A new low...

... for the BBC. I've just been listening to the radio trying to find out about the latest bomb in London, and they have Andy Murray's Mum commentating on a tennis match.

Gore point

Mr Gore, may I interrupt your world tour briefly and invite you to England for a couple of days? You might want to amend a few slides on your PowerPoint presentation. 10°C and floods in June are not exactly what I had in mind when you told me about global warming.

You can stay at mine if you want.

SW18

It's that time of the year again. Council tennis courts will be booked up for the next month, JB Sports will sell more £5 rackets than baseball caps, 'Henmania' will grip the nation as hordes of female students get t-shirts printed with 'I love Timmy' on it etc etc. I have a number of issues with Wimbledon.

Firstly, why does everything have to have an alternative 'cool' name these days (take note all you nine-eleveners). It's Wimbledon. It's not SW18, that's a postcode. It's a good job it isn't held in Coventry as CV2 2RE wouldn't sound so good. Secondly, it's the only half decent sporting event that the BBC airs in the year, so the whole network is dedicated to it. And boy do they hammer the point home. And how the hell did Claire effin Balding become a presenter? She's a bloody horse trainer for Christ sake. (And Michael Steeeeek and Greg Rusedski and Pat Cash for that matter).

The list continues; tennis players have got to be the biggest knobs second only to athletes. They all need personality transplants. Ah, we don't have characters like Connors and McEnroe anymore. Thank God for that. Spoilt rich American brats are not what I would describe as characters. My biggest problem with the whole thing is, sadly, Tim Henman. Now I am a very proud Englishman, but this twat really gets my bile bubbling. He looks the same now as he did when he was ten, and that is just freaky. He is a complete knob who somehow thinks he is good. Let's face it, getting into the third round in one tournament every year does not a good player make. I hate that little punch thing he does when he wins a point. It has about as much passion as a 90 year old couple who have lived apart for 50 years. And what about that po-faced wife of his? His little punch is naff, but she just sits there in a sulk, tapping her palms together occasionally. Well, I suppose anyone would if they were married to Mr Personality. I have noticed that she doesn't sit next to her in laws anymore, a bit of a fallout perchance?

Of course there are some good things about Wimbledon. It means the weather might improve soon, it gives the missus something to do whilst I watch a real sport like Darts or Crown Bowls, and then there's the talent spotting and seeing which nubile Russian teenager has broken through this year. Sharapova is on the way out, she looks like an NBA player now. I've always had a soft sport for Hingis though. A bit weird and I know that she is not everyone's cup of tea (just me then) but I think she is the finest thing to come out of Switzerland since cookoo clocks and cheese with bubbles in it. And watches and pen knives.

Sorry, just had to get that off my chest. As you were...

Snowy fucks up again, it's actually SW19. Doh

Bitter taste

For the last couple of weeks I've had a real bitter taste in my mouth. I first noticed it after eating a pear drop, and it hasn't gone away since. A few years ago a friend of mine, who was studying to become a dietitian asked if I could be a test case for her. All she needed was for me to answer a few questions and she'd give me a diet to suit my hedonistic lifestyle. One of the questions was related to tastes in my mouth. I had noticed previously that if I had a hangover, I always seem to have a metallic taste. This was quite normal she told me. She never did get back to me about a diet, I think my answers scared her. Anyway, because of that, I thought this new bitter taste would be something similar, but it's been bugging me for a while now so I did some Googling. To my horror, I found out that a bitter taste in the mouth is a symptom of a disease called Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease. Sounds pretty scary;

'GORD is defined as chronic symptoms or mucosal damage produced by the abnormal reflux of gastric contents into the esophagus. This is commonly due to transient or permanent changes in the barrier between the esophagus and the stomach. This can be due to incompetence of the lower esophageal sphincter (LES), transient LES relaxation, impaired expulsion of gastric reflux from the esophagus, or association with a hiatal hernia.'

Holy shit. So I spent the next half an hour trying to find out how to cure it, and how long I have left to live. In my searches, I came across a forum where people were talking about the same symptoms. Most of the people on there said they found out that the taste was because they had eaten pine nuts, and the symptoms can last from 2 days to 2 weeks. I ate a packet of pine nuts all to myself about 2 hours before eating the pear drop. I am not going to die, I am just a fat twat. Doh.

Don't you just hate it when...

In a meeting, the project manager drops a bombshell like 'I know it's really late in the day, but I've just got off the phone to the client and she thinks on reflection she does prefer option one after all. Is it a big deal to change back?' (Considering 'option 1' was vetoed 4 months ago and you've spent the time since working until 9pm every night on option 2). Then some fuck knuckle pipes up and says 'Well it's a bit of a ballache, but it should be possible'. Instead of saying 'Yes, it is a big deal. Why don't you earn your money for a change and tell the client to foxtrot oscar'.

This is not something I would put on my CV, but I want to earn as much money for doing as little work as possible.

I see dead people

I was waiting at the airport on the weekend. As the treadmill of arrivees streamed past me, who should I see but none other than Jimmy Somerville (he of Bronski Beat and Communards, The 'fame'.) Now this in itself is probably not that remarkable, but I could have sworn blind that he was dead. I thought he was one of those AIDS victims round about the time that they were all dropping like birds on a country shoot. When I got home I even did some wikipedia'ing to make sure I hadn't seen a ghost. He isn't dead apparently. He is very short though, and has a head like an orange on a tooth pick. Could do with some dental work as well.

I also saw whining Nikki from Big Brother. She to is very short, and a minger.

Youtube

You gotta love Youtube. It caters for everyone; whether you want to, like me, watch Belle Stars videos, clips of people falling over or monkeys drinking their own piss, it's the first port of call. But what I enjoy most about it is the comments that people make.

Beelzebub:
Ur gay
Beetlejuice:
Your gay
Gandalf:
Who you calling gay? You're gay and so is your dad.
Beelzebub:
Not as gay as u, gay.
Mark89777:
This is fake.
Thegirlfromipemina:
It's not fake, my friend did this and spent two weeks in hospital.
Beetlejuice:
Gayer
Dieter:
Brunnen getan! Die Kameraarbeit ist fantastisch
Beetlejuice:
So gay

This is what the webbernet was invented for.

Plain wrong 2 - scented loo roll

The missus is in charge of all toilet paper transactions in our house. If left to me, I'd buy the single ply blue Tescos homebrand stuff, which imbalances the Feng Shui of the bathroom. Anyway, the latest supply has a faint scent of chamomile, just what every toilet needs. The trouble is it smells exactly like the perfume a friend of mine's wife uses. Now every time I take a dump I think of this woman. Plain wrong.

Tramp tales

On my way home last night I stopped at a cash machine. There was a gentleman-of-the-street sitting next to the machine. When I finished my transaction he said 'Do you have any spare change'? I said I didn't have any on me, and he said 'But I've just seen you take some money out'. 'Sadly this machine doesn't dispense coins, and I'm not going to give you a Pavarotti am I? '. Cheeky bleeder.

My favourite encounter with a (excuse the lack of political correctness) smackhead tramp begging scumbag was when one approached me and asked if I could spare some money so he could buy drugs. I admired his honesty and gave him a couple of quid.

A mate told me this over a beer once. He was going into Pret one lunchtime and a guy bugged him for some change outside. Being a decent guy, my mate told him he wouldn't give him money, but if he was hungry, he'd buy him lunch. The beggar asked for a Latte and a brie, avocado and basil sandwich.