The IT geeks at work have finally blocked this blogsite, as it breaches the organisation's Internet policy.
Mission accomplished.
CB
Monday, 31 May 2010
www.paininthearse.com
They say that good customer service results in 1 in 5 people spreading positive word of mouth; whereas bad customer service supposedly results in 4 in 5 people spreading negative word of mouth.
And so it comes to pass that I share the following with you: for the past three months, we have been battling with our internet provider (Virgin Media) to get reconnected after our modem suffered an acute bout of alcohol poisoning back in early March.
In short, for the past three months we have being royally screwed by Virgin.
Now there's an ironic sentence.
CB
PS Incidentally, I wouldn't advise plugging this post title into any internet search engine; you're liable to either find a website for hemorrhoid sufferers, or maybe worse: a link to 'Tales from the Prison Showers'.
And so it comes to pass that I share the following with you: for the past three months, we have been battling with our internet provider (Virgin Media) to get reconnected after our modem suffered an acute bout of alcohol poisoning back in early March.
In short, for the past three months we have being royally screwed by Virgin.
Now there's an ironic sentence.
CB
PS Incidentally, I wouldn't advise plugging this post title into any internet search engine; you're liable to either find a website for hemorrhoid sufferers, or maybe worse: a link to 'Tales from the Prison Showers'.
Frightclubbin'
Parental Warning: The following blog contains many instances of a word beginning with 'c', ending with 't' and with 'n' in the middle. And I don't mean coconut.
So there I was on Sunday morning (many weeks ago), happily strolling through the backroads of Ealing, listening to the birds chirping and savouring the smell of freshly cut grass. Everyone I passed on the street was so happy, pushing prams or clipping hedges, and the sun beat down warmly on my fuzzy head. These are my people, I thought; this is my world now. And a far cry it was too, from the hell I experienced the night before...
I am convinced that the main problem with that Saturday night in Ealing was alcohol. And more specifically, lack thereof. It makes you question the quality of a night on the tiles, when vast quantities of alcohol are needed to numb you to what's actually going on around you.
I, admittedly, have been a bit relaxed on my drinking of late. Every so often I receive an email from my liver, pleading for mercy, and I feel it's only right to grant the little feller an occasional reprieve. So it therefore didn't help that I didn't drink my first beer till about 10pm, while the majority of people at the table had been drinking since 1pm (the most sober had been drinking since 6pm).
We started off in a pub in Ealing, where my friend's father was celebrating his 60th birthday party. My friend's family is Irish, as was the majority of the guests. I was reminded of this fact as I walked through the door, and bumped into two aul lads who were jovially calling each other c*nts. An English guy who was there later asked me what on earth this was all about, as the word 'c*nt' is generally seen as a For-Emergency-Use-Only kind word in the English language. 'The fackin Oy-rish call each other fackin cants all the time!' he exclaimed. I tried to explain that we Irish somehow mean it only in an endearing way, and to paraphrase Tommy Tiernan, that the English language is a wall, and c*nt is an Irishman's chisel.
Two pints down, I thought what better way to liven up proceedings than a few games of pool? The pool table was situated in the main thoroughfare of the pub, a few feet from the toilets; everyone observed a bizarre ritual of standing stock-still whilst a player was taking a shot, regardless of how far away they were from the table or player's line of sight. The whole act had the feeling of an impromptu game of statues. The funny thing is, Irish people generally don't even stand still for the 6 o'clock Angelus any more, but a game of pool? Now that's sacred.
Every now and then surly looking punters would stroll by and slap a quid on the side of the table. Various pool playing duos came and went, mostly consisting of the same archetypes: one good player, and one shite player who nevertheless felt compelled to advise his partner on every single shot.
So there I was on Sunday morning (many weeks ago), happily strolling through the backroads of Ealing, listening to the birds chirping and savouring the smell of freshly cut grass. Everyone I passed on the street was so happy, pushing prams or clipping hedges, and the sun beat down warmly on my fuzzy head. These are my people, I thought; this is my world now. And a far cry it was too, from the hell I experienced the night before...
