Post Christmas Oxford Circus Sales: A Review

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

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

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

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

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

Careful what you type

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

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

The main one

Okay,

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

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

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

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

All we could come up with were the three below:

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

& finally:

3. Spit on it.

Real Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

Oxford Street at Christmas

Scene: The Somme, Christmas, 1915

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

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

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

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

Private: "Oh sir! Merry Christmas!"

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

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

Sergeant: "What the....?"

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

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

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

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

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

(A German soldier sees them trying to get up)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CX

Sketchbook

"It's bigger than hip hop"

Two to the five to Threezle

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

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

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

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

God Bless You

I have just been blessed on the train. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cx

Black Hole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that Mr Jones yeah?"

"yes. what?"

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

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

"So you want the insurance yeah?"

The State of the Nation

I'm terrified,

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

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

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

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

Lessons learned from cheap buffet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



I swear,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello,

This is a self portrait.

Coursework

Fighting birds

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

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

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

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

Sent Items

...ouch,

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

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

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

Bulbous Bill gets it 3 times a night!

Online friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he's right

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

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

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

Oh it makes me so mad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The peak of rudeness

Also,

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

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

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

Black men and ham

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RELAX

Picture!

East London Haiku

Hey,

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

C

Live Blogging

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Kings Arms

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

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

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

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

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

"Ooh, arguments"

Redundancy

(Below - Klan, categorically a set of twats)

That's right,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C X

Just one more thing...

Hey again,

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

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

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

Regards,

Cx

Textual

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

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

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

Ringo Star, Super Dick

"After the 20th everythings going in the bin"

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

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

No right at all.

CX

A couple of reviews & some social commentary

Hey,

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

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

"Yeah, I went to the Groove Armarda launch party, it was shit"

Hi,

I heard the above outside a pub at Oxford circus, whoever these two were, they also found out that they were both DJ's, like everyone in the free world is. I also heard a man say "I find it so churlish, to sum oneself up in a business card", in a uni sex toilet in the Troubadour, Earl's court.

Bradford seems a very long way away...

Check out my new header, I'm trying to draw a comic series at the minute, mostly likely it will be used as evidence in the trial of the people Vs Chris, and his dirty Hentai.

Check this picture out, it's a coming of age tale.

C X

...Isn't it?

Hey you,

Here's a picture I originally sketched at work.

...I think it says a lot about the current political climate. I'm not going to explain it, because it's obvious. Possibly, it also says somethings about job satisfaction and that I shouldn't have watched all those horror films at such an early age.

Catch you on the hippsey.

C

Your mothers so fat...(see below)

Hello,

To start with, I thought I'd fill you in on the details of my discovery. I use discovery because later on I reckon I'm going to try & compare myself to Alexander Flemming, it might work out but probably won't.

I think I've come up with my very own 'Your mother' joke, or 'yo momma' if you want to try put an American twang in it. Personally I wouldn't do that, I think I'd sound a bit ridiculous. And possibly a dash racist. The best way forward is probably to fully say, 'your mother is so rotund'. Although, you wouldn't want to overplay the whiteness angle. You'd come across as that Butler off Richie Rich, a bit of a dick wearing a do-rag (also spelled doo-rag, du-rag - wiki) talking about cappin' peeps. Or Kip off Napoleon Dynamite.

Either way, it just came out of no where. Which seems to be the case with some of the greatest moments in history. Look at Flemming (gosh, this is postmodern, I'll probably write about writing a blog soon - like Kaufman), he was a scientist sort of fella, had a bit of a rough time at work, he's got drunk at a conference and had begged this heavy set science lady for a kiss and she hadn't. It was dead awkward and a little bit embarrassing. In his red hot shame he didn't do the washing up, and history was made. A similar situation with me, all you can eat Chinese, discussing old school friends who'd gotten huge and had been seen eating out of a walkers packet full of tears, then it happened.

At first I thought I may be inducted into some sort of hall of fame or be quoted in books. Then I wondered about the origins of the concept and thought of going on a tour meeting others like me and sharing stories. It'd be across the pacific, hear tales about the first time someone said "your mother is so fat, when she lays around the house, she lays around the house".

Then I realised I had a job & wasn't Dave Gorman.

So...

Your mother is so fat...when she's using the lift, I'm on the stairs.

Y'know, because of the weight allowance, which she breaks because she weighs so much. The allowance is like, 8 people. She's as big as 8 normal people.

...shit. It's not very good.