Tuesday, May 1, 2012

I'm aiming for the Oscars

Every time I sit and watch a film (not the really good ones like "Shaun of the Dead", "Heat" or "Sex and the City 2") whether it be at the cinema, or at home, I always think to myself "I could do better. I could write a much better, funnier film script". I am convinced that somewhere in my odd shaped head, there is an amazing, award winning, totally original movie script waiting to burst out, and that if I only knew how to write a movie script, it would be winging its way to a Hollywood director as we speak. It would have to be addressed to "Random Hollywood Director, Hollywood, USA", as unfortunately I don't know any Hollywood directors.

But my great master plan always falls at the first hurdle, mainly because I am awful at writing anything that isn't a postcard. Because let's face it, postcards are pretty easy to write. The only phrases you need are "having a lovely time", "the weather is lovely", "today we are going to the beach" and "wish you were here." By carefully changing the order of these set phrases, it's like writing a new short story every time.

In terms of writing a film script, I don't even want to start, because I fear that on my future Wikepedia page, it will say "Christian Orr, failed script writer of awful straight to DVD movie that no one can actually remember." More importantly, the mind numbing thought of sitting down for hour after hour to write something stops me from actually sitting down for hour after hour to write something.

It's weird, because every time I watch a film, I feel like i'm going to burst with the idea that I can do it. But, to be honest, that may just be IBS. One potential problem is that I have absolutely no idea of what the plot will be. Well, I have loads of ideas, but sadly they've already been done. I thought of a comedy time travel movie (Back to the Future/ Bill and Ted), a hilarious action movie about aliens/ zombies (Shaun of the Dead/ Paul/ Braindead), or a crap martial arts film with no real plot whatsoever, and just lots of slow motion roundhouse kicks (any Chuck Norris film). The thing about today's film and TV world is that you need to be original. That is the key to success.

What will almost certainly prevent my future film ever getting off the ground is that I obviously want to write and star in the film. I'm pretty sure in my head that I'd be the greatest action movie star in the history of action movies stars. However, my previous acting stints in school plays and amateur dramatics have been described as somewhat 'wooden'. This would be great if I was to star in an action movie about a hard as shit Pinnochio, but for any other type of film, useless. 

I want to write a stunning movie script where I can be the hard as nails action hero, defeat all evil henchmen and save the annoyingly stupid hot woman in approximately 110 minutes. I want the feeling of legging it up to a bad guy in his car after a lengthy and quite frankly impossible car chase, punching my hand through the window (without damaging any major arteries), grabbing him by the throat, and in one swift yet heroic move, dragging him out of the window (first ensuring he's undone his seat belt), karate chopping him in the face, and rendering him unconscious, before chuckling to myself and saying something amusing like 'You need an MOT', or 'You can't park there'. I want to write it before I'm too old to be seriously considered as an action hero, when the only lines I could get away with would be "I'm too old for this shit" and "I retire from MI5 tomorrow, I hope nothing bad happens on my last ever shift".

Or instead of an action hero, I want to be a detective working in a down town police station. My character is always angry but at the same time incredibly cool, where the Chief is a bitter man who has only seen action from behind a desk, smokes a massive cigar,can only talk by shouting, and I only use the phrases 'fuck you', 'eat shit' and 'kiss my ass' without any fear of discipline, or being put on the 6 steps to poor performance.

I suppose the great thing about writing the script is that I can say and do anything I want. I could take on the entire North Korean army in one massive, explosive laden, bullet ridden, over the top gun battle, with the only casualty being my freshly laundered white T shirt. I could be attacked by 20 professionally trained FBI agents, who have done nothing but learn how to take a man down for the last 10 years of their training, but defeat them all with what I've learned, which is basically chinese burns and wedgies.You never see the main star in a film getting knocked out with one punch or getting winded from a kidney chop so he can't get up, as happens in real fights on a Friday night, after the Nags Head has kicked out . That's the beauty of films. You can make it as unrealistic as possible. You could even, if you really wanted, make Piers Morgan popular. 

