This week was a great week because it contained my birthday. Some people hate people making a fuss about their birthdays and say stuff like, “it’s just another day, big deal”, whilst I think, “it’s my birthday give me loads of stuff and attention”. In terms of presents I got a few quid and some Robert Downie Jr paraphernalia. This is actually pretty good because I realised after the age of 21 you generally don’t get anything good, this really hit home when I only got a couple of books for my 22nd birthday; I like a book but when it comes to birthdays all I want are toys or DVDs. My sister gave the Robert Downie Jr key ring and bag to me, as she knows I have a huge man crush on him. He is the only man in the world I’d happily bum in the hope that some of his charisma gets transferred across to me.
On one of the other days I did a BBC casting with about 1million other comedians. It wasn’t actually that bad. I got to do it with Carl Donnelly so was much more fun than normal. Normally castings with comedians are like metaphorical dick swinging contests and if you’re not prepared to windmill you look like a tit. Luckily this wasn’t such a wind turbine environment and more of a fun hour with a few comedians I know, who were all prepared to laugh at each other. Afterwards me Carl and Tiff Stevenson (comic) had an all you can eat oriental buffet where it’s vegetarian food that tastes a bit like meat; it tastes much worse than the meat in question and gives you stomach aids, don’t ever go to the one of these places unless you’re constipated. What is the point in vegetarian food that looks and tastes a bit like meat? You’ve made your choice now stick with it: that’s like a straight man from time to time getting his girlfriend to wear a beard and call herself Geoff for the night (or in my case Robert Downie).
After that very confused and nonsensical analogy, I will leave you to continue to stare at a spread sheet.
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
Thursday, 17 June 2010
June 1-5th: A week full of stingy wizards
This week was bookended by my mum’s birthday and helping my dad sell some old paper (this will be explained later).
On the day of her birthday I still hadn’t purchased a present for my mum so something last minute and potentially crap was on the cards. Being a mother must be rubbish for presents because despite how far the women’s movement has come in the last 100 years everyone child always thinks, “what kitchen gadget shall I buy her?” In the past I’ve bought her a bread maker, oven gloves and a blender; she really is lucky. This year I didn’t think I should buy her a kitchen item partly because it shows a lack of imagination and partly because she owned all the kitchen utilities in the world. So instead I bought her bathroom products. Bath soaps are the substitute option for a mum’s present closely followed by a scented candle. I also bought her some expensive cup cakes, they were actually lovely; I know this because I ate one, which shows they were very much a present for me as well. If I ever become a middle aged mum I will have a birthday present list but only contain stuff that I do not wish to be bought. The list will look like this, “nothing for the kitchen, nothing for the bathroom and no scented candles”.
On Friday, I helped my dad sell old books and paper at a book fair in Hammersmith. The collective name for this gubbins he sells is “ephemera”. I have helped my dad sell ephemera since I was a small child and I’ve always found it extremely monotonous and boring. It still is a long and generally tedious day, that involves sitting around and doing very little but the characters that go to these events are hilarious. I’m going to give a little overview of the creatures who crawl around this function room of the Hammersmith Novotel looking for a bargain.
For whatever reason most of the ephemera and book fair circuit is made up of homosexuals, Jewish people and homosexual Jewish people. Now before you clench your PC arse cheeks together, worried that I will going into a homophobic and anti-Semitic diatribe, I am merely stating a fact about the customer demographic not passing judgement on anyone. Most of the men walking around are over the ages of 50 and generally have wispy white hair and dodgy beards so look like an army of wizards. Unfortunately, none of them can do any magic; instead they spent most of their time trying use the power of the mind to convince you to part with an item for a third of the price. There was one man walking around the fair with white hair, a bow tie, a jacket and holding an old wooden stick that you’d find in the forest, which either a rambler or Gandalf would carry: even the walking sticks in this place are antiques.
There is normally a bloke, who wears the same rain mack, every time he comes, whatever the weather. It is one of the grimiest unwashed garments I have ever laid my eyes on and really adds to the sex offender look. Not only this, he refuses to pay over £2 for anything despite being wealthy; I used to be intimidated by him (due to the sex offender look) but as I’ve grown older and become more confident I normally berate him by saying, “that’s a bit out of your price range because it’s over a quid, you tight bastard”.
