Knowledge enormous

Back with a recommendation

2006-03-07T13:11:00.000Z

Hello lovers.

I'm still busy and stressed and still can't really write properly on here. But the other day I was shown a new blog. The best blog I've ever seen apart from this one and this one.

So I direct you to it now. The man is a genius. And possibly delusional. But it's the funniest blog I've seen apart from that chewbacca thing. The thing is, he's really, really fit. All hail Marrow.

Leflange admits defeat

2006-02-07T11:41:00.000Z

Sorry not to be posting. It's the most horrifically busy time of the year for me, the stupid pitch is ongoing on top of my normal work, and I'm looking for a new job, which means researching companies and meeting people when I could be doing more useful things. Artegall and coolj have also pointed out recently that I appear to have completely lost my sense of humour, and this is becoming something of a self-fulfilling prophecy, as my desperation to crack a funny leads to a 0% success rate.

All in all, I think it best I leave this for a while.

Womankind "shocked and distressed" as leflange accepts face transplant from Artegall's mother

2005-12-21T17:35:00.000Z

Don't worry, bitches. It's temporary.

Actress speaks nonsense

2005-12-13T11:16:00.000Z

Article from my online trade press...

Coronation Street's Tracy Barlow lends glamour to anti-fur campaign
by Daniel Farey-Jones Brand Republic 20 Apr 2005

Ford: starring in Peta anti-fur poster

LONDON - Kate Ford, the actress who plays Coronation Street's bitch from hell Tracy Barlow, is to feature in an anti-fur ad for controversial animal rights charity Peta.
Ford's image in the ad echoes her glamourous, super-bitchy character in the hit Granada soap. Wearing a red satin evening dress and gloves, she is pictured protectively holding a white rabbit. The copy reads: "Try telling him it's just a bit of fur trim."
The rest of the ad urges readers to boycott all fur and includes the address for Peta's FurIsDead site.
"I play a pretty cold-hearted character in 'Coronation Street', but I can't think of anything more cruel or cold-hearted than killing animals for their fur," Ford said.

Now I like to see a woman take a stand. But in answer to her final, argument-defying statement, I posit the following:

"Killing your mother for her skin."

Just as an example.

Shock and (B)Awe(deaux)

2005-12-08T11:46:00.000Z

I may have mentioned that in addition to being a pretty serious mover and shaker, I am also the office DIY man, as the most able-bodied and youngest of the males.

One of my key managerial roles is to move boxes from the ground floor to the second floor, up two flights of stairs. Normally these boxes are filled with books, belonging to the boss' wife's publishing company.

This woman is interesting. She'll flirt with me sometimes, mostly to get something from me; on most occasions, however, she will treat me with utter disdain, quite literally turning her nose up at me when I say "Good morning."

Blonde, slim and confident, she was clearly a looker in her youth, and her CV shows a series of fashion magazines of the kind which make me automatically reach for a gun. I don't doubt that a discussion of my interests would send her into a deep sleep within minutes. She and I, we both know, are not the sort of people who normally interact. Antipathy occasionally rears up, but our differences are generally held in check by my slight resemblance to her young son.

So today, my face went

as she came downstairs, handed me a card (me and me alone), and placed a box on my desk. Tomorrow she leaves on holiday. As everyone looked at me with disgust I opened the card, which thanked me for all the lifting I'd done this year, called me "blue eyes" and wished me a merry Christmas. The box contains 12 bottles of rather nice wine.

I now feel as though I understand nothing.

But really, what a bloody nice thing to do. Great when people surprise you.

You ask, I deliver

2005-12-07T14:01:00.000Z

Madame Voyeur, living up to her name, demanded to see the real girl from the last story.

Here she is, aged 34, looking remarkably like coolj's latest conquest (see links for details), or at least her younger sister.

Not to mention Paul Daniels.

Clarification

2005-12-06T18:04:00.000Z

Regarding a misunderstanding that has arisen on the last post.

The woman pictured is simply one of the first pictures you'd find if you typed "Screaming woman" into google images; she isn't the crazy german-scottish bastard I'm writing about.

I really wouldn't put a picture up here of someone I know without their say so. It's not like I'm writing under my name, and most of the names of people I write about are changed too, through paranoia more than anything.

It would most certainly be mean of me to post a picture of the girl I wrote about. But more than that, it would be foolhardy. She was absolutely, 100% doolally and I don't doubt she could find out where I live.

Alvin, you're a dick

2005-12-06T13:41:00.000Z

As a linguist, the third year of my degree was spent abroad. I went to a place called Chateauroux, which can be found in central France. It's a real shithole, described in the rough guide as a "grey and officious administrative centre, to be avoided at all costs."

Here's a picture of the lycée where I lived and worked for 9 months.

Nice, huh? The boy in the bottom right is almost certainly spitting, as this is pretty much all they did.

I had a decent time all in all, but there was one exception: a mistake I made early on and spent 8 months paying for. That mistake was the Scotch-German psycho.

Yoiks.

I had sex with this girl pretty early on. A fellow language assistant in the city (there were about 10), she was good-looking and quite sexy (until you actually had sex with her), and I wasn't getting sex anywhere else.

I made it extremely clear from the start that this was just sex: we'd hang out with the other assistants while we got to know the town, and shag when we were feeling like shagging. It worked very well, and she seemed extremely pleased with the whole situation, until I decided to stop it.

This is when she told all the other assistants (8 girls and 2 guys - I had no chance) that I'd told her I loved her, said we were going out, and callously used her for sex. Now, apparently, I wouldn't talk to her, and wouldn't explain why I didn't love her anymore.

Cue everyone I know in the town, except for one guy, stopping talking to me. But leflange, I hear you cry, didn't that mean you just made French friends? Here I smile knowingly. You poor, poor, fools. Didn't you read the next sentence in the rough guide about Chateauroux? No? Well, here it is: "It's inhabitants are renowned as the least friendly in the whole of France."

The whole of France.

Anyone been there? Yes? Good. So you'll know that that is some fucking boast.

Anyway, the next 6 months are not germane. Things improved after a miserable month or two, the locals finally warmed to my undeniable charms, and I never saw the other assistants other than accidentally.

In the last month I received an email addressed to all assistants. In a matey tone it asked us all to come to dinner at some guy's house. I didn't know him, but he clearly knew the assistants - thought he knew all of them.

So I went for dinner at this guy's house, and was forced into conversation with a bunch of people I hated, with the exception of the one guy who knew that Little Miss Mad's story was bullshit and whom I saw very regularly. Our French host was the best person I met in the whole 9 months: friendly, bright, funny, generous and totally unpretentious (unlike me). We got on like a house on fire, and he asked where I'd been for the last 6 months. Apprently he'd asked Alvin, the American illiterate who was English assistant in his school, to invite all the assistants for drinks one night. Why didn't I turn up?

"Alvin didn't invite me."

"Sure, sure. I guess you just had other French friends to see."

"No, Alvin just didn't mention it."

At this point everyone was listening to our conversation, and even Alvin was understanding most of it. Feet were shuffled, cheeks went pink.

"But all teachers' invitations went through Alvin after that. Is that why we haven't seen you all year?"

"Well, if all invitations have come through Alvin, then yes."

