Raiders of the Lost Ark

I watched this piece of shite on CH4 last night about some academic who'd spent years following the trail of the ark of the covenant.

90 minutes I listened to this guy witter on. He was not animated and most definitely not TV friendly. The guy had spent his whole life with his head in a book looking for the gold casket containing the 10 commandments given to Moses by God.

When he didn't find it in a book he went to look for it in a bunch of hot countries.

Anyway, the long and short of it is, he found it. Well sort of. What he actually found was this crappy old wooden bowl. When it was carbon dated it was 600 yrs old. Now I'm no historian, but I reckon Moses snuffed it a few years before the 14th century, so I don't reckon it was the actual ark. And the guys answer - they broke the original gold one, so they made this (piece of shite - I put that bit in) to replace it. Yeah, right.

And where is this ark Mk II? Er, well it's in Zimbabwe. Genius! Robert Mugabae can't even find a bunch of ballot papers cast a couple of weeks ago, so how he's going to remember where he put some dusty old bowl I do not know.

Academics, if you must make TV programmes, please ensure they're only shown on BBC2 at 4am like the Open University do.

Simon Weston and Heather Mills

I bumped into that Simon Weston at the station last night. My complements to you sir for all you do to inspire people around the world.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the scale, I see Heather Mills-Gold Digger has just won £25m she didn't earn in her divorce case. Fucking scrounger! And to think she'd originally demanded £125m. Bitch! And she's still whining about it!

£25m. Most people would give their right arm for that. Erm ... :-) And she's not even a good shag. The woman has made marrying wealth an art form. Still, I guess now she's divorced she's going to have to go back to making second rate porn with other freaks.

Meanwhile, Simon Weston gets horribly burnt whilst fighting for his country and probably received a few grand a year pension from the army.

Wrong. Very, very wrong :-(

STOP PRESS: Bernie Ecclestone has just announced another race in the grand prix calendar. Only three wheeled cars will be permitted to enter and it will be known as the Heather Mills Grand Prix. It will be run over 4 years and the winner will receive £25m.

My Best Friend's Wedding

I've been invited to my best friend's wedding. She's a woman, gorgeous and funny (wife hates her). Problem is, I've shagged the bride, the matron of honour and the chief bridesmaid.

Any suggestions as to how one should conduct one's self on the day are gratefully received.

Dear Deirdre

One of the girls at work has somehow found out I have a DB9 in the garage and a helicopter at a friend's airfield.

My assertions that I worked bloody hard for those things don't seem to be counting for much and now I'm worried she"ll tell everyone else.

What should I do?

On the Lash

Went out on the lash in Manchester the other night. It was rubbish.

Started off in the Living Room, which was full of pretentious tossers pretending to be loaded. Wankers! The tuna was very good though, and the maitre dee (suspect that's not spelt correctly) had killer legs.

Took in a couple of decent pubs in the Northern Quarter, both full of divorceses who just weren't interested for some reason. God only knows what their ex husbands did to them.

Then blagged our way into a student night in some grotty club in the printworks. It was full of Asian fellas with some of the most gorgeous women I'd ever seen. They weren't interested either.

I went home early. A couple of the lads stuck it out until 3am then asked the taxi driver to take them to a pub that was still open. He dropped them off at a gay bar and they were too pissed to even notice. Just kept complaining about how few women there were in there and how friendly the regulars were.

Cute

I saw that skinny copper from Coronation St in the pub the other night. She was quite cute in the flesh. Tiny. Very skinny. But still very cute.

Still, her fat ugly mate more than made up for it.

The perm is back

... Apparently. Inspired by Keeley Hawkes (the fit one from Spooks), women all over the place are having a Terry McDermot perm done.

I saw that Sarah Harding from Girls Aloud the other day and she had a belter. She could have played in the Liverpool midfield in the 70s if she'd wanted to and no-one would have batted an eyelid.