I am convinced that the main problem with that Saturday night in Ealing was alcohol. And more specifically, lack thereof. It makes you question the quality of a night on the tiles, when vast quantities of alcohol are needed to numb you to what's actually going on around you.
I, admittedly, have been a bit relaxed on my drinking of late. Every so often I receive an email from my liver, pleading for mercy, and I feel it's only right to grant the little feller an occasional reprieve. So it therefore didn't help that I didn't drink my first beer till about 10pm, while the majority of people at the table had been drinking since 1pm (the most sober had been drinking since 6pm).
We started off in a pub in Ealing, where my friend's father was celebrating his 60th birthday party. My friend's family is Irish, as was the majority of the guests. I was reminded of this fact as I walked through the door, and bumped into two aul lads who were jovially calling each other c*nts. An English guy who was there later asked me what on earth this was all about, as the word 'c*nt' is generally seen as a For-Emergency-Use-Only kind word in the English language. 'The fackin Oy-rish call each other fackin cants all the time!' he exclaimed. I tried to explain that we Irish somehow mean it only in an endearing way, and to paraphrase Tommy Tiernan, that the English language is a wall, and c*nt is an Irishman's chisel.
Two pints down, I thought what better way to liven up proceedings than a few games of pool? The pool table was situated in the main thoroughfare of the pub, a few feet from the toilets; everyone observed a bizarre ritual of standing stock-still whilst a player was taking a shot, regardless of how far away they were from the table or player's line of sight. The whole act had the feeling of an impromptu game of statues. The funny thing is, Irish people generally don't even stand still for the 6 o'clock Angelus any more, but a game of pool? Now that's sacred.
Every now and then surly looking punters would stroll by and slap a quid on the side of the table. Various pool playing duos came and went, mostly consisting of the same archetypes: one good player, and one shite player who nevertheless felt compelled to advise his partner on every single shot.
After the pub closed, we all made our way to a late club down the road (after of course spending the obligatory half hour standing outside the pub, debating where to go next, tossing around suggestions like it was some verbal food-fight).
Jean Paul Sartre once famously said that 'hell is other people'. Jean Paul Sartre had obviously never been to The Redback Tavern in West London. Otherwise he might've said that "hell is a pub-cum-antipodean-nightclub somewhere in Acton".
We ended up in the Redback post-pub, and I swear I wouldn't have been surprised if I had looked up and the DJ had red skin, horns and a tail. The Redback often gets confused with The Backpacker (which used to be in Kings Cross), primarily for the reason that both venues were once upon a time destination boozers for The Church day/night-club (of Kings Cross, then Kentish Town, and now Clapham), but probably equally for the reason that both are packed with gigantic ozzies who have hands the size of snow-shovels that say things like 'g'day ya li'l c*ntie' and slap you genially on the back (oblivious to the fact that their hands are, well, the size of snow-shovels).
The atmosphere of the Redback is probably equivalent to that of a petri dish to which you've applied equal measures of rohipnol and ecstasy. When we stepped inside, I turned to andy and quoted Sean Connery's character from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade by saying "wayell boy, looksh like we're pilgrimsh in an unholy land".
The funny thing is, I used to think the Redback was okay, when I used to go there about three or four years ago. But from the following timeline of events, you'll see why I feel I've outgrown it:
1:30am: enter the place. Make a beeline for the bar and attempt to buy a round.
1:35am: Get frustrated when the guy in front of me at the bar is measuring out a handful of coins as payment for his round: "£7.60....(hic) £7.70....and (hic)....th-there: £7.80". Barman shouts over the music: 'No mate, I said SevenTEEN eighty.'
1:40am: Jagerbombs away.
1:45am: Amidst the crowd of revellers, I swear I spy the barman from the pub we had previously been drinking in that evening. He nods amiably at me, obviously forgetting he had, not sixty minutes earlier, instructed me to 'drink up and get the fuck out.'
1:50am: More jagerbombs.
1:55am: Hit the dance floor with the lads. Bouncer shouts at me and tells me to behave even though I've barely moved. And am by far, the most sober person there.
2:00am: Achtung: Mehr jagerbomben.
2:10am: I realise I'm not so much dancing as continuously moving my feet so they don't get stuck to the floor.
