Before this blog starts I would like to talk about me in the 3rd person to point out that that handsome OJ is a man. A red blooded, hunter gatherer who could, if he wanted to, bring down a wooly mammoth and feed the tribe…. even though he is a vegetarian freestyler.
So having only just moved in with the less hairy love of my life (my girlfriend that is, not a seal. Although they do make me laught those slippery honking bastards) I’m now of the gang that sleeps in a bed that is no longer my own. this isn’t helped by James the Director (who’s flat i rent) only has a queen sized bed. So that when I heat up to my, allegedly, 119C. At night being near me is like being next to a sweating hog.
Last night was no different, made worse due to the fact I staggered in drunk to the complete happyness of the good lady. Problem is that I woke up this morning hugging a teddy bear and I have no idea how. Is this a sign of my manlyness. A sign that I can sleep with a bear and not worry about it? I’m not sure. the worry I have is that I slept very well last night thank you very much. To the point that I may phone home to my ma and see if I can get her to send my childhood best friend, my bear called Milton. Why he has a Jewish name I have no idea.
Do you sleep with a bear. Are you still a man. Help me!
Right, this is ridiculous. Grand Theft Auto 4, possibly one of the most rabidly anticipated games to be created. EVER. Well how in the name of Uri Geller’s tit have they managed to sell out. Every where. I feel like a smack head who can’t get hold of any brown.
Did Rockstar games not think… “hello, we’ve got a game here that everybody wants, lets only make 10 copies of it.”or are we in a lets keep the addicts waiting a bit longer. Well I’m dying here Mr Rockstar. I need my fix so will you get the children in you processing plant to make a few more copies. i’ll pay whatever the cost.
No, my anger doesn’t relate to printers (although I do hate them….. the bastards) It relates to the drivers of 4×4’s in London. Now i’m not going to go into the environmental issues as we all know them and to be honest You’d just get bored if I did my Al Gore impression (although I do agree with him) its to do with the arrogance of the people who drive them.
Just went to the”big shop’ at Waitrose (chose that cause they are the greenest of all of the supermarkets and also support farmers. The shop cost £123! beating my previous record by about £60. In future the farmers and the environment can go fuck them selves and I’ll shop at Aldi) and in going into the car-park I discovered that it was a small, tight (f’narr) area that had limited spaces available. What do I see then while crawling round looking for a spot for my girlfriends very economical little Yaris? A whacking great big BMW X5 parked badly so leaving it unable for someone to get a car in next to them. Worse was to follow as i carried round on my now non peaceful drive…. but a porsche Cayenne parked with out any regard over 2 spaces. I mean feel free to drive a 4×4 if you live in the country side and own horses, pigs or cockle pickers but in the centre of London!
Now I’m not one to leave things lying but as we exited the car and heading into the supermarket I saw the driver of the X5 – a small posh looking blonde lady – bet you couldn’t have guesses – I of course had to state that I didn’t aprreciate her parking methods (swear words might have been used) It was only afterwards that my girlfriend pointed out that a hairy guy like me shouting a lady in a car-park probably doesn’t look the best but hey, maybe she’ll p[ark better net time. The bitch.
Anyway this blog has mearly turned into a Daily M ail style rant so I shall no diffuse my own burgeoning bile with a track which has got me whacking the repeat button more times that teenagers whack off.
What do you call a blind dinosaur? See above title.
What do you call a blind dinosuars dog? Do-you-think-he-saw-us REX! ahaha hah ahahhahahahaahah
What do you call a lesbian dinosaur? A lick-o-lotta-puss. Thats not funny.
Any hoo, jokes aside, there is a reason for my high brow tom foolery. I today, after living in London for two and a half years finally decided to go and do something touristy. And the Natural history Museum was the lucky recipient of my hyperactive presence.
I haven’t been to a museum in years. Last time I went was to the Jewery Wall musuem in Leicester about fifteen years ago – star attraction is Daniel Lambert’s Chair. He was the fattest man in the UK from 1804 – 1805 you know. I can hear a million jaws dropping as I write this. So my abiding memory of museums is being highly bored and starting to think that a life of drugs would be an improvement to seeing some tapestries that were made on one of the first looms. I blame museums like that for every person that has ever tried crack. Amy winehouse was made to go to alot of them you know.