So, Amanda Short (I think it may be Jones, now), it looks like you were right all along. Perms really are cool. Good for you. I knew they'd come back into fashion. It was only a matter of time I always fancied you anyway.

Kevin Keegan was pretty good in the 70s as well, come o think of it. I don't mean I fancied him or anything, but the last time he won anything I'm pretty certain he had a perm. So, Kev, I guess you've got two choices. Get a perm and see if it makes the slightest difference to the Toon's pathetic performance under your latest tenure, or quite like you usually do.

Stuff my kids thought was true last night

The reason birds don't electrocute themselves when they stand on power lines? Because their feet are coated with rubber.

Ghandi's first name? Goosey.

Royal Enfield? Where the queen keeps her chickens.

ET? Based on a true story.

I fear for the future.

People that smell

People that smell, right. There's really no need is there?

I had this bloke worked for me and he stank. I mean, STANK. Everybody who knew him knew it but no-one did anything about it.

Anyway, one day the client complained about the smell, so I had to have a word. The poor bastard (actually, he was very rich) genuinely didn't know he stank. The next day he came in smelling of flowers, I kid you not. I then got a thank you from the client. They were really grateful.

So, if you smell and don't know it, FIND OUT! And then please either do something about it or don't bloody sit next to me on the sodding train!!!

Carla from Coronation Street

I bumped into that Carla from Coronation Street at the train station this morning. You know, the sexy one from Underworld that keeps lusting after her dead husband's brother, Liam.

God, she's bloody gorgeous, even without all that makeup on. I think I'm going to become an actor. How hard can it be?

Flu

Flu, right. It's horrible. I've just had a bout. That's why there haven't been many posts on here. You have a bout of flu. It makes it sound like a fight then. Like you've just gone 10 rounds with that skinny boxer with the knackered face from Manchester.

Valentines Day

Valentines Day, right. What's that all about?
OK we all know we're getting ripped off at Clintons - £4.95 for a piece of card and a red envelope? Come on! And don't even get me started at the extortionate prices florists charge for roses. Mercenary bastards!!!

Things is, you know the way they start flogging Easter eggs in January? Well I've noticed this year that there's a whole new sector sprung up - catering for all the men who forgot, or remembered and thought they could get away with not sending flowers and that a £4.95 card would do the job.

I left the office last night and there were hordes (I kid you not) of chinese people flogging single roses from a bucket. They don't miss a trick do they. Anyway, I went for a beer and when I left the bar the buckets were pretty much empty, so business must be good.

Still, I'm sure they're all VAT registered and declare the income on their tax returns. I also believe that pigs and DC10s can fly, lever is pronounced levver, and that Bob Hope is going to live forever.

Big Cranes

Big cranes, right. The massive big high ones they use to build blocks of flats shaped a bit like a giant letter "r" (the cranes that is, not the flats). Well, how do they build the cranes in the first place?

Youth

Youth, right. Wasted on the young. Robbie Williams said that. So did someone else. Can't remember who. Too old.

I see that the widow of murdered Warrington family man Gary Newlove is calling for the death penalty again. You go girl. The youths who did that should be buggered senseless by the big men on death row whilst they're at it. Fucking savages!

Free Papers

Free papers, right. What the fuck's going on there?

Call me old fashioned, but in the olden days a boy about 14 years old used to ride round on a bike at 6 in the morning and deliver papers through your letter box. Every Wednesday your mum would pay the local newsagent, and at Christmas that same poor boy, the one who got up at 5am every day for a year in all sorts of weather, would be given 10p by my parents for his trouble. You could buy a lot with 10p in those days, so everyone was happy.

Now when we were at school we used to play a game called British Bulldog. Basically, the whole school stood in a line across the middle of the playground and you had to force your way through to the other side whilst they used whatever means they liked to stop you. It was rough and got banned in the end. For some reason I was quite good at it.

