee.  Well, not so much a slight problem, more a case of monkey see monkey do.

Being two and a half, she is a sponge of copying what her Dad does.  Therefore I don’t do much in front of her because I don’t want her to grow up with a disadvantage to the rest of the world through learning from her old man.

But I didn’t see this one coming.

“Daddy…want to go wee wee” she said.

Off we trundle to the toilet.  She stands on her pedestal she uses to climb on to the seat.  Except this time she stays standing up.  She yanks down her nappy and grabs hold of herself….and starts peeing.

So that is another issue with the plumbing then.  She just doesn’t have the tools to stand up and pee.

You know, I am not coming off too well here so I think I will stop.

But whatever your resolutions are for the coming year, I hope they work out better than mine.  Unless yours are to do evil things.  But if you plan on sending me money as part of your resolutions, do it.  The renewal for this site is due and I have 2 kids to feed.

I love my kids.  I really do.  I tell people about them, I put photos up on Facebook and I don’t tell lies about them.

Unlike some people.

Yup, it is that time of the year again where we (regardless of faith…or in my case utter lack of it) celebrate the birth of some kid, and 2010 years later we are still bloody harping on about it. 

And why?  Well, I have a theory that it may be the very first lie ever recorded. 

You know how us men every so often tell a white lie and hoooooly crap…we cant get away from it.  It is mentally noted by the female we are with and then used against us at will and at every single opportunity.

An example of this is the time I told my wife I thought she looked stunning in a top she was wearing.  It was horrendous.  She looked like a gherkin sat next to a pickled baby alien in a jar.  It didn’t work for her.  But I thought she actually liked the top and hadn’t realised she was looking for the words “Oh baby…take it off…you look like the contents of a tissue after I sneeze.  And I had a mild nosebleed earlier.”  Instead I lied and said it looked nice. 

She remembered that lie.  Used it against me on more than one occasion. 

So I find it refreshing that some 2010 years and 9 months ago, some woman, for the sake of the story, we will call her Mary (coz you know, I don’t want to use the real names) got drunk and slept with her neighbour who was called Godfrey Lord.  Later that night, unaware of the several million little dudes heading north to the uterus area of funville en route to meet Mr Egg, she went home to her husband.  Lets call him “Joseph” (again, not using the real name to protect the innocent).

Joseph said “Heeey baby!” realising that Mary was drunk and thought he could get a little action.  But she passed out from the alcohol and previous “entertainment” she had encountered with her neighbour.  So he went off and watched some camel racing on the TV.  Or whatever entertainment device they were using back then.  Either way, it was camel racing.  He lost a shedload of money betting on it which meant that when it came time to booking the hotel for the family December stay, he didn’t have the money to book in advance so would have to wing it nearer the time.

A couple of months had passed, Mary had been experiencing a lot of headaches around bedtime (seems that all marriages seem to have that huh?) so the happily married couple had still not managed to sort out their marriagely vows of going at it like crazy pidgeons once a month.  And then she started throwing up every morning.

“Holy Christ!” Joseph thought….completely unaware of the statement he had just made up in his head.  “What is she…pregnant?”  So he asked her.

On taking a pregnancy test (you had to pee on straw in those days.  None of that pee on a stick and wait for a result in 1 minute like today) and sending it off for 6 months to get it checked out, she started to get a little fatter.

“oooohhh…bollocks!” Mary thought.  Realising that she is going to need to give one big fat lie to get out of this one.

“Joey…baby…I am, as they say over in Jerusalem…up the duff.  It’s a miracle!  The lord has chosen me!”

Cue much celebration and Joseph being obviously the dumbest man in history, fell for it hook line and sinker.  Obviously I think he was partly worried that he was still living down the whole losing the deposit for the hotel thing, so I dunno…maybe he knew…maybe he didn’t. Either way, he played dumb.

So come December, they take the family holiday, but due to overcrowding because of snow, passengers were stranded and all the cheap hotel rooms were booked. 

“It’s OK, I think you are an animal for what you did 9 months ago…lets chuck you in a stable…” Joseph thought.  Gradually catching up to the idea that the “immaculate conception” was an anagram for “Complete bollocks of a lie”.

A few days later, baby jeebus was born.  They got divorced and he grew up and married a prostitute (according to certain historical evidence) and a while later he fell in to a life of crime and got strung up for it.