So it was a rather large shock when I rocked up at the Natural History Museum and was shocked at how [swear word alert] Fucking good it was. I ended up running around the place like a child whose just down a liter of Ki-ora (remember getting high on that quality shit – who needs pills!) the highlight being the Dinosaur exhibition (which is why you were subjected to my Tommy cooper styling at the beginning of this blog) with some of the best animatronics that I have ever seen. There was a massive T-rex model that was so good I felt my heart start racing when I wandered into that particular room. Now many people know I’m a massive fanny when it comes to anything scary (example; at 18 I watched the film The Relic and was that freaked out I asked my mother if I could sleep on her floor) but I think anyone would be slightly freaked out by it as standing in-front of sent a shiver right down to the primordial roots of our beings.
I’ll try and prove it now as I filmed it on the mobile……
I admit its probably not as impressive there as it was in the ‘flesh’ but looking into its eyes I was transported back 150 million years (which is about the same amount of times as Bruce Forsythe has been on TV) where I was a simple hunter with the snortin, hungry T-rex ready to rip my face off.
If this is how good Museums have got then I’m going more often and I’m about to do something that I never thought I would have done. I recommend you going to the museum more, especially the Natural History one….. I think it could be a remedy for crack.
Cause Crack is whack y’all. And so is Daniel lamberts chair.
Now this won’t come as much of a surprise to many people but I’m a strange guy.
And I have finally realised this as I upgrade my Mac. Now I have moaned for exactley 1 year and 14 days about the fact that I only have a little 13inch Mac book and not, like everybody else in the Podshow office a MacBook Pro. Last week (and this sort of thing always happens around my birthday – did I mention this is my first blog as a 29 year old? No? I have no problem accepting presents up to a year after the big day) I met a guy (ooooerrrrr) who was flogging a brand new 15″ macbook pro for a bargain price of £850 (its not nicked officer – honest) So I did what any person with a raging birthday induced hangover would do a bought the mother.
The problem comes now. My little Macbook is an extension of me. It has been with me pretty much all day every day for a year. I feel guilty, yes guilty, and slightly ashamed that I’m binning little maccie in favour of a new all singing all, dancing, all bonking new version. I feel like upgrading to a “Pro machine” is like my loss of innocence. That I’m now moving into adult hood. I mean I’m bashing away on the new mac right now (and it has a much better keyboard – how could you OJ turn your back on the little mac) but I don’t feel the love yet.
The worst moment came when I transfered all the data – I plugged a fire wire cable between the 2 machines and then proceeded to rape the brain of my old Mac. The image of a big shiney new machine taking nit just the place, but all the workings of my old, faithful machine. I swear I could hear it crying. If you think ‘m amking this up then I can categorically tell you right now that I feeling a mite emotional and have just snapped and shouted at the Broadband router as I write about this matter.
I’m a alone here? Am I as wierd as I feel – Or am I neglecting my poor, faithful MacBook. I’m gonna have to go now…. I seem to have some thing in my eye…….. [SOB]
Well it would be if I didn’t have the most ridiculous hangover, for yes I did worship at the alter of sherbert last night to toast in my birthday and now have a banging headache that no amount of Anadin is curing (well actually if I take a large amount I’m sure that would cure it… although it’d also cure breathing and the rest of my functions) In fact I was so drunk last night I actually don’t remember doing my TV show which is both rather unprofessional and stupid. Altough most of it was prerecorded from before the booze started flowing.