In his absence, there were plenty of other nutters knocking around. The stuff that people collect is both fascinating and hilarious. People came up to me and asked if I was selling anything on, puzzles, bees, trees, horses (just horses, nothing else but horses). There is one white guy, who has grown a Mr Myagi beard and ties his hair up with chopsticks and only wants stuff on Japan: weirdo. Despite being surrounded by bizarre people I was still pretty bored by the end of the day. I was also perturbed because the woman running the fair told me off twice for not tidying up the stall. Getting told off as an adult is the worst feeling in the world but at the age of 24 you’d think I be old enough o stand up for myself; instead I do my reliable trick of saying “sorry”, then muttering to myself and sulking. Mature.
If you ever want to watch a crazy group of individuals get your ass down to an Ephemera fair and dress like a wizard.
On the day of her birthday I still hadn’t purchased a present for my mum so something last minute and potentially crap was on the cards. Being a mother must be rubbish for presents because despite how far the women’s movement has come in the last 100 years everyone child always thinks, “what kitchen gadget shall I buy her?” In the past I’ve bought her a bread maker, oven gloves and a blender; she really is lucky. This year I didn’t think I should buy her a kitchen item partly because it shows a lack of imagination and partly because she owned all the kitchen utilities in the world. So instead I bought her bathroom products. Bath soaps are the substitute option for a mum’s present closely followed by a scented candle. I also bought her some expensive cup cakes, they were actually lovely; I know this because I ate one, which shows they were very much a present for me as well. If I ever become a middle aged mum I will have a birthday present list but only contain stuff that I do not wish to be bought. The list will look like this, “nothing for the kitchen, nothing for the bathroom and no scented candles”.
On Friday, I helped my dad sell old books and paper at a book fair in Hammersmith. The collective name for this gubbins he sells is “ephemera”. I have helped my dad sell ephemera since I was a small child and I’ve always found it extremely monotonous and boring. It still is a long and generally tedious day, that involves sitting around and doing very little but the characters that go to these events are hilarious. I’m going to give a little overview of the creatures who crawl around this function room of the Hammersmith Novotel looking for a bargain.
For whatever reason most of the ephemera and book fair circuit is made up of homosexuals, Jewish people and homosexual Jewish people. Now before you clench your PC arse cheeks together, worried that I will going into a homophobic and anti-Semitic diatribe, I am merely stating a fact about the customer demographic not passing judgement on anyone. Most of the men walking around are over the ages of 50 and generally have wispy white hair and dodgy beards so look like an army of wizards. Unfortunately, none of them can do any magic; instead they spent most of their time trying use the power of the mind to convince you to part with an item for a third of the price. There was one man walking around the fair with white hair, a bow tie, a jacket and holding an old wooden stick that you’d find in the forest, which either a rambler or Gandalf would carry: even the walking sticks in this place are antiques.
There is normally a bloke, who wears the same rain mack, every time he comes, whatever the weather. It is one of the grimiest unwashed garments I have ever laid my eyes on and really adds to the sex offender look. Not only this, he refuses to pay over £2 for anything despite being wealthy; I used to be intimidated by him (due to the sex offender look) but as I’ve grown older and become more confident I normally berate him by saying, “that’s a bit out of your price range because it’s over a quid, you tight bastard”.
In his absence, there were plenty of other nutters knocking around. The stuff that people collect is both fascinating and hilarious. People came up to me and asked if I was selling anything on, puzzles, bees, trees, horses (just horses, nothing else but horses). There is one white guy, who has grown a Mr Myagi beard and ties his hair up with chopsticks and only wants stuff on Japan: weirdo. Despite being surrounded by bizarre people I was still pretty bored by the end of the day. I was also perturbed because the woman running the fair told me off twice for not tidying up the stall. Getting told off as an adult is the worst feeling in the world but at the age of 24 you’d think I be old enough o stand up for myself; instead I do my reliable trick of saying “sorry”, then muttering to myself and sulking. Mature.