A week later, the truth came out from this girl, who said she felt really bad that there had been a misunderstanding. This of course led to hand-wringing from the other cunts, who realised they'd hung me out to dry in what we'd all agreed was the most depressing place any of us had ever visited. Suddenly I received emails offering one-to-one drinks; one of the girls offered to sleep with me, no strings attached (well, who wouldn't? Unfortunately, she didn't see any irony in this being her way of "making it up" to me); everyone wanted to be my best mate.

A further week passed, and we all had to go to some education officer's house for a final dinner. Here Alvin, the biggest nerd I've ever met ("H-H-H-Hey David, y-you smoke Malboro. W-We call them cowboy killers in the states. Know why?" I really can't guess, Alvin; please fucking enlighten me because I lack even the most basic imagination, you stupid, tedious prick), decided to smoke the peace pipe. Aw.

As we walked away, I talked to Nick, the only assistant with a mind of his own, and the ability to spot insanity right under his nose. Up came Alvin.

"H-H-H-Hey, David. I wanid to say, y'know, sorry for cudding you out. I didn't know it was lies, and if I had, I think we would've been friends."

"Why didn't you ask me if it was true?"

"Oh you know. All the girls felt bad for her and I was there and you kinda get carried along."

"AH. Fair enough. I understandnow. It must have been hard for you in that situation. Don't worry about it."

"Oh great, so, can we, like, stay in touch when you go back to England?"

"Fuck off, Alvin, you're a boring twat."

Fucking satisfying, let me tell you.

Just say it

2005-11-23T14:47:00.000Z

I live in a flat which covers the top floor of a town house on a very well-to-do street in Pimlico.

At least, it was well-to-do until the chirpy venereal infections in the houses diagonally opposite decided to put up Christmas lights across their roofs and outside walls. Hello Santa! Hello Holly! Hello Merry Christmas! You make me so happy!

I don't think these things as I launch stones of justice from the dark of my balcony.

I digress.

Outside this lovely flat, my push bike is attached to the black railings by two locks. Alongside is a similar, smaller bike, which I have never seen used.

About a week ago I came home on the bike and started locking it up. As I did so, the Eastern European girls who live in the basement (I don't keep them there - it's a flat which I presume they rent) sat outside smoking, and asked "Do you know whose bike that is?"

"Mine. I'm not stealing it. I live here. JESUS! WHAT IS THIS? WHAT RIGHT DO YOU HAVE? I'M JUST A MAN, THAT'S ALL."

"No, not your bike. Your bike is nice. That bike."

"No idea. Why?"

"Because it is always locked there."

"So's mine."

"Ah yes, but yours is no trouble - we like it. But that bike - it blocks out all the light to our flat so we see nothing. Why is it there? Who is doing this to us?"

"Well, me and someone else too, I suppose. would you like me to leave MY bike somewhere else? It must block out the light too."

"No! It is this bike which is trouble."

This week a notice has appeared above the other bike, demanding its removal. It's ridiculous. My bike is clearly just as much of a problem, but because I was there and spoke to them they didn't want to say anything to me. So now some poor guy has to move his bike while mine gets to stay there - all because people are scared of saying what they really feel to other people's faces.

We waste so many opportunities through shyness and fear of being rude. We allow ourselves to be unhappy, and to be put out, through fear of speaking the truth.

Well I for one am no longer interested in shyness, reticence and embarrassment.

Artegall: I love you; you're the most beautiful and intelligent man I know, and I don't mind saying it. I get this huge smile on my face whenever I know I'm going to be seeing you, and I spend most of our evenings together giggling. I want to give birth to our sitcom, and I want to do it next week.

Fuck the world.

Right

2005-11-17T15:27:00.000Z

That's the template sorted out. Thanks to Lindsay and Ed.

There is no order of importance to the links, so no stropping.

Monday: my grandfather's funeral

2005-11-09T17:05:00.000Z

Two years ago, almost to the day, my grandmother died. Two lonely years where a very fine man diminished, more dependent than we ever could have imagined on a woman he frustrated and was frustrated by in equal measure.

I arrived at Warrington station not long after ten o’clock, cold and tired from an early start and no breakfast, and was met by my father, who took a circuitous route back to his childhood home, tacitly avoiding, I suspect, his sister’s society.

The funeral was at midday. Old men abounded, for my grandfather was a proud big cheese in the village of Lymm’s British Legion, and an ace bowler to boot. As we prepared to pursue the coffin, my aunt told my father that 24 months previous we had organised ourselves in the wrong order at the front of the Church, and that we must avoid the same mistake on this, our final chance to be a family of mourners. I sat between my elder brother and my mother, my father and aunt quite properly placed nearest the aisle. I did not tell my aunt that my father, as the elder child, should surely sit nearer than her.

The vicar spoke and spoke. My father appeared to cry for the second time I know of and the first in my presence; my aunt sobbed and her husband gulped. To my left my mother looked down; to my right, a shock: tears had formed in the corner of my brother’s left eye. They ran down his cheek. My mother wept to see my brother cry, and I brushed my hand against his leg, to let him know I’d seen and was next to him. But I was alone: my dry eyes unmatched, I concentrated on singing louder than my family could manage - on giving my granddad a rousing send-off. I wanted to pour my manly, tearless strength into my brother, to patronise him with my stoicism; but whoever told you that in the absence of emotion lay strength?

The vicar spoke at length on subjects provided by my father: on canals, and the seven generations of my family who had worked upon them, right back to Britain’s first; on the L- bridge, named for my granddad and his ancestors – “the last L- in Lymm”; on his part in the D-Day landings, and work for the British Legion; on his children and his love for them. Normal things: stare ahead, listen and stay stony.

On his grandchildren, of whom he was “in awe”. Awe. A short and simple word, but the only one which shook me all day. I don’t know whether it was the vicar or my father who chose it, but it summed up in a syllable the sense of love, pride and reverence I felt from the man. The reverence which made me feel uncomfortable and superior as a child; which smoothed the path to the easy condescension of my youth; which led to the guilt-tinged respect of early-manhood.

Still I didn’t cry. I don’t cry. I felt nothing. It was the same at my grandmother’s funeral, but then neither my father nor my brother appeared moved. Here I felt alone in my apparent indifference: alone, and lacking.

We drove to the crematorium in silence, and filed into the chapel. We maintained the order of mourners as before. Two old men stood at the front supporting flags. Bent by age and the weight of the brass poles, they bowed in silent tribute to my grandfather. I contrasted them to the cub-scout of my childhood: a sixer pompously bearing the fleur de lys into church, arms straight, daring myself to lower my proud burden an inch.

From behind me, as the curtains closed in front of the coffin, The Last Post sounded. I’d never heard it in its entirety – never experienced the pauses. I remembered my brave, dead ancestor as I heard it, before another memory, unbidden, ambushed me: that scene at the start of Austin Powers where he takes his first pee since being unfrozen, and every time you think he’s stopped, he starts again. As the music entered its second pause – and I realised there would be another – I had to concentrate only on not laughing; as it began again I snorted. I didn’t notice anyone noticing. It didn’t happen.