So.  That’s the TRUE story of Christmas.  Well, according to some words I just made up (although I think it is actually as viable as the “true” version).

If you are a believer, non-believer, jihadist or just don’t care, have a great Christmas/Holiday season/day at work (delete as appropriate) and I will write some other complete rubbish next year.

I live in a nice area.  There are trees, roads, some nice people and some complete and utter dumbwits thrown in for good measure.  It’s a real mix of normality through to dumbest individuals to crawl out of the primordial soup, strap on some baggy trousers and leave school at the age of 5.

For instance, around the shops near where I live are the “children”.  Those 8-18 year olds who do that utterly stupid walk where one leg drags along and they seem to be hopping on the other leg.  I swear it looks like a semi-coherent zombie on the lookout for their next shot of crack cocaine to be inserted directly into their eyeballs.  Except that they aren’t semi-coherent.  They talk a version of the English language that sounds like they have swallowed the big book of complete bollocks and are regurgitating it while talking to their mate with an IQ of a tomato.  And not a big tasty red tomato either.  No, more like one of those that just got stood on by an elephant, then scooped up and put in to a bin provided for people to put what comes out of their chiwawa’s bottom in to.  About the most I will talk to them is generally like this:

“Ohwiiiight mate…buy us sum fags would ya”

“Sod off you stupid little shyte”

They are lovely.  I can’t wait for them to claim unemployment and spend my tax money. And then probably read about them robbing some old lady.

But we don’t just have the wonders of modern society hanging around shops where I live.  We go one step further.  We have quite possibly the most brain dead individuals on earth.  I actually feel sorry for this guy.  I mean, to be born with brains of cotton wool is bad enough, but then for your mother to rip out said cotton wool, probably wipe some baby’s dirty bum with it and then stick it back in your head was never going to end well for you.

The individual in question decided with a mate of his to petrol bomb a pub not far from where I live.  Except that it didn’t go to plan. 

It started well.  They smashed the window of the pub.  Then his intelligent mate lit the taper on the petrol bomb.  And then he threw it through the hole in the window…….juuuust as Mr CottonWool bent down in front of the window. 

Much hilarity ensues as the cotton wool in his head sets on fire. 

Instead of standing about to admire their handywork, they decide that being that one of them is on fire, they should probably run away. Fast.  Before someone spots them because obviously you wont notice some decay of society on fire in that area…it’s pretty much daily life.  

The problem is, while being on fire, The Cotton Wool Wonder decides to try and increase his IQ by running as fast as he can in to a lamppost.  Amazing. 

Honestly…just go HERE and watch the video over and over and over and over and over.  If you look very carefully, you can see where the very last part of his IQ hits the floor and he turns in to a cauliflower.

A couple of weeks ago, I got told I was incredibly and unbelievablya little grumpy and should really live in a cave.  This was said by a man wearing a pair of running tights that were so tight that it looked like they had been painted on to his legs…which were tied together.  I mean not to say that they looked a little too tight, but his face was purple where all the blood was rushing to his head as it couldn’t go anywhere else.  We wont mention the fact that they “shape” as we will end up in the realms of jokes about his…look, I don’t wanna talk about that bit and you don’t want to read about that bit.  Instead, lets just put a photo on here.  Actually, I cant because the photo I took came out a little blurred where I was laughing so damned hard.  Instead, I shall use an artists impression:

Yeah I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking “What a pathetic drawing.  He only has one leg, a square head and 6 fingers on each hand”.

In my defense, he does have 6 fingers on each hand.  It’s a “family thing” apparently.  As for the rest.  Well, I was laughing so hard that my eyes were somewhat squint, so this is a true impression of what I saw.  And the one leg thing?  Nooo…there are two legs there.  That is what I mean.  Those tights were so freakin tight that everything kind of moulded in to one. 

But anyway.  Back to my cave.  Yes, it seems I may have become a touch grumpy of late.  With good reason I may add.

Amongst a lot of things, I had a particularly nasty sexual experience.  I mean really, getting cramp in your hand is never nice is it.  Especially at that time when your eyes are starting to twitch, your toes start to curl and you start to make noises like a constipated stallion.  And that was it.  Game over.  Cut off in my prime so to speak. 

