Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

I’ve just spent 6 days incarcerated in the lovingly and thoughfully named Ward B3

June 24, 2009

The only company I’ve had has been 3 pensioners: A special clan consisting of a woman with a sore foot who professed a hatred for foreigners and foreign food (muck, as she put it), before opting for lasagne for tea (you know, lasagne, that classic British dish), a woman with far too many ailments to mention, but that she liked to remind you of every 10 minutes, and a woman convinced it’s 1989 thanks to a head injury.

AND I kept dreaming that Justin Lee Collins was trying to kill me.

It was awful. Truly awful.


I said, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

June 13, 2009

He said, ‘No, but how about a verse and chorus from Copacabana?’

To my shame, I didn’t burst into song. Bang goes my customer service award.

Overheard conversation at work…

May 28, 2009

Girl #1: ..So North Korea could drop a nuclear bomb on us?
Girl #2: It depends on how far they can fire them. It might not reach us.
Girl #1: Oh right. Where is North Korea?
Girl #2: Past Germany…. Imagine if they bombed the bullring.
Girl #1: Oh my god that’d be awful. Where would we shop?

Jeremy Kyle has worryingly become the man of my dreams

December 6, 2008

I’m not normally one for reading into dreams. I don’t believe they hold any meaning requiring a dream dictionary or indepth analysis, but over the couple of weeks I have had the same recurring dream and it’s starting to worry me slightly.

The scenario causing concern is as follows:

I am a contestant guest, what’s the word? Ah, yes, I am a participant on the Jeremy Kyle show, I’m sat, centre stage, in one of the uncomfortable looking arm chairs, and the repulsive Mr Kyle is shouting incessantly at me, in the same way he bollocks anyone daft enough to appear on his show knowing that they may have a) cheated on a partner b) knocked up their brother’s missus c) been a bad parent.

More surreally, I am aware that I am actually inside the TV, and while I have no idea why I’m there, I can see the title of the episode written backwards at the bottom corner of the screen. Every time I try to look at the title to work out what it says Kyle screams at me that I’m not looking at him when he’s talking to me. He also keeps shouting ‘WELL?’ but obviously, I have no idea what he’s asking me for. Eventually, just as I think I’ve worked out what the title of the show is I wake up.

Except on Wednesday night when he morphed into Charlie Brooker sat on his sofa a la Screenwipe, who repeatedly called me the C-word (complete with bleeps) until I woke up in a cold sweat.

I’ve had the same dream 6 times now, and while I am loathe to search for meaning in a dream, I’d just like it to cease immediately.


October 25, 2008


Washing Machine related blog number 2 (Still not fallen victim to the feral Zanussi)

October 24, 2008

I’m astonished. I thought I had one of the worst jobs in the world, then it turns out someone is paid to search blogs for the words ‘washing’ and ‘machine’, and then send the writer a tonne of washing machine related spam.

New machine arrives tomorrow, I have the best landlady in the world. Hurrah

Washing machine roulette, and other ways to spend a Saturday

October 11, 2008

I’ve had a marvellous week, in the sense that I’m still living, seeing as today could have had up to four alternate endings, two involving an obituary.

The beginning of my brush with death was our annual appliance inspection, which for the uninitiated is where some brummie turns up on the doorstep of your rented property, berates you for working on a call centre and not being a world famous novelist (he says being too scared to let anyone read my work is holding me back – no shit, I hadn’t worked that out), pokes at various gas and electric powered items and condemns your washing machine.

So I weighed up my options:

1. Accept that my washer has morphed into a potential 240volt weilding maniac and go to the launderette.

2. Ignore the advice of the man with the red ‘do not use’ stickers, and continue to use the psychopathic zanussi.

Having thought long and hard about it, the chance of death by washing machine had to be statistically lower than being murdered down the local launderette and opted for a game of washing machine roulette, safe in the knowledge that should I get fried my demise would be much quicker than during a failed mugging in Cradley’s finest washeteria.

2 loads later, I’m still here. Me 2, Zanussi 0.

Now officially the most anti-social person on the 404.

September 23, 2008

I had an accident on the bus this morning. I think I did anyway. The man next to me moved, not to two vacant seats, but to sit next to the very large lady that gets on at the hospital and smells funny.

What did I do?

I think I launched into song. More worrying, if I did, the song in question was The Sign by early 90’s Scandinavian pop nightmare Ace of Base.

I really need to delete all the crap off my ipod, I really do.


September 20, 2008

I hate teenagers. A sweeping statement I admit, and I appreciate this is a generalisation, but, they’re just a bit rubbish at the old rebellion business. Now I’m not talking about the awful business of gangs and stabbings, more about the common or garden schoolkids that think they’re the best thing that’s sliced bread, when actually, they’re just not trying hard enough. I know every generation thinks they’re the first to do anything, but it’s all got a little lazy.

Since the start of the new school term, a bunch of eight or so little darlings that attend an establishment known locally as Micky’s, have been catching the same bus as me.

Before you argue, I haven’t made my point yet – it’s not what you think.

Every morning, they talk loudly and set off firecrackers, which I’m sure must be costing them a fortune (and where on earth sells them?!). No one says a word to them. The teens think this is because they are dead ‘ard and no one dares speak to them. When in fact firecrackers were passe in Enid Blyton books, and the reason why they haven’t been challenged is because no one cares, it’s all a bit dull. They leave no damage, and with the draughty windows the smell clears within minutes. More annoying than the firecrackers, however, is the bragging that they drank 4 barcardi breezers last night, and could still stand up, and that they haven’t done their RE homework.

I just feel that they’ve missed the point. Underage drinking used to be about a litre of the strongest cider you could lay your hands on, and bragging if you managed to keep it down. And who the hell has ever done their RE homework?

I don’t actually want a country full of pickled 13 year olds, knife crime and random bus arson, but please, teenagers, if you’re going to try and impress a bus full of commuters, can you at least stop making ‘original teenager’ Cliff Richard look like Pete sodding Docherty?

Maybe I’ll tell them on Monday.

ooh, this’ll be me then…

September 19, 2008


I suppose I should start with why I’m here.

I sold my car.

It seemed like a fantastic idea at the time… make 500 quid, save on running costs, parking, stop killing the environment. Then suddenly I’m losing 3 hours of my life a day, sitting on buses. Living where I do, public transport is irregular, expensive, and populated mainly by people with dubious personal hygeine and borderline psycopaths. But at least it means I can fiddle with my ipod without rear-ending a hairdresser in her Audi TT.

I was a lousy driver anyway. Not particulary agressive, never broke any laws….. I just had a bad habit of forgetting that I was driving a car and starting to daydream.

The daydreams, and random in-head conversations are what brings me here. I thought I’d have the conversation with someone. If anyone reads it.