I also like to think i'd be a shit hot camera man, as I love filming whatever I can, whenever I can. However, after looking back at some of my videos, it looks like I am filming whilst on a treadmill, suffering the effects of Parkinsons, so maybe I should just concentrate on writing.

I think that it's the fact that we believe we can do anything we want that keeps us interested in life.And it keeps us hoping we can better ourselves. That's why being a kid is so much fun, because we imagine ourselves doing anything we want. It's only when we get older, that we realise we're actually shit at most things, and that laser quest is about as close as we'll ever get to shooting bad guys.

Right. Enough writing. That's it. I've made a decision. I'm going to watch 3 films in a row now to get me in the mood, and then I'm going to start writing my masterpiece. But, what I know will actually happen is that i'm going to watch 3 films, fall asleep after one and a half films, wake up, rewind the bit I've missed, watch the rest of the second film, and then not write anything because it looks way too hard.

By the way, Sex and the City 2 is total dog shit.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

I Have a Bone to Pick With The Chinese Mafia.

This is a shortish blog (shortish means long) about the pit falls of buying a property. I mention pit falls because it makes the subject sound a bit more exciting, because when I think of pit falls, I think of Indiana Jones falling into a pit.

For some reason, i decided to wait until I was 28 to buy a property. Well, when I say some reason, that reason was the deposit, which for anyone who has a normal job and has to give most of it away to Mr Taxman, saving for a deposit is pretty hard.

Anyway, as luck would have it, I got flooded out of my house in 2007, and all my possessions were completely destroyed. I was sat in my living room one evening at around 7pm, when a Police Officer knocked on my front door, and told me that the River Ock, which is about 100m from my house, was about to burst its banks, and I should move all of my furniture upstairs. A great plan I thought to myself, but there was one minor stumbling block. I'd broken my ankle 3 days before, so attempting to hump settees and wide screen TV's up the stairs was going to be a touch difficult. After about 10 minutes of thinking, I decided that unless the Police Officer has a degree in Environmental Sciences, specialising in River Bed Capacities, I would be okay, as the river was quite a way away.

About half an hour later, I kept hearing my dog flap open, and as my dog was lying beside me, I was getting a bit confused. I hobbled over to the kitchen door, to see it being opened by the River Ock. It had risen dramatically, and was now flowing through the dog flap. I now panicked, mainly because I was wearing my Bananaman pyjamas, and in my current disabled condition, I knew it would take a good 20 minutes to get upstairs and get dressed. So I had to make a decision. Should I try my best to move as many of my treasured possessions as possible to higher ground, or should I hobble upstairs to put some proper clothes on.

20 minutes later, I was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a tee shirt. I hobbled downstairs and witnessed a bizarre sight. The river had now risen in my lounge about 2 feet high, my front door was open ( I left it off the latch when the Police Officer came round, who I later found out was PC Jones BSC (Environmental Sciences, specialising in River bed capacities)), and my laminate flooring was now floating out of the front door, and onto the main street. The sheer speed of the rising water was amazing, and within 40 minutes, it was just below my waist.

To cut a long story short, I lost everything on the ground floor, and in my garage, and it took many months to get back to normal. However, the kind people at the Insurance company did their very best to ensure I got as little insurance payout as possible, but I had enough to use for a deposit on an apartment. Sod it, I don't live in America. It's a flat.

I spent 3 months looking at about 100 flats, and eventually decided on a spacious 2 bed, 1st floor flat. The nearest river to it is abour 2 miles away, so it would have to rain in biblical proportions to flood it. Finally, i'd done it. I'd secured my own property, which I would keep as an investment, watch the price go up and up, and then sell it a couple of years later to buy a very slightly bigger flat, to give me the feel of a property tycoon.

I was genius planning of mine to wait 28 years before I decided to buy, as 2 months after I got the keys to the flat, the property market crashed, and it suddenly became worth about the same price as a kettle.

This was pretty gutting news, but I tried to see the positive side in things. I currently live in a house provided with my job, so I decided to rent it out. I looked at about 10 local letting agents, and decided, as any single man with no common sense would, to go with the cheapest one. After all, what could go wrong with choosing the cheapest option? Well I'll tell you. Everything. And this is another purpose of my blog, to let you know what can happen when you rent out a property.