As I travelled home on a packed, late train to Euston, all that played on my mind was how I should wear my white shirt and plain dark tie to work more often, instead of my succession of pale blues and pinks. I read Youth, by JM Coetzee, and realised that I've got more than I knew to think about.

An evening with the neighbours

2005-11-04T17:19:00.000Z

A while ago I went out with Artegall and CoolJ. It was a standard midweek night out: a few pints of Sam Smith’s best ANGRYBROW, a lot of mockery, and a good time.

As often happens, we popped back to my delightful top-floor flat after closing time, with firm intentions of drinking more raspberry vodka. On the stairway we bumped into my neighbour, whom we’ll call Prick.

To the naked eye, Prick seems a nice, reasonable chap. I’d met him a couple of times on the stairs and outside the building, and he always says hi, always stops for a few words. I strongly suspected him of smoking copious amounts of weed, as it always smelt a bit on his floor, and I occasionally considered trying to buy some from him, as I have six-weekly early-life crises which generally end with me surrounded by empty pizza boxes and a fug of burnt herb.

Eventually I bought from him, and he gave me a generous 8th of good skunk for £20, so I was well-pleased.

So. As we tumbled up the stairs, we bumped into him, and it seemed a good idea to try to score a second time, some months after the first. “Hi Prick,” I chirped, but before I could continue he said he had something for me and said he’d come up to my flat in a mo. No problem with that, I thought, and I left the door open.

In he came, some moments later, with what must have been about £2,000’s worth of the stickiest of the icky. He told me to skin up with some of it and then sold me some slightly less nice stuff at another reasonable price.

So far, so good.

And he’s off, warming his way into one of the longest and most memorable monologues since Alan Bennett’s heyday.

He begins on scuba diving and his love of it. Nice. I’m slightly bored, because while I can see the appeal, I don’t do it myself. My friends, however, are enthusiastic amateurs, so I sit in a contented high and listen to the conversation lapping around me.

This ends, and he asks where we think he’s from, confident in what is clearly a stock conversation-starter. Thing is, he sounds a bit Spanish (with a twang) and I’ve seen his mail downstairs; Prick being an Irish name, I reply “I figured you were half Irish, half Spanish.”

Damn straight.

But this was just the beginning. “So where are you posh boys from?”

“Posh?”

“Yeah, you’re all really posh.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean you [gestures to CoolJ] are pretty fucking posh. And you [Artegall] are quite posh too. But YOU [he fixes me]! You are fucking posh. You’re all like ‘Ooh la-di-da hello there, I’m soooooo posh.”

A vein below my left eye begins to twitch, but I smile. I’ve never thought of myself as “posh”, but I have had a privileged upbringing, went to an independent day school and then Oxford, so I suppose that to many people I epitomise poshness. It was funny, though, to be marked down as the king of the posh boys when of my two Oxford companions, one was a Harrovian.

But what are you going to do? It’s not offensive, and more than anything else it was funny. It just seemed strange to be attacked in my own flat by a stranger, because of my accent.

He continued.

“So I, like, work as an investment banker, which is great because I want loads of money for when I retire.

Youboysshouldgetsomeoffshoreinvestments.
Becausethetaxinthiscountry it’slikewhatthefuck.
AndIrefusetopayityouknow?”

“Mmm.”

Now I’m not a rabid “TAX THE FILTHY RICH” man, but I do think that when you earn your living in a country and when you benefit from the infrastructures and services that that country provides, you might consider making a contribution.

“Thing is, I’m going to have to move out of the country for 5 year, but I’m, like, fuck it, you know?
ImeanwhythefuckshouldIhavetopaytaxesinEngland.
WhenIwasborninSpainanyway?”

“Good point.”

“So I’m like, erm, live in England and pay taxes and get rained on, or move to Singapore and have fun and get rich. Like, DUH!”

“Fuckin A.”

“You guys ever been to Singapore? Ofcourseyouhaven’t. Lemmetellyouhowfuckinggoodthatshitisoverthere. Last time I was there I went out with my boss, OK?

“With you.”

“So we’re, like, in this club sort of place, and I’m lookin around me thinking Hey Prick, why the fuck are you the only guys in a place full of all beautiful women. Whatthefuckisgoinon?”

“What the fuck was going on?”

“Well, like DUH! It’s, like, a brothel, of course.”

“Ah.”

“SoIturntomybossandI’mlikewhatthefuckarewedoininabrothelman. And you know what he says?”

“Murmle.”

“He’s like, ‘Prick. You don’t get it, do you? These girls aren’t whores, but they’ll happily come back to yours and fuck you. They’re paid by the management.’”

Don’t even bother.

“Soapparentlythesegirlsjustfuckyou.
Andiftheylikeityoudon’tpayandiftheydon’tyouhavetogivethemahundreddollars.”

Fuck. Off. Out. Of. My. Flat. You. Cunt.

The worst thing at this stage is you knew – you just knew – exactly how this story was going to end, but you still had to listen. No, actually, that wasn’t the worst thing.

The worst thing was he was looking directly at me and Artegall, while CoolJ was wetting himself directly behind him and trying to catch my eye. While I was very, very caned. And I’m something of a giggler.

“Pfft.”

“What?”

“Pfft.”

“What.”

“Ahem. Pfft. Ahem. PFFT. Ahem. So you were pfftsaying?”

“Oh yeah. So I’m like, Prick, you should take one of these girls back, so I did. I fucked her all night long, and in the morning you know what?”

“What?”

“She only – “

“PFFT!”

“She only wanted – “

“PFFFFFFFFT!”

“SHE ONLY WANTED 7 DOLLARS FOR HER CAB FARE HOME! So I’m like, what? Stayin fuckingEnlgandandpaytaxes? Or go to fucking Singapore, be rich, and fuck girls all night for 7 dollars. What the fuck?”

The evening broke up when I ran to the toilet in tears of laughter.

But people are SO strange. I mean, he seemed like a nice, friendly guy. But he’s actually a sociopath.

But then, I’m like, whatthefuck?

Artegall is a FRUITYPANTS

2005-11-02T09:09:00.000Z

I have nothing to add.

How to get the best out of your travelling

2005-11-01T10:45:00.000Z

I’m back, after a few days out of circulation, and this morning I took the tube to work. Having forgotten to take my new book with me (I’ve not been reading much recently, and now feel, of all things, guilty) I picked up a copy of Metro.

Starting at the back, I soon found Geraint Jones’ column covering the England cricket team’s tour of Pakistan, wherein the following little gem stood out.

“Islamabad is a lovely city and is only 50 years old. There is a lot of beautiful architecture, the hotel has a 42inch plasma TV and we can relax by enjoying our Playstations and watching DVDs.”

Let’s do this bit by bit.

“Islamabad is a lovely city and is only 50 years old.”

So far so good. The repetition of “is” seems slightly childish, but I’m not here to criticise Geraint’s prose. It’s just nice to know he appreciates the city and has learnt a little of its history.

“There is a lot of beautiful architecture,”

Again, a little childish, but again, great to see him looking around and seeing new and exciting things in a country which few from England visit.

“[…] the hotel has a 42inch plasma TV”

From the same sentence as that about the architecture, so the connection seems tenuous. Let us, however, give him the benefit of the doubt. We’ve all watched TV in a hotel, and it’s nice if they have a swanky one.

