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With talk of redundancy in the air I thought it was time for me to dust of the old C.V. and update it with all my recent achievements!

Date of birth: I was concieved, millions of other sperm didn’t even make it. My first serious achievement. I then made it through birth without killing my mother unlike Oliver Twist and made it through infanthood without dying of a preventable disease unlike millions of children in the third world.

Education:

School - I finished school, I didn’t get expelled like Lilly Allen, or shoot the place up like some crazy nut job and I certainly wasn’t involved in any wizard shinanigans that resulted in the death of my headmaster.

A-Levels – I did these, Richard Branson didn’t.

University – I went to one! I was educated to degree level without becoming a weirdo christian unlike the Arch Bishop of Canterbury.

Post doctorial work – I, like Bill Gates, have never achieved a Phd.

Work experience – Unlike 26.7% of the people in this country I have a job, also I don’t claim job seekers allowance like 1.5 million people in the UK who currently do.

Achievements:

Unlike Genghis Khan I have never raped anyone or pillaged anyones lands. Unlike Jesus Christ I have never caused a disturbance in the temple or been executed by the Romans. Unlike the Buddha I don’t waste my days hanging around under trees thinking. Unlike Price Charles I have never had an affair. Unlike Zinadine Zidane I have never lost a world cup final or headbutted anyone; in fact I have never been red carded in competitive football and the football team I play for has never been relegated from the preiership unlike millionare footballer Michael Owen. I have never died in a failed race to the south pole or in a foolhardy attempt to climb mount everest unlike 203 people. I have never failed to finish a marathon that I started (marathons started zero). I’ve never embezelled a pension fund unlike Rupert Murdock, or commited purgery like Lord Archer. I have a cordial relationship with my mother unlike Eminem and I have never beheaded my cousin unlike Queen Elizabeth the first. Unlike Tony Blair I have never been forced to stand down as the leader of the Labour party, or started a war in Iraq. I never got involved with the mob unlike Frank Sinatra. I have never drunkenly sworn on national television, unlike Tracey Emin, or Oliver Reed. I have never lost an election unlike Wiston Churchill. John Lennon once wasted a whole week of his life in bed, I have never done this. Unlike Florence Nightingale a patient of mine has never died of Cholera. Unlike Neil Armstrong I have never fluffed my lines while standing on the moon. Unlike most of the richest people in the world I have never lost millions on the stock market. I have never filed for bankruptcy unlike the corporation General Motors. Not having a mortgage I have never missed a single repayment and I have not lost a single proffesional darts match.

Pass my details on to anyone you think might be interested.

I had a little road rage incident this morning. I was riding with my girlfriend, on bicycles, two abreast, when some middle aged accountant in a BMW zoomed round us horn blaring. I called him a cock and made the wanker sign. Ten meters further up the road at the red traffic lights. The lights that Mr important had wanted to reach so urgently that he had used all 150 of his horse power over ten meters to reach. Mr Important and I had a brief and frank exchange of opinions.

Mr Important felt that cyclists were required to use the road in single file; I on the other hand was firmly of the opinion that the Highway Code allowed cyclists to travel two abreast. The argument descended into farce. Mr Important claimed ‘two’ was only permitted in cycle lanes. No it’s not I replied. He then asked what I would do if an emergency vehicle was coming. Move over, I replied. Easy, if you’re going to test someone on their highway code, angrily, at high volume, at a busy intersection, personally I’d choose a more difficult question. How about should you shout abuse at cyclists at intersections?

It was a pointless argument. I’m going to claim victory on the grounds that Mr Important wound his window up and down during the argument, making himself look like a pussy. Also he started it by honking his horn and having the face of a prick. The Highway Code is not definitive on the correct answer. You can ride side by side as long as you aren’t on a bend and the road isn’t busy or narrow. (He was way off with his bike lane comment). It was a fairly large road, wide enough for Mr Important to pass us, was it busy? Not particularly, but it was in London, so no road is empty. As cyclists we could have been more considerate, but we were turning right and approaching a red light SO CHILL OUT YOU BMW KNOB TWAT.

IVF sounds like a good idea until you find yourself aged fifty with two abreast.

I still lost however because I ended up really stressed and looking like a tit. The lights changed during our tête-à-tête and the van in front of us didn’t move. Probably too amused by the scene we were causing to miss any by pulling away. I can still feel the stress in me now and it’s nearly two hours later. I was coming back from an early morning swim in the Lido. I was feeling really good, maybe a little too smug, but chilled, happy. It was a glorious day – it still is to most people – sun’s shining, girl by my side. Lesson learned – let it go, life’s too short.

My department announced redundancies yesterday. Thankfully I escaped the chop this time. When I got home I had a letter notifying me of the dividends payable on my share options. The redundancies are an attempt to increase profitability. The board has a duty to their shareholders to maximise the return on their investment. I realised that some of the people informed of their imminent redundancy would have received dividend letters too informing them of their meagre portion of the profits. The board is therefore firing them as part of their duty to them as investors. That’s one fucked up irony.