I don't want to mention the name of the rental company, as I wouldn't want to name and shame them, but lets just say I had the worst experience with them ever ever.(They're called "Seekers", 3 York Road, Erdington, Birmingham, West Midlands B23 6TE)

I was paying them to manage my flat, which included checking on the tenant regularly, and visiting every month to make sure everything was okay. After the 3rd month in a row of not getting any contact, or in fact rent, I was getting massively concerned, so I phoned them up, and spoke to a delightfully unhelpful jumped up pretentious arrogant man called Usman.He told me that he was literally about to call me, as he was a bit confused. He went to visit the flat the day before, but the front door had been boarded up.

I suddenly switched from the cool, confident, funny, handsome, incredibly likeable character that I am to a very irate chav. I was furious, and gave Usman some serious shit. How could he not phone me to tell me this straight away?

I jumped in my car, much like David Hasslehoff tried asking many girls to do in his chart hit, and sped off up to Birmingham, and 1 hour later, I flung the door open at the letting agents. Unfortunately, they had new carpet in the shop which rubbed on the bottom of the door, so it opened at pretty much normal speed, but they could tell I was angry. I got Usman to follow me to the flat, whereby I found the front door boarded up, with a sign saying "Police Notice: Contact Police Immediately".

Usman claimed he had no idea what was going on, so I told him and his shiny suit to wait there, and I went to the local Police station. It turned out that the "Chinese Doctor" that Usman had rented my flat out to had sub let it to the chinese mafia, and my flat was being used as a brothel, and a drug factory. The flat had been under Police survaillance for 2 months, and eventually, the Police raided it. They found one bloke in the main bedroom being serviced by a prostitute, 2 blokes in the living room watching porn, waiting for their turn, and loads of drugs, bondage gear, and porn films scattered all over the flat.

Whoever was on the Police team that raided the flat, had obviously only just passed their 'Door Breaking Down' section of their training, as they decided to smash down every door in the entire flat, for some sort of conformation that they knew what they was doing.

When I returned with the police, I went into the property, and the damage was awful. As it was classed as a 'legal forced entry', the Police were liable for none of the damages, which the Police Officer who accompanied me had great pleaseure in telling me. What's worse, none of the porn had been left.

To draw a close on this already overly long blog, it cost over £2000 to repair the damages. My flat was now officially a money drain. Since then, I've watched many thousands of pounds spunked up the walls. Which I think may have been what the police found when they raided my flat.

I was always taught at school to finish everything off with a conclusion. Therefore, my conclusion is do not buy property as a long term investment. Rent is the future. People say it's dead money renting somewhere, but I have to pay £1200 a year maintenance fees, which basically pays for a man to sweep the car park twice a year, and I self funded several months of Mafia activity and sexual entertainment in the Midlands area. If I had the choice again, I'd have not bothered using my insurance payout for a deposit on a property. I'd have found somewhere to rent long term, and paid for an on line learning course in River Bed Capacities.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

It's about the Gym (not my friend Jim)

Today, at lunch time, I was doing up hill sprints. It was cold, wet, my ankle hurt, my ipod had no battery at all, and I was generally not happy. After about my 6th uphill sprint, I suddenly thought, why do I bother?

I mean seriously, why? I spent almost every day pushing myself to the point of being sick, trying to eat nothing but bland tasting, boring healthy foods, and for what? I look at fat people now in a different light (no, not because they’re blocking out the sun. I know that’s what you were thinking. Shame on you!)  I actually think, fair play to you. You are doing it right. You don’t waste £45 a month or more going to a gym, you eat whatever the hell you can fit down your throat, you drink all you want, and you don’t go to the pointless effort of getting yourself severely out of breath when exercising (apart from maybe going up the stairs to the toilet, or if the ice cream van speeds past without stopping). Ok, the slight downside may be that fat people tend to die in their 50’s and 60’s from massive heart attacks, but when you actually look at this, when you dissect the numbers like a clever statistician would, again, this is not a bad thing. Once you reach about 60, it’s all downhill from there. You like to think you are still youthful, and that 60 is the new 40, but suddenly, wham!, before you know it, you dribble when you talk, you can’t drive over 5 miles an hour, you shop with one of those weird patterned upright baskets on wheels, and you’re memory begins to fade, so you can’t even remember what you had for breakfast ( I can luckily still remember- The same thing that I’ve had for breakfast the last 25 years. Coco Pops, the true breakfast of kings.)