“[…] and we can relax by enjoying our Playstations and watching DVDs.”

This, the third part of Geraint’s sentence, really makes you wonder about the early information we received about Islamabad. He doesn’t care at all, does he? He just chucked it in there to make him and the team seem interested in their surroundings, but then spoiled it by immediately enthusing over the TV, PS2 and DVDs.

Furthermore, while one does indeed watch a DVD, how does one “enjoy” a Playstation? It’s obvious what he means, but “enjoy” doesn’t sound right at all. He means, of course, “playing with”, but even Geraint is self-aware enough to realise that this sounds pretty dismal when describing a group of 25-35 men travelling in a strange land.

The thing is, I can see how it would be like this, particularly if you’re a famous cricketer in a cricket-mad country with well-documented “security issues”. It’s not so much the fact that they go to a far-off place and find their entertainment primarily in computer games rather than the place, its people and its culture. It’s the pathetic disingenuousness of fluffing us with a sentence-and-a-half about Islamabad’s age and architecture before whispering the sad – yet predictable – truth.

Geraint, hang your head in shame.

You’ll need the practice anyway, with all the sitters you’ll be dropping this winter.

Now excuse me. I gotta go put some water in Artegall’s momma’s dish.

Leflange and Artegall on tour: bugger all ensues

2005-10-28T15:13:00.000+01:00

I managed to get a cold the day before leaving, so I'm fairly snotty. This could have scuppered plans had they not been:

Edit and add-to our comedy script by day
Watch lots of the Chapelle show on Artegall's hard drive (any English readers who don't know what this is: it's one of the funniest things in the world and it's beyond belief that it isn't shown in our country)
Get caned like we used to
Eat a hell of a lot of pizza

I'm not saying it's cool.

I've little time. I'm on a public computer, so let me tell you. It's been GGRRRAATE. Two guys, fine-tuning a GRRAAATE comedy script, getting wasted and making occasional forays to the town centre.

I have so little to report that it's beyond belief, but I have been sleeping quite well, you'll be relieved to hear.

Honestly, I've nothing to say. I find that the pressure of having work to do really focuses my mind on writing this blog. Having nothing to do doesn't.

Nonetheless, I hope this post is long enough to have wasted some of your time.

I need a shit.

An apology to my beautiful, beautiful readers

2005-10-25T13:55:00.000+01:00

Sorry not to have posted over the last few days. I've been very busy, but I feel your disappointment keenly.

The bad news is that I'm now going away for a few days to commit some comic genius to paper, something which I hope will eventually save me from the job which has kept me from you so far this week.

I may post while away, but you never know in the countryside whether they'll even know what the internet is, which may complicate matters. The last time I mentioned the world wide web in the West Country my cousin (19 and doing his A-levels) looked fearfully up at the sky, muttering about "them thar joiant spoiders" and the need to "get moi gun". Terrifying.

Anyway, it'll be anywhere between 2 and 7 days before I post again, so I'll leave you with a couple of jokes a friend told me.

1. Two monkeys in a bath. One says "Ooh, ooh, ooh, aah, aah, aah!" The other replies "Oh shut up and run some cold in."

2. Why did the baker's hands smell? Because he needed a shit.

Ahthankyou.

Paul from British Airways

2005-10-21T10:45:00.000+01:00

I did some work in Nigeria a couple of months back. While there I saw Nathalie Imbruglia. This is irrelevant, but it excited me muchly. She pretty.

The following anecdote may prove to be utterly rubbish written down, but it made me laugh at the time, and made Artegall laugh in the telling. Therefore I recommend imagining the following voices for the characters.

The hero: tones dulcet; pitch medium; well spoken but not intimidatingly so; bewilderingly charming

His companion: 60ish; very old empire; abrupt; remarkably like an old duffer on test match special

BA Man: 45-50ish; words slurred; camp Mancunian; ingratiating

One evening in the hotel, I was walking twixt restaurant and bar, having had an extremely dull meal with the local client. Indeed, it was so dull that the dull old man I was travelling with insisted, upon the client’s departure, that we go to the bar “to recover, because that was fucking dull.”

It was an interesting suggestion, and one which described the utter blandness of our host far better than I can. The hotel bar was hardly salubrious, and on the previous 2 nights my brief visits had been greeted with real enthusiasm only by the local prostitutes. One of them was so practised at winning business that she could read a man's weakness in seconds.

"Hello," she monotoned, as I stood at the bar. "What about the Ashes then, eh?"

Fucking hell.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" I gushed. "I mean, it looked like we were in real trouble after Lords, but the way Freddie's been playing..."
"Yes. Where's your room?"
"Um. 2nd floor I think. Do you reckon Ponting's lost it? If he didn't have Warne he'd be screwed. He's the only real threat to us, if you ask me."

She tired of this before I did.

Back to the night in question. I needed a stiff drink, and the nasty bar was the only place for it. As I walked in, I realised that apart from the prostitutes, I had entered what is known as a target-rich environment.

To the left, 10 memebers of the Air France crew: two surly old blokes, three homosexuals and five gorgeous, pouting young mademoiselles.

To the right, British Airways: four old guys, two matrons, two ageing homosexuals, one young one and four blonde, heavily made-up trolley dollies.

In the middle, the cherry. Virgin: six young gay gentlemen and at least eight sexy young 18-25 girls.

In a trice I realised that I was almost certainly the only heterosexual male under the age of 50 present. Jackpot. Right leflange, I thought: stand by the bar, attempt to look uninterested and aloof, and watch the offers roll in.

"You watch the crick-"
"Fuck off."

She slid away, looking churlish.

"I bet you get it all the time," slurred a camp , flat-voweled voice to my right.
"Too fucking right I do. Balls like grapes, me. I'm up to my knees most of the time."
"Eh?"
"What? Oh. Get what?"
"Arreh. Prince Arreh. Yeriz spit. I bet you get it all the time."
"Um, someone said it once, yeah. But he's taller, skinnier and more attractive to women than me. Only because he's rich, obviously."

I turn to face my assailant. Oh thank you so bloody much, God. At least 30 people in the room for whom I'm perhaps the only piece of totty, and you come up with this. Fat, 50 and battered. And male. A hand grips my leg, just above the knee. A red face is turned to my companion.

"Ow djer keep yer ands offim?"

My colleague (6'6", old, grim and imposing) looks at him sternly. And looks. And looks. Down, down, down his noble nose.

Four second later he has downed his pint and marched out of the bar, screaming conspiratorially into my ear, "I HATE THESE AWFUL PEOPLE."

The hand is removed from my knee. I'm finding this amusing, but I'm glad of the grip being relaxed. The hand returns however, only this time it's approxiamtely three inches higher - grazing somewhere around the lower-mid section of my thigh.

"Mate gonta bed azee?"

"Seems that way."

"I'm Paul. What're you doin in Naageeria?"

"Some work for an advertising company. It's interesting. I've never been here before - never been to Africa at all, in fact. The work's pretty boring, but it's good to come somewhere new. What do you do?"
"ME?!" the hand flies from my leg to clutch his chest. It just as quickly returns, and is now clasped to my upper thigh. "I'm a purser."

I can see that, I think, looking at his lips.

