Low

Feeling a bit low today. Bit low . . . crawling underneath the rocks on the bottom of the sea is more like it.

Actually there was a big long mean post here, but I mean really, it wasn’t healthy. I shall take Andrea’s advice and breathe. It wasn’t a very calming sort of a post, more of a sort of incoherent rolling napalm strike of vitriol and self abuse. So instead I’ll boil my thoughts down to some more digestible and less apoplectic bullet points :-

Employment

1. Finding a new job = stressful


2. Finding a new job knowing the old one’s a goner = additionally stressful


3. Interviews = not much fun really


4. Agents = last lepers from hell


5. But it’s just a task that must be done at the end of the day

Crisis

1. Nazi gym regime having no apparent affect


2. Orthorexic diet also having no affect and making me very, very boring too.


3. Stomach still like enormous vanilla syllabub dropped from 3rd floor into middle of 1960’s style Lionel Blair dance routine.


4. Am addicted to the gym


5. Hate the gym

Help!

1. Have to go to the gym to feel ‘normal’


2. Don’t enjoy lovely food like I used to as can’t stop converting everything into Carbs, Fat and kC and then into crunches / minutes rowing per mouthful.


3. Eating delicious non nutritionally balanced, high fat, high salt, low fibre food inducing intense feelings of weakness, worthlessness and guilt.


4. Total failure to give up drinking and smoking negating all fringe health benefits. And making me feel guilty as well. And fat.

Questions

1. How much of a workout is the average wank? Don’t forget that as a bloke it’s not all in the mind - it’s all gotta be replaced from somewhere.


2. Is smoking 20 cigarettes / week really any healthier than 20 / day or am I just kidding myself?


3. With regard to question 1 could you make some sort of equivalence chart : 10 minutes spent thinking about Edith Bowman = 38 seconds on level 7 of the rowing machine? Please let the answer be yes.

Solutions

1. Stop worrying, have a fag and calm down.


2. Go to the gym in the morning as well. Think about buying some an-biotic zero fat, high carb, high protein food replacement powder. Increase observance of wobbling gut in mirror to 3 times a day. Eat more salads and go to bed feeling miserable.


3. Do nothing. Worry.

Back in the Jug Agane . . .

Arse, bugger, fuck.

Got canned again on Friday.

Or if not canned then told that the project was now so far behind on the technical front 9not my bit) that unless something miraculous happened in the next month the whole thing was going to be pulled and I was for the chop. Hence Pan off to the shredder, yet again. Third time in 14 months. To be honest I’m getting quite used to it.

As ever the exact reasons for what has gone wrong are hard to pin down . . . oh, yeah, no, they’re not hard to pin down . . . it’s because certain people in the IT department have simply failed to perform the actions required of them to make the project happen. It’s a mystery to me, but there’s one person who I can definitely put my finger on : IT ‘guru’ (shaved head, black shirt, bullying aggressive manner, grotesquely overweight, stream of consciousness geek speak bullshit) – you know the type – who has particularly failed to perform. Spend £300K on an unnecessarily complicated solution and then do *Absolutely Nothing* with it for 4 months, refuse all access to other departments so that eventually everything gets cancelled because the technical units to make things happen are simply non-existent and there are no plans to make them existent. Do you get into trouble for this? Does anyone call you a fat incompetent cunt and fire your lardy ass immediately? Or do you in fact get promoted while the only person in your team who actually performs the tasks she’s supposed to gets made redundant?

Anyone who’s ever worked in a corporate before should have no trouble picking out which of the two options is the case. So because this repellent sack of shit is incapable of performing the tasks required of him adequately (or at all for that matter) Pan is being shipped back to the Gulags. AGAIN.

I should have filed a complaint against the shitwit months ago when I had the chance . . . still you live and learn, and this is what I learnt : If someone makes a threat of physical violence against you in a meeting, don’t let it slide. Have them booted out. It may seem harsh but it’s the only way – anyone who’s so out of control and so stupid as to do something like that in front of witnesses is obviously a thundering muttfuck and will end up buggering up your project in the end one way or another. It’s not a slip or a mistake, it’s a sign that under the covers lies the soul of a disintegrating psycho with no more idea of responsibility and commitment than an overly caffeinated baboon sitting in a bathtub full of cocaine.