I wouldn't want him in my band though. He's a bit fat!

This morning I saw a drenched rabid looking pigeon squatting in a puddle, suddenly it took off and sprayed some immaculately done up office lady in pigeon/puddle water. I do hope her day improves as the morning progresses.

Abercrombie & Fitch employee with prosthetic arm mistaken for mannequin and put into storage. Disgruntled employee to sue for £20,000 damages.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8116231.stm

My girlfriend went to a wedding at the weekend. She was telling me about one of the guests and how she managed to entrance most of the men in the place. From her description she was an archetypal Californian girl, straight out of the O.C. This meant: skinny, tall, tanned, blonde, in a tiny slip of a dress, with fake boobs.

Now the girlfriend was sure they were fake and even managed to wheedle a confession out of her the next day. It seems O.C. had them installed when she was just seventeen when it became apparent that nature wasn’t going to produce any for her. They’re old style implants, this was why you could tell they were fakes. The G.F. even managed to cop a feel, she confirmed, you can tell.

O.C. confessed to G.F. that she doesn’t like having fake boobs anymore. Apparently it’s a burden being stared at by men everywhere you go; though not enough of a burden to stop her wearing tiny little dresses to weddings. Now I’m a little sceptical of this tale of woe and prosthetic appendages. I can understand why getting stared at must be difficult, especially if you are insecure in the first place, but surely having the power to hypnotise men into doing your bidding at all times must go some way to making up for it. I suspect it was a conciliatory tack meant to appease the ladies. Women get jealous and nobody likes a cheat.

Regardless of the legitimacy of her appeals for sympathy it is undeniable, from what the G.F. had to say, that the tits were both fascinating and phoney – man mesmerising mock-ups if you will. They were clearly unnatural, but this didn’t stop them being attractive, in fact, to the annoyance of anyone with normal knockers these were knock outs. Jaws dropped, drool was spilled, tongues lolled. These things could lobotomise a man from fifty yards.

This phenomenon reminded me of something I learned about in Uni. Superstimuli, this is a term first used by the Dutch Ornithologist Nikolaas Tinbergen, a Nobel Prize Winner no less. His work involved Herring Gull chicks and their innate response to a stimulus (he didn’t win the N.P. for this work btw). The stimulus was a three dimensional model of an adult Herring Gull’s head with a yellow beak and a red spot on the end. The chicks peck the red spot to prompt the adult bird to regurgitate food for them. Tests in the lab showed beyond doubt that the chicks were attracted to the red spot, but by counting the number of pecks, Tinbergen was able to demonstrate, that a red knitting needle with white bands painted round it elicited a stronger response than a natural, life like, model of a bird’s head, the red and white bands were examples of a super stimuli.

The knitting needle, like the tits, looked nothing like the real thing, but the Herring Gull chicks, like the men at the wedding, had an overwhelming urge to peck at it. Men it transpires are no more sophisticated in their desires than helpless, half blind, infant, seagulls. Most women are well aware of this, but I have proved it. Can I have my Nobel Prize now please.

I spent a few minutes queuing behind a bunch of American tourists earlier today. Each one was taking an age at the counter. It was classic just off the boat behaviour. They were told how much they owed. Cast a glance at a bunch of indecipherable coins, then turned their attention to a roll of twenty pound notes, handed over a twenty in payment for a Kit Kat and received a fistful of change. They then shuffled out of the shop staring at their haul of strange shaped gold and silver, trying to work out how much they’d just spent, and how what that translates to in ‘real’ money.

Clearly they were enjoying the weak pound. “I just spent a dollar on this” one boy exclaimed triumphantly to his friends holding up a litre of Highland Spring bottled water. They just sold you a litre of water for a dollar, I thought to myself. I’d say they came out on top in that deal. Poor lad, like all tourists, he’s in for a nasty surprise, it won’t be long before he discovers that in this country water falls from the sky, often, and in large volumes.

I found this image in the pictures section of an anti BNP facebook page. I love it. The juxtaposition between hate and laughter. The gut reaction to seeing a Swastika is offence, then you realise and it's ridiculous. A bit like Hitler with his trousers down.

I've written another Daily Mash/Two Ronnies style post about Hazel Blears.

Hazel Blears has expressed her deep regret to the Manchester Evening News over her decision to wear a brooch clearly displaying the phrase “Rocking the Boat” while announcing her decision to resign from her position as communities secretary.

“It was a terrible choice of phrase” said Blears “the problem is English has so many maritime sayings. If I’d stuck with ‘shaking things up’ this would all have gone flat by now”

Blears, who recently handed over a cheque for £13,000 for a seat in a New Labour life boat, resigned last week on the eve of the local and European elections. Labour polled badly in the run up to the election and Mrs Blears’ actions have been widely interpreted as an attempt to scuttle the party’s election prospects.