My running ability has gone from awesome to complete and utter pants quicker than a guy with severe premature ejaculation.  One second it was all good, the next “Already?” and that was it.  I don’t think I had even tied my shoes.  I should start training in a goddamn Tu-Tu.  Change my name to “Heather – The Slowest Runner in the West” and start braiding my hair. 

Which I have serious issues with.  Where is my hair going?  I am going balder quicker than a man with…oh…done that one.  Geez…recycling jokes is horrendous.  I miss my hair.  We used to get on so well.  I mean sure, every morning I would wake up, wash it and then stick so much product in it that it wouldn’t move for the rest of the day.  But it got it’s own back the night I had an awesome dream about Angelina Jolie, me and a cold pot of Starbucks coffee.  And a box of sellotape.  And a pen.  I woke up stuck to the bed.

Another thing making me a little grumpy is my SatNav.  The bastard.  I love it…but I also hate it.  2 days ago it decided that my usual route was getting boring for me and took me down a road tighter than my bank balance and bumpier than….umm…a bumpy thing?  I dunno, I cant really think of a word to explain the pot holed filled cesspit of a road that would be better off having it’s pitiful existence surgically removed and inserted in to it’s own anus.  Ohh…there, see, found a way to word it.

My road rage is coming on very well.  “Oh my god…you didnt let me out of the junction even though you had the right of way…I will now catch up with you and drive REALLY close to the back of you car to piss you off!” was one example where I did very well not to slam the breaks on, get out of the car tear off his head and take it to a place that doesn’t normally appear in childrens books.  And I dont mean Austria.

But what I think is really that one that has made me a touch grumpy is that I decided I had put a little weight on.  So I got a tube of hemorrhoid cream and swallowed it.  Why?  Because I figured it would shrink my stomach.  It didn’t really do what I had hoped it would do.  Although I got loads all over my lips while trying to swallow it.  The next morning my lips had shrunk so much, I looked like a goldfish. 

Explaining to the hospital that I had chowed down on said cream wasn’t the highlight of my 35 years on this planet.

I have noticed that a lot of people that read this site use mobile phones.  iPhones, Android phones and even an Etch-a-Sketch.  I figured I should probably make things easier for those reading it by using a template that is smartphone friendly.  So if you are reading this on something more mobile than a tight pair of trousers, you will notice not a damn thing has changed.  Yet.  It’s OK, I have added it to my list of things to get done.  It is right behind flushing one of my cats down the toilet. 

Sadly, it is quite a long list and when I added said flushing of feline down the pan, he was still a little kitten who wouldn’t have required me jamming my hand around the u-bend to get him all the way down.  But now he is a fully grown cat and even with the aid of a big stick and a stern talking to, I just don’t think he is gonna go.  And it is me who has to unblock it.  So.  Expect that site redesign to come along just after someone makes a bigger toilet.  Or I suppose I could make him smaller.  Well….thinner.  Like this one which was from the annual cat stretching competition:

I would have shown you a picture of how far I have got my cat stretched now but when they took him away from me, they didnt say where he was going.  Hell, they didnt even say goodbye.  They said “It’s scum like you that makes this nation look so bad”.  Couldn’t work out what he was getting at.  I mean really….so I stretched my cat.  Look how happy that cat above is!  Lovingly staring in to her eyes with a look of “Go on…look away for just one second.  I will rip out your heart and serve it to you with some of that disgusting cat milk you make me drink.”  But if you get one of those  really rubbery cats, you could use them as a bow and arrow or a cross-bow or a thing that resembles a flying cat or something.  And the cat will be content because it is finally living up to it’s potential as being a fully fledged flying feline.  Try saying that 3 times fast.  With a golf ball and half a pack of skittles in your mouth.  Go on…I dare you.

You know what…I really cant remember where I was going with this.

I really cant.  So.  Erm.  How are you?  Been up to much?

Geez…the silence is deafening. 

Hellooooo….anybody?

Fine.  Well, while I can’t remember what complete balls I was talking about, lets move on.

Did you know that the bushcricket has the largest testicles of any creature in the world? 

I beg to differ *wink* *wink*

But it is true.  Prior to that, it was a fruit fly that had the largest set of man marbles.  They must be kidding.  I have seen a fruit fly and no way was it big enough to carry around a set that would make an elephant blush.  How would the little guy fly?  Or did he just sit there all day showing off to the lady flies?  I mean lets be honest…if I was standing there with the fruit fly version of elephantitis of the trouser department, I am confident I wouldn’t be interested in showing off my flying skills.  Far too much room for problems.