2:11am: Realise I'm actually dancing to failed boyband 5ive, and stop immediately.
2:15am: I pick up the wrong drink and drink some brown stuff by mistake. I still have no idea what it was.
2:20am: On the way to the toilet, need to step to one side as two disgruntled bouncers drag an intoxcated carcass out of the mens toilets, loudly grumbling "bladdy hell, that's the second bladdy week in a row for this goy."
2:25am: Pints of Fosters. Or rather half pints of Foster with liberal dollops of foam.
2:30am: Girl nearby on the dancefloor is clearly hammered and pulls open her shirt, revealing bra and large chest.
2:31am: Same girl is now surrounded by blokes.
2:33am: Two of the surrounding blokes are now essentially snarling at each other like lions over a kill.
2:36am: Same girl snogs at least three of the blokes surrounding her in a space of minutes.
2:40am: Random bloke bumps into me and asks if I want a fight. I graciously decline.
2:50am: The male population of the club realise how late it is and drunkenly lumber around asking the female population if there is 'any chance of a shag'.
2:55am: Everyone on the dancefloor gets whipped into a frenzy by a frenetic dance track.
2:57am: DJ dramatically changes tack and plays a slow song, announcing it is the last.
3:00am: Bouncers tell everyone to GET THE FUCK OUT. And safe home.
4:00am: Crash out on mates sofa.
The next day I woke up, sunlight stinging my eyes, and said aloud, only to myself and in the grizzled words of Danny Glover, "I'm too old for this shit."
CB
The atmosphere of the Redback is probably equivalent to that of a petri dish to which you've applied equal measures of rohipnol and ecstasy. When we stepped inside, I turned to andy and quoted Sean Connery's character from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade by saying "wayell boy, looksh like we're pilgrimsh in an unholy land".
The funny thing is, I used to think the Redback was okay, when I used to go there about three or four years ago. But from the following timeline of events, you'll see why I feel I've outgrown it:
1:30am: enter the place. Make a beeline for the bar and attempt to buy a round.
1:35am: Get frustrated when the guy in front of me at the bar is measuring out a handful of coins as payment for his round: "£7.60....(hic) £7.70....and (hic)....th-there: £7.80". Barman shouts over the music: 'No mate, I said SevenTEEN eighty.'
1:40am: Jagerbombs away.
1:45am: Amidst the crowd of revellers, I swear I spy the barman from the pub we had previously been drinking in that evening. He nods amiably at me, obviously forgetting he had, not sixty minutes earlier, instructed me to 'drink up and get the fuck out.'
1:50am: More jagerbombs.
1:55am: Hit the dance floor with the lads. Bouncer shouts at me and tells me to behave even though I've barely moved. And am by far, the most sober person there.
2:00am: Achtung: Mehr jagerbomben.
2:10am: I realise I'm not so much dancing as continuously moving my feet so they don't get stuck to the floor.
2:11am: Realise I'm actually dancing to failed boyband 5ive, and stop immediately.
2:15am: I pick up the wrong drink and drink some brown stuff by mistake. I still have no idea what it was.
2:20am: On the way to the toilet, need to step to one side as two disgruntled bouncers drag an intoxcated carcass out of the mens toilets, loudly grumbling "bladdy hell, that's the second bladdy week in a row for this goy."
2:25am: Pints of Fosters. Or rather half pints of Foster with liberal dollops of foam.
2:30am: Girl nearby on the dancefloor is clearly hammered and pulls open her shirt, revealing bra and large chest.
2:31am: Same girl is now surrounded by blokes.
2:33am: Two of the surrounding blokes are now essentially snarling at each other like lions over a kill.
2:36am: Same girl snogs at least three of the blokes surrounding her in a space of minutes.
2:40am: Random bloke bumps into me and asks if I want a fight. I graciously decline.
2:50am: The male population of the club realise how late it is and drunkenly lumber around asking the female population if there is 'any chance of a shag'.
2:55am: Everyone on the dancefloor gets whipped into a frenzy by a frenetic dance track.
2:57am: DJ dramatically changes tack and plays a slow song, announcing it is the last.
3:00am: Bouncers tell everyone to GET THE FUCK OUT. And safe home.