Gordon Brown, who has defied expectations to go down with the ship, has had to deal with a string of resignations from a mutinous cabinet who have abandoned the government like so many rats from a sinking ship. As the last rat into the water Mrs Blears has left herself exposed to a serious broadside from the rank and file party members.

Today an ‘at sea’ Mrs Blears apologised and attempted to bring the discussion about her future back on to dry land. Emphasising her commitment to “grassroots politics” Mrs Blears described her “deep rooted” belief in ordinary people, but the ship may have already sailed for the stranded politician.

Mrs Blears faces the real prospect that she will be set adrift by her constituency later this month when they decide whether or not to reselect her for re-election following a boundary change. Slipping the mooring of her constituency will effectively torpedo any political ambition Hazel Blears has left.

When asked about the future of Hazel Blears and the Labour party Gordon Brown said “She’s washed up”.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/8096833.stm

If you had a time machine that allowed you to go to any place and any time in history where and when would you choose for maximum LOLZ?

Place – The Sea of Tranquility, The Moon
Date - July 20th 1969

At some stage a couple of Americans will show up in a rocket. You could walk up behind them and tap them on the shoulder, but if American international diplomacy policy extends into outer space they’ll probably shoot you in the face, no questions asked. Instead while you’re waiting for them to show up have a picnic, then make yourself scarce. If you were to be a bit sloppy with the tidy up, say you left an empty can of Coke lying around, you would have some seriously tweaked out astronauts. For maximum LULZ, when they’ve gone, steal the flag.

Place – The Road to Damascus
Date – January 26th AD36

The date might be a bit approximate on this one, but basically what you’re looking for is a chap called Saul. He was a bit of a joy killer who spent his days persecuting early Christians. He was on his way to Damascus to smoke a few out. On the way he was struck down with what was probably temporal lobe epilepsy. The effect of which was to blind him for three days. During this time he heard the voice of God. God asked him why he persecuted Christians and told him to stop it and join up. Paul (he also changed his name) did more than just join up, he pretty much took over, he spent the rest of his life travelling the med setting up churches and sending them letters.

So if you can pull off a suitably booming God voice and managed to find this blind, confused, epileptic anything you decided to tell him would have a profound impact on the future of Christendom. Personally I think Christianity could do with a more 18-30s vibe, so I think I’d instruct Saint Paul to travel round the med as the world’s first holiday rep.

Place - River Pool, Lewisham, south east London
Date – January 3rd 2009

On January the 4th Boris Johnson, Mayor of London, took a leisurely stroll down this river in a pair of waders to pick up litter and promote volunteering. Imagine if someone had used a time machine to travel to the previous day and spent a couple of hours digging a trench across the riverbed. There’d be plenty of LOLZ all round when the floppy haired buffoon fell in.

I nicked the idea for this post from Meg Pickard who used the more imaginative, but less punchy title: ‘Watching the Defectives’ thanks Meg. Here’s a list of tasks/stunts I’m expecting to see on this years Big Brother:

Birth – place a heavily pregnant cow in the garden. The housemates have to deliver the calf. To help them provide them with a James Herriot box set.

The Twits – in an homage to Mr Twits prank on Mrs Twit in which he glued small pieces of wood on the bottom of her cane every night to convince her she was shrinking and then stretched her. Give the house the viewing figures on a daily basis, but lie, show them rising faster and faster until the figures are at record levels. When the housemate’s egos are suitably distended introduce a task with lots of nudity, ministry of silly walks meets Ibiza foam party, have the ratings plummet to record lows and watch the housemate’s egos implode in an orgy of self loathing and body dismorphia.

Porn – wallpaper the walls with hard porn images. Use a special effect to make the walls appear normal on television.

The Racist – every time someone uses the shoe severely reprimand them for racism. The housemates will stop using the word shoe. Wait for one of them to slip up then throw them out to the very audible sound of public outrage, the blood thirsty mob. A couple of days later have burning shoes thrown into the garden.

The Channel – a hatch at the bottom of the pool opens onto a flooded underwater tunnel that, through a series of underwater breathing chambers, leads to a demonstration paddling pool in a nearby B&Q showroom.

Dirty Protest – smear the walls with shit.

Hamsters – infest the house with hundreds and thousands of hamsters. For added effect have the hamsters drop through holes in the ceiling.

Earth Quake – simulate an earth quake in the house. This should open up a mock fissure in the crust of the earth. When the housemates investigate the fissure they discover a secret world inhabited by real dinosaurs.

Holiday – tell all the housemates that due to new European work time regulations they have to be let out of the house for a week’s holiday mid way through the process. They are still bound by the rules of Big Brother and should not watch any television, or they will not be allowed back in. Meanwhile fill the house with a whole new cast of contestants. When the others return, deny they were ever involved and have security remove them from the production offices.

Dope – supply one of the taps in the house with a weak solution of methadone instead of water, if some of the house mates favour this tap over others gradually increase the dosage before cutting off the tap completely.