Now I use those same skills every day when walking from Piccadilly Station to the office. The reason. Free fucking papers. I swear they can't even give the fucking rags away, so they employ hordes of down and outs and illegal immigrants, immune to the fucking hideous Manchester climate, to hand them out.

They don't just leave a pile of them to be picked up. Oh no. They thrust them in front of you as you walk through the rain. I counted four of the bastards this morning. It's like running the gauntlet in Gladiators, but with no hope of bumping into Ulrikakakakakakaaaaa at the end of it.

And another thing, why is it called the Manchester Evening News when it plaining is nothing of the sort because the first edition must be out at like 6am. And the real loser in all of this is the poor paper boy, who won't be getting his Christmas box this year because some out of work plumber from Poland has nicked his job. Bastard!

Bagels R'Us

I got stopped in the street the other day and asked if I'd audition for a TV bagel advert.

Didn't Ross Kemp start out doing a Kellogs Fruit and Fibre advert on TV? Asking yourself ""what would Ross do?" at those difficult life-changing moments is a good strategy for life, but if they think I'm going to Afghanistan to get shot at by a bunch of death worshipping fascist camel jockeys they can do one.

I've Got an iPod ... !

How cool are these things?! They're not for old people, though. I'm 41 and I think I'm pushing my luck sticking trendy white buds in my ears.

Nearly killed myself walking from the station to work this morning because you can't hear the cars and trams coming when the music on.

Please don't tell this meddling left wing government or they'll ban in-ear buds, iPods, cars, trams or something.

Big Issue Sellers

Big Issue sellers, right. Now, before I start ranting on, I of all people are the first to reward enterprise over plain and simple begging. These guys are out there in all sorts flogging a shite magazine when they could be simply sat there with a mongrel and an old McDonalds cup asking for money. So there. Enterprise is good. Enterprise works. God I sound like Gordon Gheko from Wall St.

Anyway, I wonder how many of the Manchester Big Issue sellers actually read the thing before they try and flog it? I ask this because I reckon most of them can't speak English. I'll grant you they're virtually all immigrants, so I applaud them for getting out there and working instead of claiming asylum and associated benefits (they wouldn't do both, would they, and even Manchester in February must be warmer than Kurdistan with an AK47 up your arse).

I digress. The reason I don't think they can speak English is their pitch, which basically consists of standing there in a high viz jacket saying, "Big Issue, please?" with an inflection that leaves you in no doubt their asking a begging question. And you just feel like saying, "Mate, you've got a pile of the sodding things in your other arm, so stop asking me for one!!". And if that doesn't work, look around you. In St Anne's Square the other day there were four Big Issue sellers. They're springing up like fucking Starbucks!

Conductors

Conductors, right. Or are they called train managers now? I wonder what the official training manual says about whether they should wake up a punter to for his ticket. I bet it says they've got to, because I bet some people just pretend to be asleep so they don't have to buy a ticket. Fucking fare dodging scroungers!

Bikes

Bikes on trains, right. Why is that allowed? This bloke just got on my home train with his racing bike.

Now I'm pretty sure he wasn't worried about wind resistance because he was a fast bastard. Besides, the speed squared law is actually lost on most cyclists. Nor was he about to do a stage in the tour de France because it's fucking February in Manchester. So why was he wearing yellow lycra?!?!

Anyway, he drags his nasty filthy dripping wet bike on to the train and leaves it there in the middle of the aisle where it's obviously going to be a safety hazard if we all have to get off this thing in a hurry. Do they let you take bikes onto aeroplanes? No. For that very same reason. So why are people allowed to take them on trains? God only knows.

Look. It's pretty simple. Either cycle to work or get the train. Don't try and do both because it represents a series of bloody compromises and you'll piss off anyone who scrapes their shins on your pedals or dirties their clothes on you filthy wet tyres.