4:00am: Crash out on mates sofa.
The next day I woke up, sunlight stinging my eyes, and said aloud, only to myself and in the grizzled words of Danny Glover, "I'm too old for this shit."
CB
Phone Home
Warning: this a brief, but pretty tragic, blog.
The other day I left my phone at home while I was at work. It was an accidental act (as opposed to some bizarre experiment).
Imagine my dismay then when I got home at 8pm, a full 12 hours later, to find no missed calls, and no texts on the phone.
I need a hug.
The other day I left my phone at home while I was at work. It was an accidental act (as opposed to some bizarre experiment).
Imagine my dismay then when I got home at 8pm, a full 12 hours later, to find no missed calls, and no texts on the phone.
I need a hug.
Tube-a-Palooza
The tube party.
Nope, I am not talking about the infamous Circle Line Party of May 2008, which marked the end of permissible drinking on the London Underground (damn you Boris Johnson, damn you to hell). Nor am I talking about a party involving...just lots of various cylinders. Random as that sounds.
No dear reader (or readers, if my fanbase has indeed expanded): I speak of the long-standing tradition of houseparties within London which use the London tube system as a theme. In fairness, it's not the worst idea in the world: much as I hate fancy dress, the theme and forces people to arrive in imaginative costumes which, if nothing else, provide an easy talking point between guests.
A friend of mine threw one such party last year, and naturally I drew a blank as to what tube station, or aspect of tube life (for many people come as tube drivers, construction workers or...er, suicide bombers), to go as.
Cockfosters immediately springs to mind if you're a bloke, the costume necessitating nothing more than a can of Australian lager and some sellotape. But hey, that's been done. Alternatively, you could go as the entire Northern Line and arrive late. But that's a tired joke.
No dear reader (or readers, if my fanbase has indeed expanded): I speak of the long-standing tradition of houseparties within London which use the London tube system as a theme. In fairness, it's not the worst idea in the world: much as I hate fancy dress, the theme and forces people to arrive in imaginative costumes which, if nothing else, provide an easy talking point between guests.
A friend of mine threw one such party last year, and naturally I drew a blank as to what tube station, or aspect of tube life (for many people come as tube drivers, construction workers or...er, suicide bombers), to go as.
Cockfosters immediately springs to mind if you're a bloke, the costume necessitating nothing more than a can of Australian lager and some sellotape. But hey, that's been done. Alternatively, you could go as the entire Northern Line and arrive late. But that's a tired joke.
So I enlisted the help of Al, my imaginative and high-octane friend from Cork.
What should I go dressed as? I asked. The guy exploded with ideas. 'There's soooo much you could go as!' he enthused, eyes wide with possibility. 'Like...like....WAPPING, for instance!'
Wapping? I didn't get it.
'It's simple,' he said, evidently exasperated that I didn't share his vision. 'You just dress up as...as a giant mobile phone....that's WAP enabled!'
Ah yes- how did I not see that one coming?
'Or...or what about Battersea??' he continued.
Battersea? Please explain.
'Yeah you could...you could...' said Al, clearly thinking on the spot. 'You could dress up as a wave (a sea-wave, he added, unnecessarily differentiating it from...a hand-wave perhaps) and...and...walk around, like with a batter sausage in your hand all night!'
And those were just his first two flashes of inspiration.
Funnily enough, I ultimately declined every single one of Al's ideas. So the night of the party arrived, and my mates and I ended up going as the following:
Blackfriar. Yes, one of the boys actually adopted some black facepaint and a monk's habit. Ben Stiller later thanked him for spawning the idea for Robert Downey Jr's character in Tropic Thunder.
Liverpool Street. Two of the lads dressed as the 'scousers' from Harry Enfield and Chums, complete with matching taches, dark curly wigs and cheap tracksuits. They completed the look by circulating the party, saying 'ay ay ay, our terry, alrice alrice, cyalm down' all night. Despite their efforts, countless revellers came up and asked them why they were dressed as the 118 118 twins.