Getting old is not graceful. Would you rather ache from the second you get up to the second you go to bed, which for old people, is 5am to 6pm, wee yourself on a daily basis, forget why you went up the stairs, what you went up the stairs to fetch, and what stairs actually are, carry your teeth in your pocket, slowly go deaf and blind and totally dependent, or enjoy your whole life, eat shit, drink shit, and then die in one massive heart exploding instant?

These thoughts then got me questioning why I go to the gym? Don’t get me wrong, I do sort of enjoy keeping fit, being in good shape and not having to wear a sports bra on the beach, but paying £45 a month, and  getting in the car to go to the gym when it’s dark and raining, is starting to get a bit of a drag. So I had a real hard think about whether I wanted to still go. And, after a great deal of soul searching, I came up with the answer. Of course I do. And why? Because my gym is full of the countries biggest tossers, wierdo’s and generally most amusing people I have ever met, and therefore going to the gym makes me feel much better about myself, without even having to do any exercise. Every time I go there, I tend to stare in wonder and amazement at the patrons and their antics.

For example, I like to go swimming, and the gym has a great pool, with a Jacuzzi. I am a pretty good swimmer, but draw the line at wearing anything smaller than football shorts sized swim wear. On Monday, I had just got into the pool, when a giant man (fat, not fairy story tall) came out of the changing room wearing possibly the smallest pair of speedos ever designed by man. Now, surely, at some stage while he was getting undressed, he must of thought “oh….wait a minute….these trunks are a bit small….I must have packed my 5 year olds speedos….or maybe they shrunk in the wash. Well I can’t wear these, if I go out into the pool area, as I am quite a large individual, people may stare at me. It will look like i'm actually wearing no swimming trunks. This could be quite embarrassing, so I’ll get changed again, and just head home, but via a sports shop, so I can buy a much bigger pair for next time.” But no, at no point did this cross his mind. So when he did come out, wearing speedos that you could only see if he bent over to touch his toes, is it any wonder that everyone stared.

(the above picture is not me in speedos.)

 I did feel generally sorry for him. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t make fun of people who are fat or thin or black or white etc, as I think everyone is equal and should not be judged, but come on. Ridiculous. If I went to a ‘We hate Everything to Do With Elvis Especially his Outift’ club wearing a £14.99 joke shop Elvis outfit, I would expect to be stared at. Therefore, I shouldn’t have felt sorry for him.

Last week was even better. I’d done about 30 lengths, when a man got in wearing a full wet suit. He popped on a snorkel, and then proceeded to snorkel up and down the pool for about half an hour. Mental. However, all was not a loss. To give him a feeling of being abroad and snorkelling on a tropical reef, I took off a plaster and let it float about like a tiny fish.

Seriously though, why is there always a plaster floating about in a swimming pool? Do people still wear plasters? And why is it never a blue one, or a see through one, or a patterned one? It’s always one of those sort of orangey browny coloured ones that people haven’t bought since the early 1990’s, so how the fuck can they still be floating about in every swimming pool in the country?

The swimming pool is probably where I get the most wound up though. And I get wound up by old people. More specifically, old women. I have swum since I was about 4, had school swimming lessons, and went to a swimming club from the age of 11 to 18, yet at no stage, did I ever learn a stroke where I lie on my back, and do a really slow double armed back stroke, which can only be done in the middle of the lane. I have also spoken to a British Swimming Coach, and this stroke is not recognised by the British Swimming Association, so why does every old woman seem intent to only do this stroke, only do it slowly,  and only when the pool is very busy? It’s days like this that I miss snorkel man.