But back to old Cricket Nuts.  His joy department takes up 14% of his body.  14%!!!  Wow.  Just…wow.  I bet his name was Dick or something equally stupid.  And how did they find him?  Did he turn up to the annual “My nuts are much bigger than yours” competition?  Do they have wider than usual doors just to get the ego’s through? How does this work?

Anyway.  Let’s not go there.  I am already feeling inferior with my tiny 11.86%ers.  *pat* *pat* there there…you will be OK. Lets get back in the gym and go for gold next year.

Right.  Where is my cat.  The new toilet just turned up.

It’s been a while since I abused a news story.  Too many posts have been a little too “Me”centric recently.  Good news!

In what can only be classed as first class journalism and not wasting the time of anyone’s day in reporting something so utterly pointless that you would be better off pulling your toenails off with only a can of tomato soup and a harmonica……

A man  has won a place in the guiness book of records for collecting the most fluff from his belly button. 

No really.  He did.  What a hero.  This piece of journalistic genius was reported HERE.  You know.  If you really feel the urge to read about it.  No?  Don’t blame you.  It’s worse than the crap I write…and that’s saying something!

I mean honestly.  There are hobbies and there are hobbies.  I for instance like to collect dog poop.  But ONLY dog poop that is from a Labrador (colour and breed not important.  I am a non-discriminatory labrador poo lover.)  But do you see me taking my 18 tonnes of lovingly collected crap to the Guinness World Records corporation and asking “So.  I have a LOT of crap.  Do I win!?!” because honestly…that would be pretty sad.  Plus people would know about my hobby, which at the moment is safe because I don’t tell anyone about it..  Shhhh….

He apparently has 22.1 grams of the stuff.  Because why WOULDN’T you measure it.  But the worst part of all this?  He sold it.  Not to some Internet freak who is going to smoke it, or use it as some new chewing gum.  Not even to some insane asylum wannabe that would collect labrador poo.  Nope, he sold it to a museum for an undisclosed sum.  I am assuming they also signed over the guy that agreed to buy it’s brain to medical science to understand just why the hell he would want to buy 2 jars of finest gut lint. 

I dont want to get too graphic here…but…what next?  Some guy who puts really warm tight shorts on, works out a lot and then bottles up the sweat that builds up on his knackers (yeah he exists…see 2 posts ago about my nemesis…yup, he does it. I wouldn’t lie to you.) and then tries selling it to the nearest bidder as fresh spring water.  It had LUMPS in it!  What the hell.  The guy needs serious help.

But back to the Lint chocolatier (see what I did there?  Clever huh!  Oh you don’t all know what lindt is?  Well then.  Pointless is my middle name.)

My two favourite parts of the “news” story:

While most people have a positive reaction to his collection there is “a small minority – usually women” who find it unappealing.

Uh-huh.  You think so huh?  And have you wondered why? Maybe it is because…..my favourite line:

“One guy might have persisted, but he got married and his wife ordered him to stop,” he added.

Oooohhh…..your SINGLE.  Suddenly it ALL makes sense.  I cant wait to see your collection of bum hole hairs that I am sure you are also collecting while not remotely watching dodgy adult movies alone at night.  Maybe you could even use some of the lint do patch up the holes in your girlfriend.

Harsh?  Ah come on…the guy is collecting belly button puke!  Work with me here….

I have a problem. 

Well, OK that opens us up to a friggin huge list of possible things ranging from being that I am as ugly as…erm…you…right through to the fact I am fairly confident that my ankles are shrinking. 

No really, they are.  I noticed the other day.  There I stood in front of the mirror admiring *ahem* myself  from differing angles and then I thought “Hey, I have girls ankles.  Really skinny girls ankles at that.”  And then I started trying to put my hand around them to see how small they really are.  Then my wife came in the room and caught an eyeful of me.  With my back to her. Naked.  Bent right over grabbing my ankles, head near my groin saying “Tiny.  Sooo tiny.  What did I do to deserve this?”

“That time again already is it?” she asked. 

My answer of “I was just measuring my ankle size!” was never really going to come across as a legitimate answer was it.  And why would it.