"With BA?"
"Yeah."
"What does a purser do?"
"Ahm in charge o cloob class."
"Oh right. You must get to travel a lot then, I suppose."

Paul is suddenly purple.

"OW OLD ARE YOU? OW OLD?"
"24," I reply.
"Exactly. So FOOK OFF"
"Okey dokey." This is becoming fascinating.
"No, no. I didn't mean it. I'm sorreh. It's just you're so young. I could be your dad." I doubt this very much, but let him continue, "Yer sooo pritteh."
"Thank you - that's very kind of you."

Several physical compliments followed, but modesty and audience patience prevent your narrator from listing them all. By this stage the hand is basically cupping my nuts.

I reach down to reclaim my balls, gently taking his hand from my crotch and placing it onto his thigh.

"Sorry, but that makes me feel uncomfortable. I'm not gay - I'm sorry if you misunderstood."
"Well FOOK OFF THEN!"
"Um..."
"Oh sorreh, sorreh, please forgive meh."
"Of course, of course. Don't worry about it."
"DON'T PATRONISE ME, yeh bastard. I knew yeh weren't gay aniweh."

I smile politely, and try to change the subject. "So the Ashes, eh?"

Oh fuck, bad move. I forgot about the whores. He's going to think I'm a rent boy.

"So yer a straight boy are yeh?"
"Yes."
"Are yeh shoowerrr?"
"Eh?"
"I can't change yer maaand?"
"No, no. Sorry!"
"I spose you've got a girlfriend, ave yeh?"
Had I bollocks. I'd finished with C not so long ago and missed her horribly. I got so lonely at times that a few more drinks and he'd probably have had a chance.
"Fraid so."
"Ah could swear yer gay."
"I'm not you know."

He pauses, lowers his head, then raises it to fix me with a gentle, patronising, understanding gaze.

"Are yeh sure it's nuthin a little blur-job wouldn't fix?"
"From you?"
"Yeah."
"Uh, yes. Sure."
"Why don't we find out?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
"Well FOOK OFF THEN."

Jesus. What a potty mouth.

"Sorreh, sorreh. So yeh've got a girlfriend?"
"Yep."
"Well I've got a fookin boyfriend, ACTUALLEH. He's upstairs...d'yer wanna meet him?"
"Not right now. Perhaps we'll bump into each other tomorrow."
"No, no, no. Why don't yeh cum oop now and meet'im? E'd loov a boy laak yew."
"Isn't he asleep?"
"We'll wake im oop."
"Won't he be annoyed?"
"Not when he sees what ah've brought'im."

The hand has returned at this stage.

"Anyway, listen - "
"Jus coom and ave a threesoom."
"No."
"Yeh'd loov it."
"No I wouldn't."
"Yeh would,"
"I wouldn't"
"Well FOOK - "
"I'm off to bed now."
"No, don't go. I'm sorreh, yeh hear? Sorreh!"
"It's ok. I'm not offended. If anything it's flattering. But what do you want me to do? I'm not gay ."
"I oonderstand."
"Great! Well listen, it was really good -"
"Just one little blur job?"
"Goodnight."

I felt pretty sad for the guy as I left the bar. He seemed very lonely and unhappy, and while he was very drunk, I didn't get the impression that this was unusual. It was also a bit like when you dump someone, having been dumped yourself in the past: you know they'll be feeling hurt, unattractive, unloveable. But what can you do? You know they aren't, but it doesn't help you love them. Maybe we credit ourselves with too much power over others. More than anything though, it puts me in mind of an Alan Bennett quote which a very good friend reminded me of just a few days ago: that homosexuality is "a fate that rules out any possibility of happiness."

I hope this isn't the case, especially for those of my friends whose "fate" is homosexuality, and I very much doubt that it is. They are good-looking, brilliant, kind and funny men. But just for that one moment, as I looked at Paul, Bennett seemed to have a point.

I digress.

I saw Paul from a distance the next day, sipping a cocktail by the hotel pool, lounging next to an equally chunky, short chap whom I took for his partner. He clocked me, let out an audible squeak, indicated me to his partner before clearly reprimanding him with something like "I said don't look," and then pretended not to have seen me.

The next day, my five-day trip came to an end. I rose at 4.45am, checked out and was taken to the airport by Emos, our driver for the trip and a seriously nice man.

I faffed around, waiting for the flight, and eventually it was called. I stepped wearily onto the plane, and was greeted, energetically, with the words "Good morning sir! My name's Paul and I'll be in charge of cloob class tod - OOH!"

"Paul! Good to see you again."

Face like a tomato.

Three hours later, I woke up from dozing, to see three male heads, each atop the other, peeking out from behind the front wall of the cabin and staring at me. They jumped back as I came to.

As I walked to the toilet a camp voice, younger than Paul's, could be heard.

"Prince Harry? He should be so lucky!"

Bitch!

The big question

2005-10-19T15:14:00.000+01:00

At last count I had a good 5 readers who leave comments, 2 of whom I know very well, and 2 of whom are women I don’t know: the other is the elusive and flattering fatfish.

I know the very occasional other reads this blog, but you don’t leave bloody comments, do you? Even friends who have been asked.

So to those of you who give a shit, please vote on what I should post on next. I probably won’t do it tomorrow, so voting will close Friday morning.

Do you want a post on:

The aggressively gay BA flight attendant who cornered me in a hotel bar in Lagos (anecdote)
My job (dull)
Fucking motorcyclists (small rant)
Portsmouth (shithole)
The Game (tight)
People I don't like (there's a few)
Why French is wasted on the French (hardly original)

OR my trump card? A post in French about something or other.

Vote now.

Now: how to have a bad morning

2005-10-19T10:59:00.000+01:00

This, too, needs preparation – over a longer period, surprisingly, than having a good morning (see yesterday).

Go to university
Make good friends
Hang around for a year, building a reputation for fearsome wit, incisive intellect and being more attractive to homosexual tutors than to the opposite sex
Go home for summer and see old friends NB not old like coolj’s current special friend (Fr. Vielle); nor old as in ‘former’ (Fr. Ancien); no, we mean old as in longstanding (Fr. De longue date).
Look forward to the coming year
Meet a pair of twats (let’s call them A and C) in the first year
Get idolised by aforementioned twats
Lose will to live
Escape to France for a year. Return to find that all real friends have left
Allow desperation to mar judgement and bestow society on twats
Watch sadly as twats’ idolatry turns rapidly and inevitably to mockery as respect for seniority wanes
Allow situation to continue as far as 2005, where necessity has slowly evolved into genuine, if disturbing, affection
Go for quiet drink with twats (henceforth friends)
Drink several pints with friends
Hear self say “Come back to mine – I’ve got some raspberry vodka I picked up from duty free.” Hear aggressive inner voice swear violently while reminding self of need for sleep; hear second, more insecure inner voice wonder whether owning raspberry vodka is something to be admitted to
Drink vodka, watch comedy, exchange tales from the day with the lanky twat (housemate home late from separate event)
Go to bed at 1am or so, late for a little boy with work next day
Wake up with hangover, find that local children (cunts) have stolen back brake from bicycle
Take public transport to work
Construct more furniture at work. Realise mistake in not stealing and selling on second set of screwdrivers
Get told to go to dinner with strange Russian client in the evening at 8pm
Protest regarding prior, personal (fabricated) commitment: get told to “fuck off and stop being such a Mary”
Head and body ache prevent any semblance of remonstration
Lower lip begins to tremble

I never used to get hangovers. I worry that their coming heralds the onset of old-age. CJ, could you ask your special friend whether she remembers being 24, and whether hangovers get worse? Let me know. I feel like poo.