If you ever want to watch a crazy group of individuals get your ass down to an Ephemera fair and dress like a wizard.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
24-28th May
The Highlight of this week was preparing to do a debate at the Oxford Student Union. I had to debate against the motion, “Englishmen are funnier than Americans”. This was clearly going to be a difficult debate to win as American bashing is a British past time closely followed by calling your best mate a “wanker”.
I spent a full day researching and writing about American religion, which was a complete waste of time because I just ended up crowbarring in my stand up material. I was also told by Matt Lacey (aka the guy from the Gap Yah video) to wear a tux. Out of 400 people in the room I was one of only two people in a tux whilst everyone else was in fancy dress. So not only did I lose a debate I did so whilst claiming I’d dressed as James Bond. I felt like a sartorial bellend.
The even more annoying thing was I got it specially dry-cleaned. There is a place in Chiswick run by an Albanian con artist: that is not derogatory; he is a con artist who happens to be Albanian. He cocked up a suit I wanted cleaned last year and this time I noticed by the time I was in Oxford, he’d left a massive stain on my shirt. All I could think was I’m going to murder him and I won’t get caught because I’m going to take my blooded garments to a different dry-cleaners where they know to clean stains properly.
The debate was quite fun and proceeded with a posh meal. I hate eating posh meals, especially whilst overdressed. For some reason my conversational skills deteriorate and I end up just repeating phrases like, “this chicken is really tender”. We got put up in a top of the range hotel, which was generally great but I have one gripe about the Hollandaise sauce on my Eggs Benedict at breakfast: strap in for most middle class complaint ever. It turns out if Hollandaise sauce is a thin liquid it tastes disgusting. It was like some sort of beige soup,; it made the food at the Diner look Michelin star quality. I still ate it all because someone else paid for it and I wanted to cash in: I’m convinced I’d eat a bag of nails if it was how I was being paid for something.
Lesson learnt: never wear a tux based on word of mouth.
I spent a full day researching and writing about American religion, which was a complete waste of time because I just ended up crowbarring in my stand up material. I was also told by Matt Lacey (aka the guy from the Gap Yah video) to wear a tux. Out of 400 people in the room I was one of only two people in a tux whilst everyone else was in fancy dress. So not only did I lose a debate I did so whilst claiming I’d dressed as James Bond. I felt like a sartorial bellend.
The even more annoying thing was I got it specially dry-cleaned. There is a place in Chiswick run by an Albanian con artist: that is not derogatory; he is a con artist who happens to be Albanian. He cocked up a suit I wanted cleaned last year and this time I noticed by the time I was in Oxford, he’d left a massive stain on my shirt. All I could think was I’m going to murder him and I won’t get caught because I’m going to take my blooded garments to a different dry-cleaners where they know to clean stains properly.
The debate was quite fun and proceeded with a posh meal. I hate eating posh meals, especially whilst overdressed. For some reason my conversational skills deteriorate and I end up just repeating phrases like, “this chicken is really tender”. We got put up in a top of the range hotel, which was generally great but I have one gripe about the Hollandaise sauce on my Eggs Benedict at breakfast: strap in for most middle class complaint ever. It turns out if Hollandaise sauce is a thin liquid it tastes disgusting. It was like some sort of beige soup,; it made the food at the Diner look Michelin star quality. I still ate it all because someone else paid for it and I wanted to cash in: I’m convinced I’d eat a bag of nails if it was how I was being paid for something.
Lesson learnt: never wear a tux based on word of mouth.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
16-21st May
After a month off blogging, I’m back , which all 7 of you will be delighted to know. Personal reasons have prevented me from writing over the last month; by personal reasons I mean I’ve personally been extremely lazy/ forgetful.
This week was constructive and I will give you one or two highlights. I made a Spaghetti Bolognese for the first time since university. I was really pumped about it, as I hadn’t had one since living with my parents. I was getting nostalgic whilst cooking it and if I’m honest a little cocky. I was haughtily tossing in dried basil and oregano, squirting Tabasco and Worchester sauce with gay abandon like some sort of condiment King. After this much diligence and effort it inevitably tasted shit: not horrendous, just not as good as the way my mum makes it. There is something about mums and Spag Bol. Once you fire a kid out of your crotch, God must compensate you with super spaghetti and fried mince powers.