If I go to the actual gym part of the gym, I only use the treadmill, as it’s about the only think that interests me. I love being on the treadmill, as it gives me a chance to watch the blokes in the weights area make increasingly large tossers of themselves. The done thing for chavvy lads in their early 20’s now seems to be to pump as much weight as possible, whilst making as much noise as possible, so everyone knows they are pumping as much weight as possible. They basically aim to get the largest biceps possible, whilst forgetting the fact that this makes their neck disappear completely. These lads are obviously out to impress, so I guess the way to a woman’s heart is now apparently to have biceps so big, you can actually  plunge your massive arm straight through their chest cavity, thus creating a literal way to the woman’s heart. I’m not sure how many activities actually require massive biceps, except for maybe opening a particularly stiff jam jar, using the inside of your elbow joint as some sort of nut cracker, or maybe for allowing extra space for that tattoo of a Ming vase you’ve always wanted, but it does seem a pointless activity.

Maybe I’m just jealous. I’m pretty sure  I’m not jealous. But I will carry on going to the gym, using only the treadmill and swimming pool, to enrich my life with the collection of weird and wonderful people. And also to keep fit. But if I’m being honest, there is only one real reason on this earth why I make sure I keep fit. There’s no way I’m ever, ever, buying elasticated trousers.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Christmas Is Annoying...ish.

Great. It's that time of year where everyone pretends to be nice to everyone else. The houses of those on benefits can be spotted from space, due to having more Christmas lights than a large Christmas lights shop, and shares in Poundland take a massive jump thanks to sales of spray on snow.

I'm going to make this a relatively short blog entry, as I'm really busy making mince pies, wrapping presents, giving to charity and watching Christmas movies- the same excuses that you give to someone you've bumped into on the street and haven't seen for ages, and don't really want to talk to, so pretend you're really busy, rather than stand there making awkward conversation about the weather, what they're up to for Christmas, and suggesting arranging that drink that you'll never get round to having.

Don't get me wrong, I do love this time of year. There's just bits of it that really annoy me. Like Jugglers. I've been Christmas shopping about 6 times this year, and there seems to be an unusually high amount of Jugglers. Why do they come out at Christmas? As if at this festive time of year, I'm going to find juggling any less shit than at any other time of the year. And then there's those weirdos with home made trousers that do that thing with two sticks joined by a piece of string, where they toss a large spinning cotton reel in the air, and then catch it again. At no point in life, or in any occupation, would this be of any use to anybody.Stop tossing large cotton reels in the air and then catching them. It's irritating.Irritating for adults.And kids.

Christmas crackers annoy me as well. I like them, don't get me wrong. The hat is amusing, if you can get it on your head without ripping it, the rubbish joke always gets a groan if the person reading it out can get to the punch line before everyone else guesses it, but the gifts inside are an utter waste of time, and always a massive disappointment. There is not one person in this country who doesn't have, lying around in a drawer somewhere, a large plastic hair clip, a small set of playing cards, a plastic fish, or a miniature set of screwdrivers.

I also don't get the whole fuss about Christmas dinner. It's surely just your average Sunday lunch, but dressed up with a jazzy name. It's still meat, vegetables, and gravy, but add a bit of honey, some extra herbs and whatever Jamie, Nigella, Gordon or those two Geordies with beards suggest, and suddenly it's the meal of the year.

In terms of presents, they say 'it's better to give than to receive', but what I like to say is 'receiving is king.' I love getting presents.I'm like a small child, and get that feeling inside my stomach like being on a roller coaster, It's the whole anticipation of what it could be. Mind you, I'm 32, and still haven't mastered the art of pretending to like a gift,and I bet you haven't either. It's especially hard when you're in a room full of people watching you open said gift. All I can say is, praise the Lord for eBay. If you ask the person who's bought you the gift if they have kept the receipt, it kind of gives away the fact that you think their gift of a musical towel is horse shit.

My dear Grandad died earlier this year. I miss my Grandad every day, but his death has eased my Christmas gift burden, mainly because I never had any idea of what to buy him. For the last 20 years, he has received nothing but chocolates, or handkerchiefs. Old people are the only thing to have kept the Handkerchief makers in business. All old people must have very bad runny noses, because everyone will have bought their Grandparents hankies at some point. I think it's lucky my Grandad had well built oak cupboards in his bedroom, because if the top shelf had ever broken, he would have met his death many years ago in a nasty hankie crushing incident. He had literally hundreds, most of them purchased by me. Sadly, he died of old age, but his hankies were sent to a clothing charity, stitched together, and are now being used as giant marquees in Afghanistan. My Grandad was a legend. You could say my Grandad truly was.... the Hankie Chief.