But anyway.  My problem.  It is nothing to do with my impossibly small ankles.  It is to do with men.  Who may or may not have impossibly small ankles.  A set type of man.  One of those who is at least 55 years old and still has a head of hair.

Honestly.  Have you ever looked around at a man who still has a full head of hair. It’s not thinning at all…and he is of the “older generation”.  Granted, I am sure that like me, you don’t spend your day thinking “I really must stare at some older gentlemen today.  Especially the silver foxes with their big heads of hair!  Tasty!” but it is not all that impossible to miss either.  Normally because they are sat next to some young girl on the train thinking he has a chance because he is part Musk Oxen and part Sea Otter.  (As a side note, did you know the Musk Oxen pee’s on itself to keep warm?  Just like an old person!  Clever huh!  Nature is an amazing thing.)

I have noticed them because when sat on a train, I can tell without seeing their faces who is an older man in any of the seats in my carriage. 

How?  You are realistically not asking, nor even really caring.  But you read this far so are thinking that you should humour me fora while.

Well, they have the biggest hair in the world.  I mean really…what the hell.  Do us blokes get to a certain age and think “Heeeeyyyy…I have hair still.  Let’s grow it ridiculously huge!”.  It’s true.  Look around and prove me wrong.  See an older bloke and if he has hair, I guarantee  (in bold, italics and underlined for effect.  Sexy huh!) that he will have it brushed back  in a way that you cant actually discount the possibility that their is a small family of birds living in there.  Possibly even a squirrel.  Therefore, as I sit there, I can see dotted around the carriage this telltale hairstyle.  Waving in the wind like a herd of meerkat looking out for other meerkat.

They are goading us younger less fortunate “Why the hell did I end up with the Dad who was bald by 40” types. 

And you know that they sit there looking around the train while in their heads are saying in some scary old man’s voice “Yeees…look at me.  Look at my hair.  Mesmerising isn’t it.  I was going to get it cut but there is just so much of it, it makes me 4 inches taller when I blow dry it.  And all you semi-balding types….you are weak.  You have less hair.  You are nothing.  Worthless.  Pathetic.  Weak.  But if you ask nicely….I will let you stroke mine!”

Huh…it’s been many years since an old man turned to me and asked if I wanted to stroke it.  “It” was a ferret before you get any pervy ideas.  Sure, the “ferret” had disappeared in his trousers and he asked me to retrieve it, but I wasn’t dumb.  I knew the score.  It would bite me, so I said no.

But you never see an older guy with a sensible haircut.  That bouffant just gets bigger and bigger as they get older and older.  I think it is some testosterone filled status thing between older men.  There are three types of hair-man though:

Completely bald – Hey, I could have your hair…but I decide to shave it allllll off.  Yeah, we believe ya.

Balding – aka ME.  I want hair.  I want the option of it at least.  Sure I don’t want to bouff up anytime soon, but having the ability to say “Today I will mostly be growing my hair in a stupid way!” is still something that I would like.

Full head of hair – Scum.  ’nuff said.

They really aren’t helping themselves.  So I am going to help them.  I am heading a new action group called Euthanasia for Big Hair.  Yup, at a certain length at a certain age….we chop it.  It will then be used to make hair for us less fortunates. 

Like me.  A semi balding 35 year old with ankles like a girl.

I have a nemesis.  A cucumber to my sandwich so to speak.  Ah come on.  The stuff is bloody evil.  It is green to start with, and everyone who likes it says “But it doesn’t taste of anything!”  Well why the hell are you eating it then?  If a cardboard box didnt taste of cardboard, do you think I would stick it in my sandwich?  Exactly.  And if I were to be  fed sausages that had been hollowed out and someone put cat crap in there…would I eat them?  Even if they had no taste?  Ergo…cucumber…evil.

Yes I appreciate that I used the word “Ergo” there.  And I am as educated as what comes out of a squirrel’s bottom…but you know, sometimes I say stuff like that.  Edumacated isn’t I.

Anyway.  My nemesis.  The epitome of evil.  Someone who is undoing everything I have built up over the last 14 months.  What I have worked hard to do. What I have driven myself to be.  And the little sod has come along and somehow (I haven’t worked it out yet) managed to ruin it.  All.  Well not all.  But a lot of it.

Fiiiine.  I will tell you what I am on about.