This wasn’t as bad as Benny Boot’s Lamb curry, which he made for me on Wednesday. Benny is a fellow comedian, who recently quit his day job. This means he has less money but meant I had someone to play with (not like that) on a weekday. He brought over his homemade lamb curry in a Tupperware box like an overgrown schoolboy. He gave me half, which I now think was a roundabout way of him telling me that I had somehow annoyed him. It did not taste good. He was the first one to put his hands up and say it wasn’t an enjoyable mouth companion; he blamed the lack of salt in the marinade. I blame the fact that he hasn’t fired any children out of your crotch because mums are also good at making curry.
Benny also accompanied me to the gym. This was a world first for me: I had a work out buddy in the gym. Benny got to see all the GMBs and The GMG who we both agreed was relatively attractive but could probably only have conversations about reps and stretching, therefore not so attractive. Having him there meant I actually did a proper work out rather than lift the odd dumbbell and stare at leggings. I’m not really a fan of doing a proper workout because it meant I was completely fatigued and had to have an afternoon nap, which no one with a real job is allowed to do.
The other notable trip I embarked upon was to attend a Vodafone advert casting in central London. The money was decent and I’m more broke than a Greek (topical), so I was quite keen to get it. The funniest thing about a casting is you sit in a waiting room with 5 or 6 versions of you. As the brief for who they are casting is your physical description it’s slightly disturbing being surrounded by people who are only ½ a chromosome away from you. After waiting for ages I went in and mimed putting some shoes on for 8 seconds before the director said, “thanks for waiting for so long…”, in his mind he must have finished that sentence with, “…”although you are crap at mime and shouldn’t have bothered”. I did not get the part.
It’s good to be back blogging. Till next week or month or year.
This week was constructive and I will give you one or two highlights. I made a Spaghetti Bolognese for the first time since university. I was really pumped about it, as I hadn’t had one since living with my parents. I was getting nostalgic whilst cooking it and if I’m honest a little cocky. I was haughtily tossing in dried basil and oregano, squirting Tabasco and Worchester sauce with gay abandon like some sort of condiment King. After this much diligence and effort it inevitably tasted shit: not horrendous, just not as good as the way my mum makes it. There is something about mums and Spag Bol. Once you fire a kid out of your crotch, God must compensate you with super spaghetti and fried mince powers.
This wasn’t as bad as Benny Boot’s Lamb curry, which he made for me on Wednesday. Benny is a fellow comedian, who recently quit his day job. This means he has less money but meant I had someone to play with (not like that) on a weekday. He brought over his homemade lamb curry in a Tupperware box like an overgrown schoolboy. He gave me half, which I now think was a roundabout way of him telling me that I had somehow annoyed him. It did not taste good. He was the first one to put his hands up and say it wasn’t an enjoyable mouth companion; he blamed the lack of salt in the marinade. I blame the fact that he hasn’t fired any children out of your crotch because mums are also good at making curry.
Benny also accompanied me to the gym. This was a world first for me: I had a work out buddy in the gym. Benny got to see all the GMBs and The GMG who we both agreed was relatively attractive but could probably only have conversations about reps and stretching, therefore not so attractive. Having him there meant I actually did a proper work out rather than lift the odd dumbbell and stare at leggings. I’m not really a fan of doing a proper workout because it meant I was completely fatigued and had to have an afternoon nap, which no one with a real job is allowed to do.
The other notable trip I embarked upon was to attend a Vodafone advert casting in central London. The money was decent and I’m more broke than a Greek (topical), so I was quite keen to get it. The funniest thing about a casting is you sit in a waiting room with 5 or 6 versions of you. As the brief for who they are casting is your physical description it’s slightly disturbing being surrounded by people who are only ½ a chromosome away from you. After waiting for ages I went in and mimed putting some shoes on for 8 seconds before the director said, “thanks for waiting for so long…”, in his mind he must have finished that sentence with, “…”although you are crap at mime and shouldn’t have bothered”. I did not get the part.
