Sick bitch

What sort of poisonous, sick bitch does this?

Drag the bitch behind a car for 5 miles. Roll in salt, oil and chilli powder. Crisp with a blowtorch.

Find me

I'm hardly elusive. But if you did want to find me here's a few tips.

• I'm the man in the checkout queue behind the old biddy who has waited for three customers to pay before opening her purse and then start counting the exact amount in coppers.
• I'm the man who excitedly opens up his latest purchase when he gets home only to find something's falling off, it's broken, stained or damaged. Always.
• I'm the man who phoned you but you couldn't hear me (see above).
• I'm the man who's just arrived late (everywhere).
• I'm the man who's just waited 20 minutes at the bar being ignored by the bar staff as walk-ins walk away arms full of drinks and.....
• when I did eventually get served got half a pint of Guinness spilled on my crotch.
• I'm the man swearing at the computer.
  
• I'm the man who's drunk.
  

Proof

Proof, if any were needed, that women are different.

Noctilucent Clouds

Call me a nerd. Geek. Freak. I don't care (you won't be the last).

I've been trying to catch these for about 2 weeks, finally caught them tonight around midnight out the back window of my office. They're a natural phenomena whose cause is still unknown. They're clouds on the edge of space, where clouds shouldn't exist (90 miles up) much, much higher than ordinary clouds which are normally up to 5 miles up. They luminesce neon colours and are only visible in darkness (I used a manual shutter of about 6 seconds). More on them here.

A night at the opera

If I'd been brought up with a silver spoon in my mouth it would have been different. I wouldn't have to walk through life carefully balancing the chips that sit comfortably either side of my fat working-class neck. And therein lies the cause of Friday night's problem, a work related black tie dinner sandwiched between 2 parts of an opera. Not just any opera but an exclusive performance set in an old stone built barn (about 300 years old, set in the grounds of an old country estate) which could only hold 200 patrons, performed by an amateur company complete with an amateur orchestra (bar the conductor). Several things struck me during the night.

• The performers are unbelievably dedicated to rehearse for so many hours to make the performance as polished as it was (and some of them were extremely talented), though why they'd do that so that they could perform only once to a half drunk, overdressed bunch of snobs who are only there to say they'd supported the opera and been to ....on Friday and "wasn't it simply fabulous...." is beyond me. Too much in for too little out. The books just don't balance in my head.

• Drinking Bordeaux and Champers from 5pm on one the hottest days of the year is akin to doing the 4 man bob-sleigh at the winter Olympics without brakes or crash helmet and with your eyes closed. There's only going to be one outcome.

• Opera is a play ruined by singing.

• Why are there times when 3 or 4 characters are facing the audience all singing different tunes and lyrics. What the fuck is that about?

• Drink, me and cigarettes are the Holy Trinity.

I'd rather spend an evening naked, clubbing seal cubs to death with a blunt rusty ice pick dipped in chilli sauce than sit through one of those again, though I did have an out loud laugh at a lady in the chorus who overemphasised so much that I thought she'd just rolled in from a gurning contest after taking 10 E s.

Scorchio!

5 straight days of fantastic weather (24 degrees, that's about the hottest it ever gets here). In the same decade. In the same year. In the same week.





Nah!

Stop

I've done this many times. Stop. Start again. Repeat ad nauseam. Every time I restart I wonder why. One always leads to another. I can get addicted to anything. I'm quite sure if all there was in the world was air and water I'd get addicted to them instead. This time I have to make it stick though. It's making me look old (good god, I've realised I am vain), making me unhealthy, making me smell and I don't want my daughter to associate me with the smell of a stale cigarette though she never sees me smoking ( I hope she isn't imprinted already but fear it might be too late). I'm not even worried about the money. I used to be so fit. Seven miles over hills in 36 minutes. 140 sits ups in one sitting. Two minutes of anything now would place me uncomfortably close to my maker. So 60 hours ago the last Marlboro red was tossed away (after a good toke). No-one's dead and nothing of any real value is broke. But I could kill for a piece of nasty tasting gum.