So I’m 29 today – sharing a birthday with such luminaries as David Blaine and Heath Ledger (me and heath were exactly the same age) adn also the death of Dr Martin Luther King (40 years today I think)
I was going to write more but as I’ve spent more time spell checking this fucking post than actually writing it due to the afore mentioned hangover I’m gonna go and try to straighten my self with a bloddy mary and a bit of birthday lunchage with the good lady. My girlfriend can come along as well if she wants (this is a joke of course darling…. and if you are angry about that comment then unlucky, you can’ shout at me today as its my birthday. Although tomorrow is a different matter – its the birthday of a new tax year. JOY)
Although if you are a member of my family or the police then obviously I’m not (I am actually not I just thought it was a catch title alright – speed is a horrible drug and should not be done by anyone other than the people who operate fairground rides. Crack on the other hand should be done by everyone. I jest of course )
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The reason for the speed in the title is that I have once again left my charger for my laptop at the good ladies house in Wrexham, meaning that I have only 5 minutes of battery life on this contraption. I must write for my life cause I know if I don’t write down my inane witterings then the world might just end.
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Of course it wn’t but I am rather fed up of forgetting things – i looked at the bloody thing last night and thought to my self I better not forget that – so I went and forgot it just to prove a point to myself. How do you actually rember things – my old man used to swap a ring pon his hand but I’m not into rings as I reckon blokes in them either look one of three things. Camp, chavvy or like they are trying to be a pirate.
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Not much time left but I did have the most amazing revelation over the weekend and I managed to figure out the meaning of life and why we are all here.
Now before we start this blog I would like to point out that I am not a homophobe… indeed I have noted many times that I think that we are all slightly gay and I have at the very least a homosexual taste in music (think Diana Ross and glitzy, piano house tunes)
So to the story and I was going for dinner with Phil. Now is you don’t know who ‘Phil’ is… well ‘Phil’ is the world famous sex therapist Dr Cockney. And I was waiting for him with James (my director and slum landlord) and James’s Girlfriend, the lovely Sarah….. whose name I had forgotten when I first met up with them and I had to avoid mentioning her name by dodging all those situations where you have to address some one by name (we’ve all done it – even you James) until it had been mentioned that her name was Sarah….. I digress. Again.
So up in the unbelievably posh area of London in Hampstead we needed a pub to wait in – James, for reasons I have yet to work out, chose the only gay pub in that area. First things first it was a great place. The bar men friendly, the drinks top and reasonable priced and the music fantastic (it always is in gay bars – sort it out you hetro bastards) and we are sat there, myself, James and his Girlfriend waiting for Dr Cockney.
In walks Cockers and if you haven’t met him (having seen how many shows he has made I believe this to be a fantastically small number)…. well he’s a great touchy feely guy, who is pretty snazzily dressed and we hadn’t seen each other for a while, so he gives me a big hug to say hello. Can you see where I’m going with this? It looked like I was in there with my straight couple waiting for my big bear of a benefactor (alliteration there) of a sugar daddy to turn up and take me out for a meal! We all chatted, laughed and collected the free packs of condoms and lube that they had on the side (why don’t they give them out in all places straight or gay? Its not like we have a problem in this country with teen pregnancies and sexual diseases) which all just added to the image of us looking like the aforementioned couple who had just cruised each other.
I suppose the upshot is that Dr Cockles did pay for my meal and I do like the Supremes. Make your judgments now.
These days have never meant anything to me. Why? Well I’ve never really had a job that gave me them off. When I worked in bars we did the bank holidays cause that is what you did. In radio you tend to get cover shifts and being free lance now means that a day off is a day of unemployment – bank holiday or no bank holiday. The thing is though that banks get loads of days of anyway. When was the last time you saw one of those fabulous men/women in a Natwest on a Sunday? You don’t.
It should be a Bar holiday Monday, where all the people who work in banks then have to work in bars and the poeple who work in the bars can get more shit faced than they already do while working. So thats a plan then? I’l just call the queen and get her to stick it in the schedule.
Couple of linkies cause this week I’ve been pointed to some fantastic animations. First one if from Weebles and is almost better than the bible as it involves ANIMAL POO!
The other is a song that links my 2 favorite things. The song by Nina (called 99 red Ballons) and Breasts. Ten points if you can guess whats gonna happen before clicking the link? Yep its 99 WORDS FOR BOOBS.