But that’s enough ranting. It’s just one of the unwritten laws of the workplace – idiots get promoted and people who actually know what they’re on about get fired. You’d think companies would go to the wall on a regular basis because of this, but of course it’s not true – if everyone is doing the same ridiculous things the playing field remains level. Of course the company that did in fact somehow learn to identify and reward the good guys whilst simultaneously spotting and firing the butt monkeys would instantly become the champion of the world. Ho hum . . .

Things after all could be worse. For example :-

Berlin 1945

I could be in the Führerbunker instead. Now there’s somewhere that wasn’t very jolly. As you might have guessed I went to see Downfall http://books.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,12084,1440227,00.html at the weekend, and very powerful it is too. It’s strange how you can almost feel sympathy for these monsters, trapped in their bolthole with the Russians closing in and the realisation that there was simply no way out. What’s interesting is that for some of them there is the fear of what the allies (for which read the Russians) are going to do with them, but for others their personal danger was secondary – their horror was that National Socialism would no longer exist after they were dead. Strange stuff indeed. Creepy.

And I’d never been to the Screen on Baker Street before. Like all Screens they understand something about going to the cinema that UCI & Odeon etc never will – if you see a kack movie you hold it against the cinema as well as the makers. After all they’re the ones who chose to put this drivel on in the first place. So screen cinemas usually very good. The Screen on Baker Street is, to be fair, a bit on the wee side – in fact it’s a midget. But perfectly formed. And they always have a decent selection of junk to but outside, including BOOZE. It’s like a time warp, but a good one.

Islington

There’s nothing I can say which can adequately describe my hatred of Islington council. What’s wrong with them? Why are they such fascists? Why do their threatening letters arrive 2 weeks after they’re dated, or never at all? Why am I so incompetent that I’m always in a mess over the council tax. Aaaarrgggggghhh! Feeling a but stressed to be frank.

Election.

Who gives a rat’s ass. Let me say that again. Who gives a rat’s ass. Because let’s be honest here – there are 2 choices. Labour Traitor Scum or Evil Tory Leeches. For all people bang on about it, voting Small Orange isn’t going to help, and as for those other deluded souls Respect and The Greens, well, they can stand all they like, vote for them if you want to, but they’re still never going to win a single seat, let alone anything else. With regard to UKIP, Veritas and the remainder imbecilica knee jerk tidemark scum, if you’re thinking of voting for any of them then your head should have exploded by now. If not, just keep reading it will, and about time too.

So, realistically it’s down to red muck or blue muck. Decisions decisions. Basically here’s my problem : The Labour party have betrayed everything they stood for, and have betrayed the British people. They wilfully attacked the BBC, an institution with more value and moral fibre in Radio Shetland than in the whole of Westminster for purely personal short term gain, they’ve got us involved in a ridiculous war causing untold deaths, pretty much condemning Iraq to civil war and government by religious nutbags (Sadaam Hussein = bad, so who cares if 20 million women will be locked up in their houses forever) and world hatred for Britain, they’ve overseen the chavification of Britain on an untold scale, and their idea about security cards is so backward and blatantly a power grabbing totalitarian act I’m surprised we aren’t just all laughing in their faces, and yet, and yet, and yet. There’s just one problem. It’s the Tories for flips sake.!!! I spent 18 years with them in charge. NEVER NEVER NEVER AGAIN. They’re just disgusting – beyond arrogant, beyond stupid, beyond everything even reminiscent of moral or decent or even human. And now the chief demon in the coven is in charge. There is just no way anyone who isn’t a galloping nazi could even think about voting for these . . . these . . . these . . . words fail me. How could you? Anyone who remembers they slime strewn reign of terror could surely only ever want to smash every single Tory MP in the face until their teeth come out of the back of their heads rather than vote for them? And Tony’s no better. Traitor!