Happy Christmas to all of the 4 people who will read this. Find a space in your drawers somewhere, there's some miniature screwdrivers heading your way.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Suicidal Dentists.

 Why is it, that 3 days before my dream holiday, I develop horrendous tooth ache, when i don't get it at any other time of the year? I`ll tell you why. Because dentists are bastards. They have a clever secret way of secretly planting a secret 'toothache creating' miniature device inside your mouth, that is timed to go off just before a major event, so you HAVE to visit the dentists. They pay your hairdresser a small annual fee to inform them of when you are going away on holiday. Why else does the hairdresser always say " Going anywhere nice this year?" It's not because they care. They don't give a shit. It's because they get a fee for any info they can pass to the dentist, almost like a police informant. The dentist then uses this info to plant the tooth damaging, nerve attacking time bomb in your mouth during your routine checkup, so it goes off right before your holiday.See, Bastard.

So I thought I'd tell you about my trip to the dentists. I hate the dentists. Only 4 things scare me in life. Flying, men who wear skin tight jeans, flying with men who wear skin tight jeans, and the dentists. Everything about the dentists I loathe, from the softly spoken receptionists, to the out of date magazines in the waiting room, normally 'Bella' or 'Woman's Own'. This particular trip was for root canal, which I knew was going to be nothing but a painful experience.

There isn't room for me at the local NHS dentists, so I have to go private, and I'm sure the
exceptional fees I get charged pay for the shiny new uniforms they seem to be wearing every time I go there. Their figure hugging white tops that show a fraction of cleavage are definitely designed to lure you into a false sense of security and to relax. It would be like facing the executioner in medieval times, and as you approach the chopping block,you notice they are dressed in matching panties and peep hole bra, in an effort to ease your nerves. Well it doesn't work Mr Dentist. No matter how hard I try, I can't relax. So much so, that no matter what time of year it is, I have to go dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, as I sweat so much out of pure undiluted fear.

On this particular occasion, as it was going to be a long procedure, I was offered a choice of DVD to watch, which could be viewed on the TV screen that was on the ceiling. Genius idea I thought, what a great way to try and take your mind off things, as I know their figure hugging white tops that show a fraction of cleavage that are definitely designed to lure you into a false sense of security and to relax, don't work. There was a choice of several movies, and what was the first movie I came across.............Saw. Definitely not a movie that would ease my abject terror of all things dental.

I won't go into too much depth about the procedure, but needless to say, i was amazingly brave, so much so, that the dentist said "wow, you're amazingly brave, possibly the bravest person I've ever used my dentistry skills on", and you could see the dental technician was thinking that as well, even from behind her full face mask.

However, If I was a World War II soldier, and had been captured behind enemy lines, and was thrown into a dark, dirty cell for interrogation by torture, and the torture was dental work, I would give away every secret ever entrusted to me within the first minute.

"Before I start up this drill (imagine saying this in a scary German accent, much like the ones used in Allo Allo, or perhaps a Japanese accent, not unlike Jackie Chan), you are going to tell us the whereabouts of your British base, and where your attack plans are, and....."
"Let me stop you there. There's no need to even plug the drill in, our base is in the old abandoned mine, and the attack plans are in the first desk of the makeshift office, second drawer down...."  I think you get the idea. Dentists are my nemesis.

So why is it that so many of them are rumoured to commit suicide? I'll tell you why. They get so pissed off with their dental technicians, who's sole job is to operate that weird sucking machine that sucks the water and saliva out of your mouth (but what they actually do is constantly stick it to your tongue, so you get to suffer a near death experience, as you slowly choke on your own mouth juices), that they feel totally undermined any undervalued, so go home and bury themselves alive under a heavy pile of £50 notes, that they have just been paid in their astronomical pay packet, and suffocate to death. Either that, or the theory that loads of dentists commit suicide is utter horse shit.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011


I went to the gym yesterday evening, and was quite literally amazed at what I saw. No, it wasn't a beautiful woman in skin tight gym gear, sweat glistening off her firm, perfectly shaped breasts. Nor was it a very muscular man lifting weights so heavy that it literally defied gravity. In the changing room, after my shower, there was a man stood at the mirror,naked, holding a hair dryer, blow drying his testicles.