It’s good to be back blogging. Till next week or month or year.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
April 12-16th
This week started off with potential. BJ twisted his ankle on the weekend playing Rugby. My delight wasn’t due to me still having repressed hatred for him after Parking Ticketgate the week before but because he had to work from home on the Monday. In my head I was thinking we’d play a lot of FIFA, have a lunch and play knock down ginger. Unfortunately this didn’t happen because we are both no longer 12 and he not only has a real job but is also the most sensible 23 yr old you’re ever likely to come across: he likes indoor rock climbing, spends 3hrs a week ironing and bakes things with his girlfriend. By ‘things’ I mean cakes and biscuits not random objects or insects that would be far too cavalier and not sensible enough. So my Monday was spent doing nothing of interest in the same room as someone else doing nothing of interest. It was like he brought his office job into my living room; this was not appreciated.
My other housemate B (Benedict Pringle) had been working through the Monday and Tuesday night at his advertising company. I don’t know exactly what he was doing. Presumably he was trying to think of an advert to rival Compare the Market and the Go Compare dude. As a man who watches a lot of day time television I would really like to see a couple of different intermissions between programmes. Maybe someone can make an advert where the Meerkat and that fat, crap moustached opera singer fight: the winner gets to stay on TV, the loser get’s relegated to the advertising in the Evening Standard. The reason I was excited was that his long night meant he was going to be at home on Wednesday. He got in at 9am, I figured he’d have a quick nap and would be up at lunch to hang out: I was positively pumped.
I quickly popped to my parents to help them move furniture. Since I’ve moved out, I’m only ever required to go back to either move furniture or fix the computer. I get the feeling my parents wish I was either a massive tattooed geezer removals man or a spectacle wearing nerd. I’m unfortunately neither of these things: I’m bad at lifting things and clueless about IT but evidently less rubbish than my parents are. I got home at about 2am to find B had left the flat. I was absolutely gutted. My good deed for my parents had cost me a companion for the day. My parents now owe me a play date. From now on I will have to start charging them for services rendered but rather than money I want them to provide me with someone who likes computer games and is not a git. Paying me in a human being is probably defined as slave trading, however, if slavery merely consisted of sitting on a sofa, chatting and playing FIFA it probably wouldn’t have been so morally abhorrent and it’s abolition wouldn’t have been so widely celebrated.
The week, therefore, was one that promised to be fun and friend filled yet was mainly one of writing and Facebook stalking….
My other housemate B (Benedict Pringle) had been working through the Monday and Tuesday night at his advertising company. I don’t know exactly what he was doing. Presumably he was trying to think of an advert to rival Compare the Market and the Go Compare dude. As a man who watches a lot of day time television I would really like to see a couple of different intermissions between programmes. Maybe someone can make an advert where the Meerkat and that fat, crap moustached opera singer fight: the winner gets to stay on TV, the loser get’s relegated to the advertising in the Evening Standard. The reason I was excited was that his long night meant he was going to be at home on Wednesday. He got in at 9am, I figured he’d have a quick nap and would be up at lunch to hang out: I was positively pumped.
I quickly popped to my parents to help them move furniture. Since I’ve moved out, I’m only ever required to go back to either move furniture or fix the computer. I get the feeling my parents wish I was either a massive tattooed geezer removals man or a spectacle wearing nerd. I’m unfortunately neither of these things: I’m bad at lifting things and clueless about IT but evidently less rubbish than my parents are. I got home at about 2am to find B had left the flat. I was absolutely gutted. My good deed for my parents had cost me a companion for the day. My parents now owe me a play date. From now on I will have to start charging them for services rendered but rather than money I want them to provide me with someone who likes computer games and is not a git. Paying me in a human being is probably defined as slave trading, however, if slavery merely consisted of sitting on a sofa, chatting and playing FIFA it probably wouldn’t have been so morally abhorrent and it’s abolition wouldn’t have been so widely celebrated.
The week, therefore, was one that promised to be fun and friend filled yet was mainly one of writing and Facebook stalking….