Paddington. Murphy opted for Paddington Bear, by simply wearing the Liam Gallagheresque duffel coat he normally wears and added a veneer of snarling attitude to the usually placid bear: 'Paddington fookin bear yeeeah,' he growled. 'Fookin mad for it,' throwing two fingers up into the air. I lent him an old navy hat which thankfully took the edge off.
Holland Park. I opted for the considerably easy-to-prepare Holland Park look. This consisted of a Holland football jersey, the Dutch flag painted on face and a hastily-prepared mock-spliff. Which ended up looking like a giant tampon.
Grange Hill. Yes, it is a real place, nestled somewhere down the arse end of the Central Line in deepest, darkest, East Laandan. Chris came as Grange Hill by...well...generally wearing what he normally wears: skinny tie, white shirt and all.
The party was a grand success, notable imaginative costumes including: All Saints (guy wearing T-shirt with stickers of the names of about a hundred various saints)- he was technically disqualified however, as All Saints is, in fact, a DLR stop (schoolboy error there) , Oxford Circus (chick dressed as a clown- also handily doubles up as Piccadilly Circus), Tooting Bec (bloke drinking countless bottle of Becks beer, whilst honking a portable car-horn: ingenious) High Barnet (girl with a giant bouffant wig), Shepherds Bush (I had pondered this costume myself, but it would've been a lot more pornographic than what this bloke came as). And of course all the luvverly girls who invariably dressed as Wimbledon (tennis players), Heathrow (air stewardesses) or Angel (er...angels).
The evening was rounded off by several vomiting incidents, which may or may not have been perpetrated by my good self. Though god knows how I supposedly threw up under a couch. Sometimes I amaze myself.
All in all, good fun was had by everyone.
The evening was rounded off by several vomiting incidents, which may or may not have been perpetrated by my good self. Though god knows how I supposedly threw up under a couch. Sometimes I amaze myself.
All in all, good fun was had by everyone.
Word of advice though, be sure to clean all remnants of our costume off (in my case, a beer-stained Holland jersey with blue, white and red paint smudged all over my face) if you happen to be making your home from the party on the first tube the morning after.
Otherwise it sure scares the bejesus outta people. Trust me, I know.
CB
Sunday, 23 May 2010
Don't Care Much 'Bout Scientology
I was a bit offended the other day.
I was walking down Tottenham Court Road, running the gauntlet of usual chuggers, when I passed by the Scientology shop. The guy standing outside took one glance at me and then looked away, not even bothering to ask me to take the quick survey.
Now, I'm by no means interested in the concept of Scientology, but am still a little aggrieved at the fact that the loony didn't at least try and recruit into his wacky cult.
Perhaps I just didn't look open-minded enough?
CB
Things You Don't Want Shouted Across the Office- No.23
"Oi Conor: When I move office I might give ya me dongle!"
Gary Turner, 2010
Gary Turner, 2010
Something venTured..
Sometimes you owe it to yourself to give things a try.
As the old saying goes, some people come and go through our lives; others leave little footprints on our heart, and we are never the same again.
CB
As the old saying goes, some people come and go through our lives; others leave little footprints on our heart, and we are never the same again.
CB
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Joined in Holy Miaowtrimony
The other week I read a story about a guy in Germany who married his cat. Yup.
Outlined in a story that Dutch Daily News imaginatively titled 'Man Marries Cat', thirty nine year-old Uwe Mitzscherlich married his cat, Cecilia, after she was declared terminally ill, in the town of Possendorf in Germany. Postman Mitzshcerlich apparently paid an actress three hundred euros to officiate at the wedding ceremony. He had lived with his feline fiancée for ten years, and described how close they were, and how 'their hearts beat as one'.
Now, most people would find such a story hilarious, or just plain ludricous; I however can't help but see a grain of tragedy within. The only creature on this plaet that this man feels in any way close to, and it's not even another human being. Certainly food for thought about the world we live in.
But it is quite funny too.
CB
Outlined in a story that Dutch Daily News imaginatively titled 'Man Marries Cat', thirty nine year-old Uwe Mitzscherlich married his cat, Cecilia, after she was declared terminally ill, in the town of Possendorf in Germany. Postman Mitzshcerlich apparently paid an actress three hundred euros to officiate at the wedding ceremony. He had lived with his feline fiancée for ten years, and described how close they were, and how 'their hearts beat as one'.