How to have a good morning

2005-10-18T12:35:00.000+01:00

Instructions for a good morning (needs 2 weeks preparation):

Up early - go to gym
Work out - get ripped as fuck, bitch. Holler. Imagine self with less pasty 'I haven't had a proper holiday' skin
Feel good about imagined self
Brush hair out of face while walking past ladies on machines; this allows a gentlemen to flex his bicep without appearing to do so deliberately
Enjoy the attentions of the wobbly young lady on the cross-trainer; supress disappointment at being ignored by more obviously attractive ladies by telling self that if they are at the gym in fashionable sports wear at this time of day they are probably bitches
Ignore suspicion that your presence in gym pre-7.30 makes you a twat
Seek confirmation in your unshowy outfit. Feel reassured
Feel those endorphins pumping round your body, bitch. Uh.
Cold shower - refreshing
Enter office environment - feel annoyance that working in a small company occasionally involves building furniture; smile as Chairman indicates flat-packed furniture on floor and reminds you that you are the youngest male in the office
Omit to tell colleague searching for screwdrivers that former collegaue 'borrowed' them before leaving
Offer assistance in great screwdriver hunt. Waste half an hour.
Drink 4 cups of coffee to feel more like a bona fide workman
Offer support and sympathy to frustrated colleague. Kindly offer to go out to buy new screwdrivers. Waste an hour.
Come back to hero's welcome. Write up on blog. Feel smug.

Obviously each individual will find his or her own variation on this near-perfect morning. I've had better, but not Monday-Friday, not recently.

Love: big bang or no big truth?

2005-10-17T13:44:00.000+01:00

Once again, the answer is neither, you fucking idiot.

However, now that I’ve started as I don’t mean to go on, I’ll proceed to the meat of my piece: which, thanks to my easy, yet taut prose style, rather neatly concerns whether love is the light of life or just about a piece of meat.

The Kings of Convenience are a beautiful band: a kind of 21st Century, Nordic Simon and Garfunkel, with a natty sideline in superb remixes. Indeed, when first I played my copy of Versus to Artegall, he nearly started crying. They’re an amazing band to listen to when you’re either in or just out of love, and “I don’t know what I can save you from”, remixed by Royksopp, is the only song I’ve ever thought of as “our song”. It was shared with my most recent girlfriend, with whom I spent about two and a half great years and maybe one or two crappy months. Such is the way these things go, and it’s fair to say I’m perfectly fine without her. Whether I’m as happy as I was when with her is moot – I can’t really remember, if I’m honest, and while this is strange, it probably indicates a good decision on my part.

I was listening to another album of theirs yesterday as I walked from Vauxhall station across the river to my flat – a good walk on a grey autumn day when you’ve some grey autumn music on the go. I turned up my collar, smoked as I walked, felt myself strangely uplifted by melancholic sentiment, and tried to look intelligent-yet-steely whenever anyone approached. This led to a great deal of jaw-setting and middle-distance gazing, as London is a busy town, even on a Sunday.

The song which caught me was called “Love is no big truth”, whose refrain tells me that “Love is no big truth; driven by our genes we are simple selfish beings.” Is this right? It left me a bit confused, because I connect this band with the best relationship I’ve ever had with anyone, which certainly felt like real love, and whose physical, emotional and intellectual sympathy felt at times symbiotic.

And yet. I got over her relatively easily, after I’d realised the enormity of what I’d done (slightly hurried decision, not made calmly), when it surely should have been harder. But that’s forgivable, because for some time before then we were living in different places.

What concerns me more is my relations with 2 subsequent women. In both cases I met I girl I liked a great deal and fancied, ended in bed with her on several occasions, accidentally let her believe she was effectively my girlfriend and eventually hurt her (by leaving – not by being specifically unpleasant, I hope). In each case I thought the girl was great and wanted to be with her, yet knew I couldn’t love her. Never never never.

So why do it in the first place? Well, as Jim Carey says in Me, Myself and Irene, “What can I say? I was horny.” The thing is, I liked the girls and wanted to have sex with them, and this somehow ended up resembling love. This is in part because I'm quite affectionate, but I should have noticed and stopped things earlier. In each case I took responsibility and finished things, but both times it was too late to avoid some measure of upset - because I was a simple, selfish being.

Nonetheless, I think true love does exist, and in “What is the Light?” the Flaming Lips postulate that love comes from the chemical which caused the big bang, and they rarely if ever lie. I’ve been happy and sad in love, delighted and hurt, and I don’t think all of those things were to do with getting my end away.

It’s just that sometimes we do things simply because we want to, and there’s no more meaning to them than there is to a cocker spaniel humping your left shin. It’s not that hard to tell the difference either, between love and affectionate lust, which means I’ve been rambling, albeit elegantly, and should stop. Abruptly.

So perhaps just listen to the song, which is a good one.

Harold Pinter: good dramatist or a bit of a twat?

2005-10-14T12:57:00.000+01:00

Let me tell you.

He's both.

But he's a better twat than a dramatist, as you can see here.

I don't dislike the man; I simply expect some sort of intellect or wit to be on display when someone's just won the Nobel prize for literature. I don't expect to read the following:

"The invasion has already started. All my friends have been communicating all day long. On the other hand some journalists have behaved appallingly. They've been ringing on the door insisting on entrance. They don't like it if you don't respond like a chimpanzee. But I'm not a chimpanzee and I don't intend ever to be a fucking chimpanzee. Not that I've anything against chimpanzees."

Oh poor, brave Harold. Along comes the medyur intrusion and you deal with it as only you knwo how: with the corruscating wit of a bright 14 year old. Swear a bit and then delivery the cringe-worthy punchline "Not that I've got anything against chimpanzees."

Can they revoke these awards?

Moving on

2005-10-13T17:10:00.000+01:00

I've had enough of KP, and imagine that you have too; so I'm going to leave you with a link to exerts from his speech from the International cricket awards. Hateful man.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/em/fr/-/sport1/hi/cricket/4333616.stm

I'll start my new life with something relatively whimsical: a dictionary of office shitting. This is close to my heart, as the bizarre gender segregation which exists in my office means that the gents (a single toilet - no urinal) is situated by the room in which the female crap-police reside.

These harpies wait for the door to shut and then gather outside to listen and smirk, the result being that I've not had a shit between 9-6, Monday - Friday, for 2 years.

So here now, find the dictionary of my daily battle with my bowels. Thanks to Nick for this.