Tits and arse

Now and again a tiny sparklet fizzles across the vacuum that currently occupies the space where my brain used to reside. It's never the genesis of a eureka moment like Newton's third law or the Archimedes Principle. Today's spark came after being away for 2 days and drinking heavily last night into the wee hours as I mooched around the airport awaiting my flight home this evening. Was I a tit or an arse man? Told you! Of course the answer changes from day to day and whoever happens to be the unlucky recipient of my gaze at the time. The decision du jour appears to be dependant on such weighty aesthetic variables as;

• size
• presentation
• setting

I'll try to explain each in turn. Size, I'm not saying big's good and small's bad. It's more complicated. It's a combination of shape and size. There's an X factor. I think there must be an optimum rate of curve programmed into mens' heads that just presses buttons. That's why cleavage works and Wonderbras sell. Which brings me on to .....presentation. Ladies, do yourself favour and get a proper fitting bra (try one back size down and a cup size up) and see what happens. Now turn sideways and adjust it properly. See, that didn't take long. I used to sell those things a long time ago. Can call out a bra size at 40 paces (or alternatively, close up with my eyes closed), a unique talent that is completely fuckin' useless to me. And buy a nice bra. Never buy a cheap bra. Same goes for matching pants (knickers, U.S. peeps) Don't buy a size too small here though or you'll separate things that just weren't meant to separated. Thongs are seldom a good choice, they don't help to shape anything. Proper pants and knickers please though not Bridget Jones'. Bums can benefit from jeans, trousers, skirts, dresses, yep anything, as long as they're a complimenting shape. If you've got a big arse wear a top or dress that narrows your waist. Keep away from baggy stuff. Same goes if you're a skinny arse too actually. Can't work out why so many women get it wrong. O.K. So now I've given you a perkier chest and rounder arse I have a dilemma. Which looks best? Actually, that's the simple one. Setting, just depends if I'm standing in front or behind.

If you need free, unbiased, confidential advice on these important issues my mailbox is always open for sample photographs.

Today's entry has been sponsored by dirty old men everywhere, Gossard and Victoria's Secret.

Testing, testing

Sharper readers may have picked up on the fact that I have not, in fact, spent a weekend with Monica Belucci. Wishful thinking. Much baby minding on Saturday and Sunday, good fun though. Today, although sort of a holiday, my time has and will be spent doing CBT and on-line exams. About fuckin' time I exercised my diminishing grey matter.

P.S. can someone smart explain this to me, please?

Dirty weekend

Is it that time again? It always creeps up on me. Once in a while an old friend comes to stay the weekend. You see, we had a torrid affair many years ago and ...well, she just won't let go. I know I should say something but ...she's a good person, average looking, smells nice and has made a packet in the movies. So, out of the goodness of my heart I allow her to be my fuck buddy. Magnanimous I'm sure you'll agree. We mostly stay indoors if you know what I mean. It's not as if she gets recognised when we go out or anything, even after she did that Matrix sequel. It's just that she's a bit of a minx ....and she's sooo into me. So if you don't hear from me for a day or two you'll know why.

"Celebrities" you'd like to push in front of a bus

Celebrity. What a misused term that is these days. Through reality shows and fly on the wall documentaries we've been bombarded through lazy programming with faces new and not so new, almost all of dubious talent. Most of the others prostitute themselves "for their fans", complete attention whores or speak/act in a way that suggests they think a different set of rules apply to them.
Everyone can be a celebrity if they can get their mug on t.v.. And the more they're on the bigger the celebrity they've become.... or so they'd like us to believe.

It's time to fight back. Time to nudge the so-called celebs in front of the bus. Here's my list of some who should meet their maker post haste.