This nemesis of mine.  Let’s call him “Burdy”.  Why Burdy?  Why the hell not.  And no, it isn’t because he has wings…but he IS a bit of a girl.  He has ran in 4 of the last 5 races I have ran in.  Let’s look at the results of these races.

The 4 he was in…  My slowest ever 10k time in one.  I ended up in an ambulance in another.  I suffered horrendously in the third and got a time I was VERY unhappy with.  My fourth…a half marathon in which I was a whole 19 minutes…yes…19.  Not just 19…it was a Paul Hardcastle N.N.N.N.Nineteen.  Geez…showing my age here.  But 19 minutes SLOWER than my best.   I would have been better off climbing a tree and making inappropriate bird noises at the passing runners.  (Note:  Look up what an inappropriate bird noise might sound like)

The 1 race he wasnt in.  I felt good the whole race.  Kept the same speed in the early half of the race and the last 5 miles I got faster.  All these races were in a close space of time.  Weeks apart even.

So in the car on the way home yesterday, Gitly says “Huh…well maybe you are superman and I am your kryptonite”.  Good bloody point.  Except that I want to be Batman.  He has a way cooler utility belt, doesn’t have to take his glasses off to “Get in to character” and well…he has a sidekick he can abuse.  And hard nipples come as standard in his outfit.  So maybe I should make Mr Burdy my sidekick.  I said that he could be known as Throbbing because Robin is so yesterday.  But then that would give the illusion he has blood running to the parts that I don’t want to talk about.  His wife calls him pinhead.  I once thought of asking why, and then I thought “Ooohh…yeah OK.  Really small cock.  Got it.”

So I dunno.  I need some advice on how to deal with Mr Nemesis.  So far all I have come up with is:

– Driving him out of town – It could work, but then I would be bored training alone.  Training with him is fun.  I have never wanted to make a man pant before because…well…straight.  So it amuses me getting him to the point where he cant stand up.

– Break his kneecaps – I considered it, but he borrowed my hammer several months ago, and then I found out he has an unhealthy fetish with claw hammers…and now I don’t want it back.  Not without a very good clean anyway. I dread to think what state his kidneys are in.

– Trip him up on our next race, stamp on his head and say “Ha!  Screw you!” – Considering it.

– Adopt him as my child – You are allowed to legally smack your own child huh?

Whatever I do, I gotta do it soon.  I have 3 marathons in 5 weeks starting April next year…and I am pretty confident that the way I am going backwards when he is around, I may be an embryo by then.

Yours lovingly, (no, not you)

Sy Button.  Benjamin’s brother.

PS – Go abuse him please.  You can find him HERE.  Tell him Sy sent you and he wants his hammer back.

A few weeks ago I lined up at the start of a 10K race.  A distance I have done many times.  Hell, it’s only 6.22 miles.  I have ran a marathon, so this race  Was just a quick out and back, smile at the waving children, be loved by the ladies and have the other competitors marvel at how great I look.  Job done.

Except that it didn’t work out that way.

It seems, according to my GPS, that at 5.75 miles I went from “Yeah baby!  Check me and my fast runnin’ skillz!” waving at the ladies and being a man oozing  awesomeness to “Aaaaaaaaaaand stop.  Right here.”  The reason my GPS told me that is because…well…I don’t actually remember a thing.  I woke up 8 miles in  to the race (yeah I know it was only a 6 mile race) in an ambulance.  My GPS was still on registering me running at 2 minute mile pace.  Half 
naked…well…very…I was wearing a pair of tight shorts and a confused look.  I have never ever EVER worried so much about getting an erection in my life  as I did at that moment.  Strapped down with tight shorts on and all confused…what would have happened if in my confused state I had seen the oxygen  cylinder and thought “Hey baby!  Wanna go my way?” thinking I was looking at some beautiful slim babe…with no arms, no legs and a ridiculously small head.  

Hey…each to their own.  Don’t judge me.

They had removed my shirt and attached things to my body…and no, it wasn’t a penis extension.  Sure, the Health Service in the UK is free…but they do draw  a line.  I couldn’t even get breast implants out of them.  “It’s for medical purposes!” was my case.  “You’re a pervert” they replied.  So I went to see if they  could suck some of the fat from my arse.  “We don’t have a machine that can store that much fat sir.” they replied.  The unhelpful gits.  Anyway, I digress. 