CROP DUSTING -- When farting, you walk briskly around the office so the smell is not in your area and everyone else gets a whiff but doesn't know where it came from. Be careful when you do this. Do not stop untilthe full fart has been expelled. Walk an extra 30 feet to make sure the smell has left your pants.
FLY BY -- The act of scouting out a bathroom before pooing. Walk in and check for other pooers. If there are others in the bathroom, leave and come back again. Be careful not to become a FREQUENT FLYER. People maybecome suspicious if they catch you constantly going into the bathroom.
ESCAPEE -- A fart that slips out while taking a leak at the urinal or forcing a poo in a cubicle. This is usually accompanied by a sudden waveof embarrassment. If you release an escapee, do not acknowledge it. Pretend it did not happen. If you are standing next to the farter in >the urinal, pretend you did not hear it. No one likes an escapee. It is uncomfortable for all involved. Making a joke or laughing makes both parties feel uneasy.
JAILBREAK -- When forcing a poo, several farts slip out at a machine Gun pace. This is usually a side effect of diarrhoea or a hangover. If This should happen, do not panic. Remain in the cubicle until everyone hasleft the bathroom to spare everyone the awkwardness of what just occurred.
COURTESY FLUSH -- The act of flushing the toilet the instant the poo hits the water. This reduces the amount of airtime the poo has to stinkup the bathroom. This can help you avoid being caught doing the WALK OFSHAME. (yep..guilty)
WALK OF SHAME -- Walking from the cubicle, to the sink, to the door after you have just stunk up the bathroom. This can be a very uncomfortable moment if someone walks in and busts you. As with farts,it is best to pretend that the smell does not exist. Can be avoided withthe use of the COURTESY FLUSH.
OUT OF THE CLOSET POOER -- A colleague who poos at work and is proud Of it. You will often see an Out Of The Closet pooer enter the bathroom with a newspaper or magazine under his or her arm.Always look around the office for the Out Of The Closet Pooer before entering the bathroom.
THE POOING FRIENDS NETWORK (P.F.N) -- A group of co-workers who band together to ensure emergency pooing goes off without incident. This group can help you to monitor the whereabouts of Out Of The Closet Pooers, and identify SAFE HAVENS.
SAFE HAVENS -- A seldom-used bathroom somewhere in the building Where you can least expect visitors. Try floors that are predominantly of The opposite sex. This will reduce the odds of a pooer of your sex entering the bathroom.
TURD BURGLAR -- Someone who does not realise that you are in the Cubicle and tries to force the door open. This is one of the most shocking And vulnerable moments that can occur when taking a poo at work. If this occurs, remain in the cubicle until the Turd Burglar leaves. This way you will avoid all uncomfortable eye contact.
CAMO-COUGH -- A phoney cough that alerts all new entrants into the bathroom that you are in a cubicle. This can be used to cover-up a WATERMELON, or to alert potential Turd Burglars. Very effective when used in conjunction with an ASTAIRE.
ASTAIRE -- A subtle toe-tap that is used to alert potential Turd Burglars that you are occupying a cubicle. This will remove all Doubt that the cubicle is occupied. If you hear an Astaire, leave the Bathroom immediately so the pooer can poo in peace.
WATERMELON -- A poo that creates a loud splash when hitting the Toilet water. This is also an embarrassing incident. If you feel a Watermelon coming on, create a diversion. See CAMO-COUGH.
HAVANAOMELET -- A case of diarrhoea that creates a series of loud splashes in the toilet water. Often accompanied by an Escapee. Try Using a Camo-Cough with an Astaire.
UNCLE TED -- A bathroom user who seems to linger around forever. Could spend extended lengths of time in front of the mirror or sitting on The pot. An Uncle Ted makes it difficult to relax while on the crapper, as you should always wait to poo when the bathroom is empty. This Benefits you as well as the other bathroom attendees

Kevin and Vanessa: a love story in pictures

2005-10-07T12:18:00.000+01:00

Vanessa saw him from the other side of the club: she'd never seen anyone look so suave, so well-groomed, so masculine.

She had to have him.

"Hi, I hear you're a cricketer."

"Shut up bitch," he smiled. She melted to hear his voice, so strong, yet so gentle. His words like honey. Damn he was smooth. "Go over there and sit in the corner of the club, I know how it works," he barked.

She did as instructed, and moments later, her mobile beeped at her. Message received.

"Wanna lik a nashnul heroes balls, bitch?" she read.

Someone coughed loudly. She looked up, and there was Kevin, saying "let's go."

It was so exciting, riding in the cab back to his place. Once she'd paid the driver, they ran upstairs, and began kissing and touching one another. Suddenly, he was leaning over her and she felt herself orgasm immediately. Then again and again and again.

In the morning she awoke alone. Had it all been a dream, the best of her life? As she looked at her round, smooth bottom in the mirror, she knew it had been anything but.

And The Great Lord Kev said unto them...

2005-10-07T12:15:00.000+01:00

I am come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth on me should not abide in darkness.

However, you may have to do your hair therein, should you wish to look as good as me.

http://www.memorabiliamania.co.uk/images/IMG_3834.JPG

Sexual incompetence

2005-10-05T14:32:00.000+01:00

"He kept asking me to say his full name – Kevin Pietersen – over and over again so that he could hear it when he came. It was just weird." As I've pointed out elsewhere that the scandal would have been more interesting had it involved a Sri Lankan cricketer:"He kept asking me to say his full name – Warnakulasooriya PatabendigeUshantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas – over and over again so that he could hear it when he came. It was just weird."

But that’s not germane, readers.

Apparently he’s something of a disappointment, but I can’t find online the article which makes this claim. But you can imagine, can’t you. Click on the sexy Kev link at the side. You can imagine. You can.

Insane arrogance

2005-10-05T14:31:00.000+01:00

After dropping his 6th catch in a row, Pietersen was asked whether his butterfingers were playing on his mind. His response (paraphrased)? "I have some of the safest hands in this team, so it's just sheer bad luck [that I've dropped every single chance]."

No, Kevin: you're shite at catching, because you grab at the ball in the way I imagine you grab at the fleshy bits of any woman unfortunate enough to join you in your bed - amateurishly and aggressively. Actually, I don't have to imagine…

Excuse my absence: I can't imagine how you've coped. This post is about Self-importance

2005-10-04T17:32:00.000+01:00

After his century in the final Ashes Test (a brilliant knock, but one in which he was dropped 3 times, and which was his only ton of a series where he dropped 6 out of 6 possible catches) Kevin Pietersen let us all know just how much of an inspiration he had become to his team-mates, who only after all include probably the world's best all-rounder (Flintoff) and captain (Vaughan), the fastest man since Don Bradman to 5,000 Test runs (Trescothick) and two men who have respectively been rated the world's best batsman and bowler during the last 3 years (Vaughan and Harmison).

Now KP is, I stress again, a good player, but is it really likely (and if it is, is it necessary to tell us about it?) that the following exchange would seriously take place? From The Times: 'He talked afterwards of his duel with Lee before lunch, when the Australia pace bowler was at his most ferocious. “I knew it was him or me,” Pietersen said. “I thought the positive way was the way forward.” And he mentioned, too, that this positive approach had rubbed off on some of his team-mates. “There have been one or two questions: where do you get it? How do you do it?” he said.” '

WHAT?!