Oh God, I’m going to have to vote Small Orange – there’s simply no other option. Well, actually, I do have an out – my MP is the never so lovely, but not actually a weasel spined snivel crow like most of them but the wonderfully unreconstructed Jeremy Corbyn. Jeremy is of course somewhat deranged, I’m sure in his mind it’s only a matter of time before Militant Tendency is readmitted to the Labour Party, but at least he didn’t vote for the bloody war, at least he’s on Tony’s top ten most hated MPs list. At least he’s not a backstabbing traitor. What to do. Not that it really matters. Tony’s getting back in and there’s simply nothing any of us can do about it. And the terrible thing is that no matter how dreadful they are, the opposition is even worse. AArrrrrrggghhhh.

I never really meant for this blog to almost exclusively about my trips to the gym, and when it’s not about them about nutrition and how much fat I’ve eaten. And on that note today has been pretty weird so far :-

1 x apple
1 x plum
1 x latte (semi skimmed)
1 x low fat yogurt
½ x bottle isotonic Lucozade
1 turkey escalope with olive sauce
1 x portion cous-cous
2 x tomatoes
¼ bagel with smoked salmon & cream cheese
1 x Tune (menthol lozenge)
1 x sachet Heinz French Mustard, sucked out of it’s packet at my desk. I feel sick
2 x cups of tea

OK, it doesn’t seem like much but remember that *ANYTHING* dairy is going to be minimum 10% carb and 10% protein, and that’s by mass not relative composition . . .

Better do a particularly punishing gym routine today to assuage guilt. Wednesday went to the gym before and after work. Think I’m developing some sort of a problem. I know I have quite a compulsive personality so I need to be reminded sometimes when I’m beginning to flip out. Basically just going to the gym every day and doing an 80-100 minute workout is no longer enough – that’s entry level. If I miss a day or do a short set I feel guilty. To actually feel virtuous I have to do more, like doing 90 minutes before work and then swimming after or something. I wouldn’t mind if I looked like flipping Brad Pitt, but instead I look pretty much like Lardlad, same as always. What’s the point? Who wants to put off that fatal heart attack for another 5 years if it’s 5 years of going to the gym, agonising over eating ¼ of a bagel (approaching Aniston levels of insanity) and SLEEPING ALONE EVERY SINGLE NIGHT FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

I think that should be the name of my book – a sort of ‘how not to’ guide to modern living. And the worst thing is that my whole world is starting to fill up with filthy gym kit. It’s on the floor at home, its on the chairs, it’s down the back of my desk, it’s in my draws, it’s EVERYWHERE – wringing wet, rank, stinking, beastliness. Ugh.

Also had to take yesterday off due to a pounding migraine - first one I’ve had in years and years. Quite alarming – the whole left side of head felt like it was pulsating and my skull was actually enlarging. Plus my left arm kept going numb. Probably should go and see the doctor, but I’m not going to, because I am a man. It is written in the book of yore that the only acceptable reasons for going to the doctor are :-

a) Limb injury so severe that you can’t actually walk / lift arm above waist level
b) Vomiting blood continuously for longer than a week
c) Dose of the pox

No-Way-Sis

Well I don’t know – got absolutely blunted last week after swimming but still made it into work on time. Not bad, even if I did wake up on the sofa. Speaking of swimming, I think, if anything, that the outdoor pool at the Oasis centre is too hot, rather than too cool. If you’re ploughing up and down rather than just dicking about it makes all the difference. Plus it’s supposed to be one of London’s dirtiest pools, bacterially speaking, but I swallow over a pint a week and nothing bad has happened so far . . .

Eeesh

Speaking of swallowing and bad things I saw Maria Full of Grace on Thursday. I don’t of course mean that the film was bad, but about bad things happening to people. Some of the scenes were the most unsettling and sad I’ve seen since Lilja-4-Ever and the desperation, fear and helplessness of the mules is spectacularly well communicated throughout. Not exactly an enjoyable couple of hours, but a very rewarding and worthwhile one none the less.

Fight

So I didn’t have a good weekend really. Well actually it was fun in parts, but also quite upsetting. Had a blazing stand-up knock-down row with flatmate 1 which ended in a lot of door slamming by her, and me informing her, and by inference, anyone with ears in a 200 yard radius that as far as I was concerned she could ‘get fucked’ and then storming out of the flat. Haven’t lost my rag like that for years and years. I blame the drink.

Did end up having a nice walk through the park to calm down though, and of course everything is forgotten by now. Weird.