And don't think you're saving the environment either. The reason you have to ride a bike to and from the station is because you're too poor to afford a car, otherwise you'd drive there like any normal person. Go on. Deny it ... And you'll have to deny how many tons of CO2 this diesel train emits a week whilst you're at.

You pay no road tax and aren't insured. I hate you.

Beards

Beards, right. Why? You must be pig ugly to want to cover your face in hair. There's this old fella on the train. He's bald with a long white beard and actually, if you squint, he looks like he's got his head on upsidedown.

Anyway, why do they insist on stroking the fucking thing all the time. It's not that cat from the James Bond films that used to sit on Donald Pleasance's knee. And I bet they all drink guinness or real ale.

It's their work colleagues I feel sorry for. Can you imagine watching on of those sad fuckers eating. As if that weren't bad enough, anyone scruffy enough to have a beard in the first place isn't going to give a fuck about a few bits of food left in there all afternoon.

Listen, just shave the fucking thing off. You look stupid and won't get sex until you do.

Lucy Seagle from The One Show

I saw that Lucy Seagle from the BBC's early evening programme The One Show in Manchester the other lunch time. Mint.

There's a Ginger on the Train

Ginger. Only the most disgusting coloured pubic hair known to man. And why are they always freckly fuckers as well? Name me one good looking ginger bloke? Nope. There aren't any. And you can't just say someone ginger is good looking just because he's on the telly. It doesn't count.

I pulled this Scottish woman in London once. She had beautiful dark, almost black shining hair. She was actually funny too (which is unusual for a bird) so I took her to bed. Imagine my horror when I got her kit off and discovered she was really a ginger down below. Aaarrrggghhhhh. that's tantamount to fraud.

I think we should genetically modify the ginger gene. If it can't be eradicated completely, it should be altered so ginger hair smells like rotting cabbage. That way you'd know if gingers we're dyeing their hair before you saw their pubes. It would also enable blind people to dislike gingers, too.

Fact ... 38% of gingers are married to blind people.

Alma from Corrie

I saw that Alma Sedgwick/Baldwin/Barlow (whateverhernameis) from Coronation Street in Zinc Bar in Manchester last night. Amanda Barrie - that's her name. I have to say, for an old bird she was absolutely stunning. Babe, if I were 40 years older you'd be just my type.

Smoking

Smoking, right. Why do the sad bastards who smoke outside the train station never wear a coat? Have you any idea how fucking ridiculous you look shivering your arses off in the freezing cold that is Manchester in February. Is it not bad enough that you'll die a slow lingering and painful death because of lung cancer? Apparently not. You want to catch a dose of pneumonia whilst you're at it. God you look dumb, and to think you're paying for the privilege. Stupid fucking twats! The only decent thing this meddling government ever did was to ban smoking in public buildings. Now if it would just have the balls to ban it outside of them as well ... No, I thought not.

Old Men With Ponytails

Don't do it. You look fucking stupid! Stop it now.

One Blackbird RIP

I killed a blackbird on the way to the station this morning. Stupid thing just sat in the middle of the road and wouldn't move ... So I drove over it, taking care to keep the front wheels either side of it.

Anyway, it decided to fly away when I was right over it, straight into the drive shaft. Feathers everywhere. Hey ho ... It probably had bird flu anyway.

Now all I can hear is this bloody tweeting going on. Must get my ears syringed.

Go Before You Leave

OK. I understand the time pressures on commuters first thing in the morning. But, please, please, please, try to have a dump BEFORE you leave for work in the morning.

This morning I was idly having a wee in the gents at work when some guy (I've no idea who it was - he just silently came in and closed the cubicle door behind himself) started doing a poo at work. And my god, what a poo!

I swear that in one swift movement he'd dropped his trousers, sat down and emptied the entire contents of his bowels within 15 seconds flat.

As if the sound of faeces hitting water weren't bad enough, he insisted on grunting like a Russian female tennis player throughout, and the smell was bloody sickening!