Go on, Kev, why not tell the truth: after you were out Vaughan gave you a suck job, Harmison fondled your nipples and Flintoff asked for your autograph, all while you were showing Simon Jones the proper method for achieving reverse wing and explaining to Shane Warne that you, and not he, would have been the world’s greatest leg-spinner had your school teachers not told you that it was “unfair, Kevin: if you score 300 and take 10 wickets every game no one else will ever get a go.” I suspect someone politely said "Wow Kev! You drop 6 catches out of 6, making you the most cack-handed player in history, but you still think you're the shizzle. How DO you do it?"

Thank God for King Kevin.

I don’t agree with that in the workplace – a break from KP

2005-09-28T16:11:00.000+01:00

I work in an office. That is to say, I sit in an office between the hours of 9am and 6pm, Monday to Friday. During these hours I plot and scheme; I neither grow, however, nor prosper.

What this enforced stillness does do is afford me the opportunity to develop my sense of office etiquette: I am rapidly developing an understanding of what is appropriate (polite laughter, the odd bit of slightly smutty innuendo – not too risqué, sir, and never refer to a lady’s fleshy bits) and what is not (no pissing on the secretary, even if she asks you to).

For example. I work with a Frenchman who believes himself to be something of a charmer. In reality, he’s a well-meaning and decent chap: a bit of a gimp who’s decided that by dint of his nationality he must be irresistible to women.

WRONG.

But that’s another story.

So this chap teased the secretary about her fat arse, the subtle joke being that she isn’t fat. Tee hee! (I shouldn’t scoff - this is a French auditor: for him to have mastered simple irony is an achievement beyond the ambitions of the majority).

The girl in question took minor offence, but quickly forgot. Until my colleague brought it up over lunch a few days ago, saying “but people are so quick to take offence – I mean, look at the other day, when you thought I really meant you have a fat arse; how could you think that? You have a GREAT arse!”

This complete with curvy hand gesture, indicating the undulating splendour of the bottom in question.

The poor girl of course went bright red, so the chap turned and challenged me: “Don’t YOU think she has a great arse?”

I mumble something non-commital.

“Come on! It’s great! Admit it! You LOVE her arse!”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

Cue Gallic hand-flapping and patronising laughter from the Frenchman; approving glances from elsewhere.

“You are so English! I mean, here is a girl with a great arse, and you can’t even tell her she has a great arse! Why can’t you English men ever know how to compliment a woman? How are you going to get laid if you can’t tell a woman she has a great arse?”

“I can get laid, thank you, and I just don’t want to discuss my colleague’s arse at work.”

It now looks as though I might get laid because I won’t compliment her bum. Keep going, keep going.

“Why not?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

Encouraging smiles all round.

“Why not?”

“Because I think her arse is crap.”

Silence.

False modesty

2005-09-28T09:58:00.000+01:00

False modesty is to me about the most despicable human flaw embodied in Kevin Pietersen.

Perpetrators are several rungs higher up the twat ladder than those whom we can label merely ‘arrogant’, because their behaviour assumes a collusive sympathy between them and their audience: this is something along the lines of “we both know I’m speaking shit here, and we both know I’m awesome, but we’re not allowed to say it.”

Before the Ashes squad had been selected, debate raged over whether KP or Graham Thorpe (England's best batsman of the last decade, but nearing retirement) should be selected. Most observers suggested Thorpe would just make it, as it would be his last series, and we have quite a young team anyway. KP agreed with them. Kind of.

"Let me start by saying that Graham Thorpe is a great player," each interview would begin, "and I've always looked up to him. Even as my first class record began to dwarf his.

"I mean, you look at the stats, which never lie [to me, KP's obsession with stats symbolises his overall repugnance - he seems to think you can judge a great cricketer on paper alone, but if this were the case Murali would be better than Warne, and Damien Martyn better than the entire England batting order.], and he's got a Test average over 40, which is the mark of a proper batsman. OK, so I haven't played Test cricket, and therefore you can't compare, but what I don't want is for people to look at my one day international stats and make a big deal of them. I mean, fine, so I've scored a century every 2 games, my average is 168, and Thorpe only averages 32 in one-dayers, but so what? I'm not here to say Kevin Pietersen is over 5 times better than Graham Thorpe; that’s for other people to judge. And yeah, so my first class average of 58 is 10 runs higher than his, but what does that matter? What matters is that Graham Thorpe is a legend, and has been one of the best players in a very poor England side for a long time. If you're looking for me to say I'm better or should be selected ahead of him, you're barking up the wrong tree."

Short of wearing a “pick me” hat, it couldn’t be much clearer.

And speaking of picking, Kevin, maybe if you’d left those spots alone in your teenage years, you wouldn’t look like this.

In King Lear, Edgar (or is it Albany?), near the end, entreats us to "Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say," and all those Pietersens out there should take heed. We know you think you're great, but we'd think rather more of you if you just said it. And don't even begin to imagine how much we'd love you if we didn't know that your every second thought was "God damn, I am."

KP syndrome

2005-09-27T22:04:00.000+01:00

If, like me, you've been absolutely riveted by the Ashes this summer, you may have noticed that it had two stand-out characters.

One was Shane Warne. Probably the greatest bowler of all time, and certainly a great man. Witness him bowing to the crowd as they ironically applaud the hundred runs tonked off his bowling; marvel at the fact that every time we were about to skittle the Aussies for some humiliating total, Warne, a bowler, would thwack a quick 40 (or 90) to keep them competitive; wonder at the ridiculous 40 wickets he took during the series, on tracks that weren't particularly spin-friendly.

He inspired his team with the bat, with the ball, and in the field, and he did it all with a laugh, and with impeccable sportsmanship.

The other player was, of course, Andrew Flintoff.

Or was it? Clearly Flintoff was the best player for England, and the 'heartbeat' of the team. But even he has been overshadowed by English cricket's new pin-up boy. Step forward, Kevin Pietersen.

Kevin stepped into English cricket some years ago now. He left his native South Africa because his opportunities were being restricted by South African sport's commitment to quota systems, which were (and are) introducing black and coloured players to the traditionally white-dominated sports of cricket and rugby union.

KP hated this. He was 20, maybe even 21, and he was pissed at not being the no.1 pick in his representative team; so he came and played cricket in England, where reversing decades of racial segregation isn't on the agenda. In terms of his career, I suppose this is fair enough, especially as his mother was English-born. I just wish he hadn't gone on about it quite so much when he arrived. Sure, your team had to pick 3 non-white players. But that does leave 8 other places, Kev: maybe at 20 you just weren't quite good enough.

I digress. I know he can play, and I'm glad he came and played in England, as he helped us to win the Ashes for the first time in nearly 20 years, but still something niggles; something nags at me every time I see him interviewed, and something stops me from taking the pleasure I should from all those pulverising sixes. I've thought about it long and hard, wondering whether I'm just falling into that very English trap being suspicious of confidence and the success it brings (or success and the confidence it brings), but I don't think I am: I LOVE the rest of that team, and especially its better players, like Flintoff.

Then, one day, it came to me, and I knew exactly why I hated Kevin Pietersen so very much.

He's a cunt.

Kevin Pietersen straddled this series like some hideously scarred, huge-balled colossus. For every breathtaking six there was an equally jaw-dropping moment of arrogance. My next few posts will concern big Kev and his ilk, identifying and discussing some of the traits which really upset me. If you recognise others in him, so much the better: I’m here to help.

Get ready.