Thursday, 15 April 2010
April 5-9th
I went to The Diner on bank holiday Monday: what a surprise. On the way into the restaurant a woman said, “did I see you doing comedy in Hastings last week?” I said, “yes I was gigging there” and she replied, “thought I recognised you”. She, however, did not state whether she thought I was funny or not. I can only guess she thought I was not amusing. It was quite pointless stopping me really. I saw a bloke the week before who works in Foxtons but I didn’t stop him to point this out. What I’m saying is, only stop me if you’re going to pay me a compliment.
Me and BJ went down to The Coronet in Notting Hill to watch The Hurt Locker. It was one of those films that won loads of Oscars so I was worried it was going to be shit. There will be Blood is a prime example of a wank movie that won loads of awards. The cinema is a decrepit but kitsch venue, which I recommend everyone goes to. It was only £4.50 for a ticket although I got a £60 parking fine, so it ended up being an expensive visit. I rarely get angry but I definitely wanted to punch a bin when I discovered the ticket. I parked on a single yellow on a bank holiday, which I assumed was allowed, apparently not in Chelsea and Kensington. My anger was exacerbated when I sat in the car and I expected BJ to offer to pay half as he’d persuaded me to drive and told me it was fine to park on a single yellow. He didn’t offer so I went, “you’ll give me money right?” and he went “I’ve always paid parking fines myself with other people in the car”. I then didn’t talk to him till we got home: mature. He then reassessed his stance and offered to pay 1/3rd of the fare. It was a funny argument in retrospect because personal parking fine politics are not exactly something you are aware of until it happens. It doesn’t exactly pop up in conversation down the pub along with what football team you support. We have now kissed and made up: gay.
The rest of the week was spent writing and in my own company. I wished there was one bank holiday a week for the rest of the year so I could hang out with more people. If one of the political parties put that in their manifesto they would win the election. Admittedly we’d go into a recession but what’s new there? The two women I spent most of my week with were Charlotte Jackson (the Sky Sports News presenter who I love) and my Polish cleaner (still don’t know her name). I also watched Kick Ass on my own. It’s awesome. I watched it in a cinema with only six other people so felt guilty every time I laughed out loud. I wanted to get up and turn around to everyone and say “you should all be laughing right now: stop making me feel like the nutter in this viewing situation”; getting up and saying that would ironically have made me look like a nutter.
Me and BJ went down to The Coronet in Notting Hill to watch The Hurt Locker. It was one of those films that won loads of Oscars so I was worried it was going to be shit. There will be Blood is a prime example of a wank movie that won loads of awards. The cinema is a decrepit but kitsch venue, which I recommend everyone goes to. It was only £4.50 for a ticket although I got a £60 parking fine, so it ended up being an expensive visit. I rarely get angry but I definitely wanted to punch a bin when I discovered the ticket. I parked on a single yellow on a bank holiday, which I assumed was allowed, apparently not in Chelsea and Kensington. My anger was exacerbated when I sat in the car and I expected BJ to offer to pay half as he’d persuaded me to drive and told me it was fine to park on a single yellow. He didn’t offer so I went, “you’ll give me money right?” and he went “I’ve always paid parking fines myself with other people in the car”. I then didn’t talk to him till we got home: mature. He then reassessed his stance and offered to pay 1/3rd of the fare. It was a funny argument in retrospect because personal parking fine politics are not exactly something you are aware of until it happens. It doesn’t exactly pop up in conversation down the pub along with what football team you support. We have now kissed and made up: gay.
The rest of the week was spent writing and in my own company. I wished there was one bank holiday a week for the rest of the year so I could hang out with more people. If one of the political parties put that in their manifesto they would win the election. Admittedly we’d go into a recession but what’s new there? The two women I spent most of my week with were Charlotte Jackson (the Sky Sports News presenter who I love) and my Polish cleaner (still don’t know her name). I also watched Kick Ass on my own. It’s awesome. I watched it in a cinema with only six other people so felt guilty every time I laughed out loud. I wanted to get up and turn around to everyone and say “you should all be laughing right now: stop making me feel like the nutter in this viewing situation”; getting up and saying that would ironically have made me look like a nutter.