“Hello Simon” the man in the ambulance said. 

“ummmm….Hi?” I replied.  A little confused as to just where the hell, my shorts covered in puke and wondering why I was strapped to a stretcher.  I was  more concerned at the being strapped down part because I figured they had finally caught up with me and that was it…I was off to the farm a’la funny.

“Do you know what happened?” “How do you feel?” “Can you tell me your address?”

“Holy crap fella…one question at a time.”

It was at this point that he asked for my wife’s phone number.  Which I duly supplied.  Except that I didn’t.  I gave a number that I actually managed to dig  up from some part of my brain which I have absolutely no idea who it belongs to.  Luckily they didn’t ring it.  I have considered ringing it since as I still  for some reason remember the number I gave, but knowing my luck it will be my stalker from years ago and she will be back.  Calling me 500 times a day and 
begging for “Another chance”.  I don’t ever remember giving that nutter a single chance!  The only thing I wanted to give her was a restraining order.  And  maybe 12 roses with their heads cut off and a note that read “My dear…come near me again and the fate of your head will match the fate of the roses this  note is attached to”.  But I figured that would just egg her on.

But back to the hospital.  On arriving at the hospital I got asked some of the single most stupid questions on the face of the planet.  OK, so they were  sensible questions…except when you keep bloody asking them when I already gave a proper answer….well…here…read for yourself:

“Simon. Did you bang your head?”
“I don’t know.  I don’t remember a thing.”
“So what happened then?”
“I don’t know.  I don’t remember a thing.”
“What happened just before you collapsed?”
“I. Don’t. Effing. Know. I. Don’t. Remember. A. THING!”

You get the idea.  But they kept asking.  So I used my brain as they obviously weren’t.  Let’s see.  I was running.  Fast.  Therefore had I collapsed, I would  be covered in scrapes and would highly likely be going “Ow…my bloody head hurts!”.  So I started making up answers to the same questions they kept asking as each person that came in insisted on asking the same bloody questions.

“Simon.  Did you bang your head?”
“Good god no.  Not at all.  Definitely not”
“So what happened then?”
“No idea.  Don’t remember a thing.”
“But you said you didn’t bang your head?  How do you know you didn’t?”
“Intuition my dear Watson.”

They stopped asking after a while.

It was shortly after taking more blood than I had in my body and not supplying me with a drink on the 200th time of asking that I realised something.

I was bald.

No, not on my head.  But patches on my legs and chest.  Someone had taken advantage of me while I was unconscious.  I wanted to check…you know…down  there…but I was afraid I was going to find someone’s initials there.  And what if they were done by a man…even worse, what if they were done by a 
woman…what would my wife say!  Infact what if they were done by a 1 armed hermit called Stefanopolis who hasn’t even passed his advanced shaving course?  Oh  god…the implications going around in my head will stay with me forever.

The finding I was now semi bald in various locations on my body had an adverse reaction which resulted in my picking up the sick bowl and filling the whole  thing in about 3 seconds.  Sat there unable to get up, with a whole bowl of puke in my shaking hands I looked around.  Wondering where I was going to throw  up next or would someone come save me in time.  Fortunately at this point a friend who ended up at the hospital with me appeared.  “Hello fella…here…have  a bowl of puke” and handed it to him.  I considered making him the next target for the pukefest that had started in my body but he was looking after my  children while my wife was in with me…so I was kind.  Plus he had to get in my car to go home so it wouldn’t have been a wise move.  Had I known he had  broken my car window on the drive to the hospital, I would have reconsidered though.

On being discharged several hours later, I was confronted with the cause.  “We don’t know.  We think it is severe dehydration and heatstroke”.  Umm…it’s  October.  In England.  Heatstroke?  Dude…look out the friggin window.  Does it look like some heatwave is going on?  So yeah…I dunno what happened.  Ran  2 races since and it hasn’t happened again.  I am still here to write random crap like this for you.  Sorry.

One last thing before I let you go back to your lives scarred by the fact you won’t get the time you wasted reading this back. 

There was one thing that confused me.  When I was finally with it enough to actually ask what happened, they said “Well, you were found by the side of the  road talking bollocks”.  How did they know there was anything wrong??  It’s all I have in life.  It’s my thing.  Thank scooby they didn’t fix me.