Now, most people would find such a story hilarious, or just plain ludricous; I however can't help but see a grain of tragedy within. The only creature on this plaet that this man feels in any way close to, and it's not even another human being. Certainly food for thought about the world we live in.
But it is quite funny too.
CB
Gym'll Fix It
Per my first blog on new year's resolutions, I finally joined the gym in April.
And went for the first time in, er, May.
Going to the gym is a little like starting a new job: you don't really know where things are kept, and how anything works. And with everyone else in the gym red-faced and aggressively puffing away, there tends to be few approachable people around. It is therefore advisable to make your first trip to the gym at a considerably off-peak hour, affording you the time to try out the equipment and familiarise yourself with the settings. And if that means making your maiden gym voyage at 9pm on a Thursday, then so be it.
I made my gym debut (for the first time in about five years anyway) on such a Thursday, a few weeks back. What first, I thought; some cardio perhaps? I started on a machine excitingly labelled the Spinmaster 3000 (or something like that). 'Spinning' is a word that seems to have cemented its place in the fitness world's vernacular over the last decade or so. It is, of course, simply a pimped up way of saying 'cycling'. I climbed onto the machine, and after various saddle and handle bar adjustments, was ready to begin my journey to fitness. The touchscreen offered a multitude of options. Simplicity is the key, thought I. So, shunning options to 'exercise to my preferred playlist' and suchlike, I went straight to 'build your work-out'. Simple.
Or so I thought. I eventually abandonded the Spinmaster 2000 after a near ten-minute long grilling by the machine as to my height, weight, age, heart-rate, eye-colour, star-sign, blood-type, penis-size and so on.
What else could I try? Ah, the rowing machine. A contraption operable even by the most luddite of gym go-ers. I lasted about ten minutes, before dismounting the machine with all the grace of a hippo on rollerskates, and with a face like a ready-to-burst pimple.
Now for the weight-work. Fortunately the gym was completely empty that night, though I was reminded of the various times I had gone to the local gym and being put off this particular sub-domain of the fitness world by those who traditionally inhabited it: no-necked, shaved-headed blokes who would lift ridiculous weights and moan as if they were in the throes of giving birth. I therefore opted for some of the weights machines, as opposed to the barbells.
I did a few reps on various machines, never over-exerting myself, as the safety posters gently advised (and my own muscles screamed in insistence). The bonus of having no one else in the gym was not having to increase the weight settings every time I left a machine, in an immature attempt to dupe the bloke following that I was lifting more than I actually was. Hey, it's a guy thing. Face it: the gym is one big pissing contest.
I left the weight machines; there, that takes care of the upper torso, now for the flabby middle. I briefly considered the ab-roller, but no: no matter how many times I tried, I couldn't get it out of my head that this was a device built expressly for women. So some push-ups and back exercises later, I was ready for a cool-down.
Enter: the treadmill. Doesn't seem too tricky. I press start, it whirrs into life. Hey, that's not too bad. I push a button to increase the speed. A brisk walk: no sweat. I push the button again, and move up to level 10. A light jog: easy. I push the button a few more times and, like Spinal Tap's amplifiers, I go up to 11. Am off to a nice leisurely jog. It's all good. My wrist is sweaty so I take my watch off and put it in my pocket.
Then it all goes wrong.
First, the jogging shakes my ipod player and sets it to random mode: out of nowhere Rocky Robin by the Jackson Five annoyingly comes on (damn, I knew that Jackson Five Greatest Hits compilation would be my undoing some day). I try to switch songs, but with the jogging it's too blurry. Then my watch falls out of my pocket and is carried off the end of the treadmill. My towel is next to go, slipping off the handrail onto the treadmill track. I just manage to skip out of its way. Then I panic that my watch and my towel will somehow get tangled up in the machinery of the treadmill, causing it to explode, leaving nothing more than two smoking Reebok trainers. So, failing to dispell the thought, I press stop and run to a standstill (U2 reference).
I wiped my face with a towel and had a gulp of water. I then attempt to move and am nauseatingly dizzy. This is exercise, and I hate it.