I was transfixed. I have never seen, or in fact known, of a man using a hair dryer to dry his pubic hair. Now even for the hairiest of men, such as a soft porn star from the seventies, even with a large growth of testicular pubic hair, and with the hair dryer at the maximum heat setting, the hair would be dry after no more than a vigorous twenty or thirty seconds of drying. But this man was drying the area for about five minutes! Five minutes without moving the hair dryer away from his testicles, perhaps to his head and then back to his testicles, to dry his hair and scrotum at the same time in a kind of 'multi dry' procedure, thus speeding up his exit from the gymnasium.

It wasn't so much the fact that he was blow drying his testicles that amazed me. It was the fact that it was a packed changing room, and he clearly had no shame what so ever about what he was doing. I get a bit embarrassed just being seen naked by another man in the changing room. I would have been a bit self conscious, if not massively embarrassed, had I been seen in a similar activity to this man. It then got slightly weirder.. He stopped blow drying his testicles, and then leaned in close to the mirror, to style his hair. 'Fairly normal' I thought, 'maybe he is embarrassed about being seen drying his nads, so he's trying to act normal, by doing normal things that you would do in the mirror.'

Wrong. He then returned to the hair dryer, and began drying his anus.

He oozed disgustingness, so much so, that I think I have possibly invented a new word to describe him. Is disgustingness a word? Who knows. Either way, he was it.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

I Hate Dog Nerds

I decided to get myself a dog roughly 11 years ago. She's called Molly, and is a Golden Retriever. Although, to be fair, I think the breeder had stretched the boundaries of the trade description act, as she should be known as a Non Retriever. She never brings anything back.Ever. As dogs go, she's pretty useless, but is still part of the family. I take her for a walk to the local park every day, but the park is where my problems lie.

The park is populated by what i'd call 'dog nerds.' They are the sort of people who's profile picture on Facebook consists of them and their dog in some sort of amusing costume. They buy their dogs jumpers for the winter (God only knows how dogs kept themselves warm all those years before humans invented dog coats), and they talk to their dogs in a high pitched voice, similar to that of a 3 year old Alan Carr.These are the people I try my very, very best to avoid, but somehow, like some sort of dog nerd magnet, they always seem to tag on to me. And I mean always.They walk around as if we're old friends, with an un-nerving ease, matching me pace for pace.

Annoyingly, their conversation is limited to pet based topics. They ask the same old questions, always about dogs. If I was to say something run of the mill like "When are you going on holiday?", or "The weather has been poor of late, hasn't it?", I fear they may beat the shit out of me, for breaking the 'dog nerd dialogue' code. I am however unlikely to say "The weather has been poor of late", because I was not born in the 1800's.

Every conversation follows a routine pattern, and I can never be bothered to enter into them. Normally I just give one word answers, praying my phone will ring to give me an excuse not to talk to them, and I never, EVER, make eye contact.

And this is the basic thread of their conversation, dogs, every single time we start talking. Well, when I say we start talking, they start talking, I just increase my walking pace to just short of a trot, in an effort to leave them behind. But they almost always try and keep up, so to anyone looking on, me and the dog nerd look like we're in some sort of friendly,speed walking club. We're not. I hate them.

Next time I hear the immortal words " you don't mind if i walk round with you?", my answer will be "yes, I do mind". I will Judo chop their dog, and then run off in the other direction letting out an evil laugh, praying my idiot dog will follow me, so I don't have to walk back to fetch her, cursing my idea to judo chop their dog, run off in the opposite direction and let out an evil laugh. 

That is the end of my rant. I'm now off to get a picture taken of me and the dog in matching bumblebee outfits, it's time I updated my Facebook profile pic.