Friday, 9 April 2010
29th of March-2nd of April
I spent all of Monday making a stew. This is a sentence I have never previously written or said. I want to improve my cooking skills but the qualm I have with making a big meal of food is that it takes up almost all of your day. Why is this a problem when I spend most of my days twiddling my thumbs and masturbating? Well it’s boring and invariably not worth the effort. What makes it worse is that I’ve recently been watching MasterChef. When you watch people create these breathtakingly tasty dishes and then I go and make a pile of brown shit, it makes you feel pretty dejected. I still want to go on that programme and make toast. I’d love to see Greg Wallace’s podgy visage when I say, “today I’m going to make toast, with an Olivio and honey seasoning accompanied by a goblet of PG Tips.” I bet Greg would still say “lovely!”
I played Comedians football again, which is quickly becoming a weekly ritual, which is hopefully preventing me from becoming a Greg Wallace lookalike. I also went to the Diner on Wednesday. A place I have started visiting regularly. It’s become my rubbish British version of the restaurant they used to frequent in Seinfeld. There is a woman working there who sees always gives me a knowing smile. I can’t work out whether it’s a flirty smile or a smile that means: you come here all the time you sad bastard. That’s the problem with body language: it’s too ambiguous. The worst one is when you catch someone’s eye in a bar and they stare back at you. It either means we both fancy each other or it means, “why is that creepy dude staring at me?” It’s normally the latter.
Easter Friday was the highlight of my week as my housemate BJ (as in blow job) was off work so I had someone to hang out with. My sister also came over to see the flat. I did not show her Chatroulette as I did not want to expose my 22yr old sister to strange erect cocks. BJ created home made sausage rolls, which were belting. They would have beaten the crap out of my beef stew in a fight. They wouldn’t have just beaten it up, they would have maimed, raped and kidnapped it. His culinary skills are certainly superior to his taste in films. He suggested we go and watch Clash of the Titans, which has to be the worst movie I’ve ever seen in the cinema. I always have fun in the cinema because it’s loud and lot’s of stuff is happening in front of your eyes but this did push the boundaries of enjoyment. As a fan of crappy action films, I thought I might like it but Liam Neason’s tin foil costume, and Sam Worthington’s acting which makes Joey Tribbiani look like an oscar winner, made me want to be physically sick. The only good thing about it was Gemma Arterton who as the kids say is “well fit”. I’m pretty sure at one point she stared directly at me. It was not a flirty stare; it was a look that said, “I can’t believe you paid money to watch this pile of wank”….
I played Comedians football again, which is quickly becoming a weekly ritual, which is hopefully preventing me from becoming a Greg Wallace lookalike. I also went to the Diner on Wednesday. A place I have started visiting regularly. It’s become my rubbish British version of the restaurant they used to frequent in Seinfeld. There is a woman working there who sees always gives me a knowing smile. I can’t work out whether it’s a flirty smile or a smile that means: you come here all the time you sad bastard. That’s the problem with body language: it’s too ambiguous. The worst one is when you catch someone’s eye in a bar and they stare back at you. It either means we both fancy each other or it means, “why is that creepy dude staring at me?” It’s normally the latter.
Easter Friday was the highlight of my week as my housemate BJ (as in blow job) was off work so I had someone to hang out with. My sister also came over to see the flat. I did not show her Chatroulette as I did not want to expose my 22yr old sister to strange erect cocks. BJ created home made sausage rolls, which were belting. They would have beaten the crap out of my beef stew in a fight. They wouldn’t have just beaten it up, they would have maimed, raped and kidnapped it. His culinary skills are certainly superior to his taste in films. He suggested we go and watch Clash of the Titans, which has to be the worst movie I’ve ever seen in the cinema. I always have fun in the cinema because it’s loud and lot’s of stuff is happening in front of your eyes but this did push the boundaries of enjoyment. As a fan of crappy action films, I thought I might like it but Liam Neason’s tin foil costume, and Sam Worthington’s acting which makes Joey Tribbiani look like an oscar winner, made me want to be physically sick. The only good thing about it was Gemma Arterton who as the kids say is “well fit”. I’m pretty sure at one point she stared directly at me. It was not a flirty stare; it was a look that said, “I can’t believe you paid money to watch this pile of wank”….
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