Don't even ask me why the action of wiping ones arse needs to be done so rapidly, nor why it takes several minutes, followed by even more grunting.

And for god's sake, why do blokes insist on sitting there with their trousers right down round their ankles? There's no need for it! It's no sodding wonder there's so many scruffy bastards at work.

Come on guys. Do us all a favour. Go before you leave home in future.

Lift up Fatty Man

Lifts, right. Why is it, when you work on the 5th floor of a 6 storey building, that some people (usually the fat ones) insist on using the lift to go up just one floor. God it makes me mad!

Every morning it's the same sodding routine. The lift is packed. No-one's looking at anyone else. Everyone's just staring at the ""Max Persons 10 or 1,000 kg" sign waiting for the doors to close (it's a shit old building with a crap lift and it takes forever). Eventually the doors begin to close, slowly, all too slowly. And another thing, why is the Otis head office in a single storey building?

Just before the doors shut, a bloated fat hand pokes through the slowly closing gap and pulls them apart. It's Full Fat Dave from Finance and he's late so he's been running (well, a fat bastard's excuse for a run, which is really a walk instead of a taxi). Still he had time to buy a latte and a muffin from Starbucks I noticed.

He pushes his way in to the lift, even though we're full, drags his bags inside (God only knows what's in them) and starts panting and sweating amongst us. I briefly imagine what his cum-face must be like (I'm sick like that), but end up fighting back the nausea. And he smells. Oh, and guess what, he pushes the button for floor 1 with a stumpy fat finger. The lazy fat bastard!!!

Fat people ... Do us all and yourself a favour. Eat less, move around a bit more, and use the bloody stairs if you're only going up one floor!

Garlic

Garlic stinks. Fact. When you've had it for dinner the previous evening and then you board a packed commuter train, you stink. Fact. It doesn't matter how well you brushed your teeth this morning, or how mush parsley you munched on last night. I can smell it on you. All your fellow passengers can smell you. Its stench oozes from everyone of your pores. When you get to work your colleagues will smell it too. So, please, do us all a favour. Don't eat garlic on a work night. Read the bloody label on your sad ready meal for one before you stick it in the microwave. If it says "garlic" anywhere on the label (including "garlic puree" or "garlic extract") don't eat it, because you will stink tomorrow morning, and won't get much sex ... just like the guy sat next to me.

Old People with iPods .... NO!!!

Why do they even bother. I'm 41 and can't work one, so why on earth does you're average 59 year old commuter even try?

I've just watched some poor old sod opposite me on the train this morning trying to get to grips with one of the damn things (I suspect it was a present from his middle class, 30-something daughter, who broke free of her Stockport roots, married a has-been footballer, moved to Alderley Edge and never looked back). Doesn't love the old boy enough to drive him to work in the morning, though. Bitch!

Anyway, back to the old bloke. First he opens his Roy Cropper bag and retrieves the thing with all the care, precision and sloth of an archaeologist. This is infuriating to watch.

Then he spends the next 10 minutes trying to untangle the headphone wires with his twisted, bony, pre-arthritic fingers. I'm reminded of Mr Bean for some reason.

A few moments of light relief follow as he carefully places an ear bud into each ear. He repeats this several times because they fall out with every twist, turn and jolt of the now busy Crewe to Manchester Piccadilly commuter train. OK, he's probably just heeding the standard doctors advice ... "Nothing smaller than your elbow should go into your ear" but COME ON!! Just shove the damn things in properly so I can go back to sleep.

That's it. They're in. a slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. Now begins the search for the on off button. This is painful. Found it! The thing comes to life with a satisfying glow that lights up his face, haggard from the stresses of life. I briefly think they had it right in Logan's Run where everyone dies at 30 to make way for the next generation.

He's just about to search for that familiar Perry Como album artwork when we arrive at Piccadilly. The bloke next to him shoots up, yanking the earphones out of his cauliflower ears.

Give up old man.