• Paris smug Hilton
• Britney smug and extremely stupid Spears
• Tom did I tell you I'm in love Cruise
• Snoop unreformed gangsta Dogg
• Mariah royal diva Carey
• Elton ugly diva John
• Whitney powder my nose Houston
• Joan original chin now just above belly button Collins
• Victoria pouting cheap porn boob job Beckham

Feel free to add your own. If I see them I'll push them. That's a promise.

Don't do this

There are things in life one just shouldn't do. No ifs or buts, they're just not clever. I'm not saying I've done any of these but take it from me that I have it on good authority that the following are NOT recommended.

1. drinking Guinness whilst entertaining someone of the opposite sex. It's o.k. if you stop at 2 but if you drink on or if your meal is particularly rich or mix it with a quality Merlot..... well, let's just say have your excuse ready for later on. Or make sure your coat is handy. If they'd been able to mass produce that noxious gas during WW1 think how many lives would have been saved.

2. lighting a cigarette from a camp-fire. I know it'll seem cool and avoid the problem of having to find who's nabbed your lighter or fight the slightest of breezes to ignite your cancer stick of choice but you'll only succeed in giving yourself male pattern baldness in 2 seconds flat. And your eyelashes and eyebrows will look just a tad silly when reduced to black shrivelled stubs.

3. falling asleep after sex only to awake in excruciating groinal pain due a condom still being in place, wanger, for the first time, as big as a baseball bat but having the appearance of the most massive blood blister you can imagine. Not a good look.

The Empire strikes back

We all need a boost once in a while. Does us the world of good. An ego stroke. So Saturday I was supposed to be meeting a friend for a drink. When we arrived at our chosen imbibing emporium, The Spaniard (which is smaller than my living room) he told me that we might be being joined by a girl he met a couple of nights before and her friends who were supposed to be travelling on to see a live band somewhere else. Rock chicks. Well, as sure as constipation follows 2 bowls of All-Bran they turned up not 5 minutes later. Not his type I thought but what do I know and she seemed chatty enough, good fun. One of her mates had more chins than Jabba the Hut and the other ... well, there was something about her. Black shoulder length hair, 5' 4'ish and very smiley. I'm a sucker for smiley. After some persuasion we decided to join them at the Empire. Smiley kept Jabba company and my mate's new "mate" bobbed between him and me and them. Smiley and me kept catching each other looking. She popped herself over beside me at the bar and we chatted (or rather I berated her) at the fact she still lived at home at the age of 25. She mentioned that she spent more time at her boyfriend's house but.... well, she kept getting close. Kissy close. You know that moment when you both realise you're too close to do anything other than kiss, when you feel the electricity, when you feel oblivious to everything else happening around you. That's one of the best feelings anyone can have.

Aduki here, Aduki there, Aduki everywhere.

Having lost 5 lbs so far with little to no adherence to my new healthy diet I know I must "step up". Part of this will be eating more vegetable enzymes (most of which are destroyed by cooking) so that means raw veg. Alongside is my first successful result in sprouting Aduki beans (said to increase their nutrients by 500%!). I plan to include these little buggers in my blended carrot drink (mmmmm) and on salads (along with Raspberry and Rioja balsamic dressing).

Goal is 16lb weight loss by 9th July. 5 down, 11 to go....

Fly me

Hectic couple of days. Planes, trains and automobiles and several miles of wearying footwork. After less than 3 hours sleep I checked in for a plane trip. I was last on the plane ....again. Not my fault this time though as the Flight Attendant/check-in person decided to invite me to an air hostess (sorry, Flight Attendant) party in a couple of weeks time. Of course I should decline (though I said I'd see if I could make it) but, given my record of normally having the ground crew have to ask the Captain if I can board, it may be a wise move as sooner or later my charm/attitude are going to let me down. And you never know, I may even have to queue less in future. When I turned my mobile on immediately after landing from my return flight it beeped a reminder at me.

Monty! Party sat 3rd june at XXXXXXXXX. 5 mins from XXXXX airport! Hope 2 c u there. Hollar nxt time u r tvl'n ! Tracy o.

Decisions, decisions.