Still, in the immortal words of Yazz and the Plastic Population, the only way is up.
Joggin' on,
CB
Stinkyfeet, stinkyfeet
Even I may be pushing the boundaries of self-deprecation for this one.
A colleague (let's call him Johnny Kilometre) recently remarked to me, via another colleague, that I may in fact have smelly feet (I hasten to mention that, as it transpires, the olfactory offender was most likely my gym bag, which had been admittedly under my desk for four days).
Naturally, this news initially caused me some distress. I was reminded of a time when me and the lads made a ferry crossing about ten years ago from England to Ireland; we had all just spent about six days in Holland...with about half as many days' change-of-underwear. One of the guys took off his shoes on the ferry, and the pong was immediate. 'Urgh,' one of us remarked. 'That smells like.....like......stale vinegar!' The guy who had taken off his shoes was so offended that he went, simply, ballistic. And trust me, being stuck on a ferry with a ballistic Irishman is about as comfortable an experience as walking around Harlem with a white pillowcase on your head.
I was also reminded of a skit that Bill Connolly once performed, in which he outlined an actual medical condition whereby the affected person unknowingly emanates a fishy smell. 'Can you imagine having that problem??" he said to the audience, incredulous. Yes Billy, it suddenly seemed- now I could.
I was suddenly Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple. Unashamedly, I asked other colleagues around me- Peeyush and Alison- if they too were harbouring some hidden resentment for my potentially pongy pieds.
'No,' said Peeyush adamantly. 'I would've picked it up,' he said, confidently tapping his nose as if he were a bloodhound.
I also asked Alison. 'I've never noticed it,' she said. '...but then, I've never sat directly opposite you,' she quickly added. 'Anyway, I'm sure it's your gymbag,' she finished, not without a trace of scepticism in her voice.
And so, gym bag now safely disposed of (in a toxic landfill somewhere), I returned to work on Monday, and prayed that fresh air be all around.
Either that or I return to my other conclusion: a teeny, tiny animal had many weeks ago climbed up one of Johnny's nostrils and died.
Let's hope so. For my sake.
Fin.
A colleague (let's call him Johnny Kilometre) recently remarked to me, via another colleague, that I may in fact have smelly feet (I hasten to mention that, as it transpires, the olfactory offender was most likely my gym bag, which had been admittedly under my desk for four days).
Naturally, this news initially caused me some distress. I was reminded of a time when me and the lads made a ferry crossing about ten years ago from England to Ireland; we had all just spent about six days in Holland...with about half as many days' change-of-underwear. One of the guys took off his shoes on the ferry, and the pong was immediate. 'Urgh,' one of us remarked. 'That smells like.....like......stale vinegar!' The guy who had taken off his shoes was so offended that he went, simply, ballistic. And trust me, being stuck on a ferry with a ballistic Irishman is about as comfortable an experience as walking around Harlem with a white pillowcase on your head.
I was also reminded of a skit that Bill Connolly once performed, in which he outlined an actual medical condition whereby the affected person unknowingly emanates a fishy smell. 'Can you imagine having that problem??" he said to the audience, incredulous. Yes Billy, it suddenly seemed- now I could.
I was suddenly Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple. Unashamedly, I asked other colleagues around me- Peeyush and Alison- if they too were harbouring some hidden resentment for my potentially pongy pieds.
'No,' said Peeyush adamantly. 'I would've picked it up,' he said, confidently tapping his nose as if he were a bloodhound.
I also asked Alison. 'I've never noticed it,' she said. '...but then, I've never sat directly opposite you,' she quickly added. 'Anyway, I'm sure it's your gymbag,' she finished, not without a trace of scepticism in her voice.
And so, gym bag now safely disposed of (in a toxic landfill somewhere), I returned to work on Monday, and prayed that fresh air be all around.
Either that or I return to my other conclusion: a teeny, tiny animal had many weeks ago climbed up one of Johnny's nostrils and died.
Let's hope so. For my sake.
Fin.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Pondering of the Day #3....
Regardless of where the speakers are, why do people always point up in the air when they recognise a song they hear in a nightclub / bar / pub?
Saturday, 1 May 2010
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