Dr Qui

Finally managed to see the new Dr Who and really enjoyed it, but I have a question. Why does the Tardis always arrive where some major big bad is going down? Is there some sort of trouble-o-sniffer circuit which has become jammed on? How come the Tardis never randomly deposits them at, say, 12th century Rhyl where nothing has happened, and nothing ever will happen, if you don’t count someone stealing Alleurhyd’s ladder in about 8 centuries. But that’s a minor niggle – it’s basically cool, and quite scary. On a much more terrifying note check out Colin Baker these days. Scary! But then he is 63 or something.

Nettles

Here’s a depressing quote from the Guardian :

“On Sunday, the second episode of BBC1's Sarah Waters adaptation Fingersmith lost around a quarter of last week's audience. The costume drama had 3.7 million viewers, against 9.2 million for Midsomer Murders on ITV1.”

I’m not so worried about losing audience numbers, everyone lost viewers on account of the (allegedly) nice weather and all. What’s truly horrible is that 9.2 people wanted to watch Midsomer Murders.

WHY? WHY? WHY?

I suppose I shouldn’t be so harsh towards my fellow citizens. If they want to wallow in some antediluvian crypto-fascist bullshit, who am I to gainsay them? Oh, hold on, I’m seemingly the only person left with even an ounce of taste, so who am I to gainsay them : God Almighty, that’s who.

You might not think it’s particularly crypto-fascist yourself, but think about it’s deeper meanings – a world which seeks to eulogise the 1950’s emotionally suppressant values of an England that never really existed anyway, obsessed by appearance and public reputation, where everything runs smoothly marred only by occasional outbursts of obscene violence and ruled over from on high by a shadowy supercilious father figure . . . .

It’s beginning to sound quite sinister isn’t it :

Scene 1 (Interior) A sunny morning in the Kitchen of Honeydew cottage. Mrs Funnybunch is having tea with the Vicar of St Giles (Father Aneurism) and Miss Trumpeter

Mrs Funnybunch : “More tea, Vicar?”

Father Aneurism : “Ooh – don’t mind if I do . . . by the way, I hardly like to mention it but have you seen that Suzie from Nell Lane recently?”

Miss Trumpeter “She’s one who’s no better than she should be if you know what I mean”

Mrs Funnybunch : “And what about her young man, I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night”

Father Aneurism : “I couldn’t agree with you more Mrs Funnybunch”

Miss Trumpeter : “Yes, and they say he’s got all this money from heaven knows where. It’s not right, someone should do something, Vicar”

Father Aneurism : “You know Austin from the Young Farmers was saying exactly the same thing to me only the other day – perhaps you could put it on the agenda for the next ‘Parish Council’ meeting? Eh? Eh? A-ha-ha-ha-hah!”

Mrs Funnybunch : “Right you are Vicar. More tea?”

etc etc etfuckingcetera

And this dreary crap is what the majority of the British telly watching masses choose to sedate themselves with. Still not convinced? I’ve got 3 words for you : John Nettles.

Hold on, that’s only 2 words. What’s missing? : Wanker.

Tossers (part 2)

With regard to yesterday here (in reverse order) is Pan’s top 5 hateful gym types :-

5) ‘Yoga Lady’ : Excessively bendy yoga ladies who spend 2 hours contorting themselves and then saunter off without performing any other exercise. Fringe benefit : bad thoughts.

4) ‘Black Sox’ : Usually a bloke, but occasionally a woman, who wears their work socks in the gym. What are they trying to say? “I care so little about this exercise thing I might as well not be here? I haven’t washed any of the rest of my kit either but I have to wear that (NB Pan has never been guilty of this, hem hem) ? My feet stink already? Gross dudes. Fringe benefit : none

3) ‘Cross Trainer Bore’ : Machine hoggers (usually, but not always, a woman) who spend 45 minutes on a machine starting about, ooh 5.45 to hit that gym starting peak smack in the middle – but remember to pedal so slowly there is no danger of getting into the cardio zone, or even the weight loss zone. Fringe benefit :- get there first and piss them off.

2) ‘Free Weights Only’ : Always a bloke, usually in a pair who do a minimal or non existent warm up and then spend an hour in front of the mirror doing bicep curls and similar. Ugh. Fringe benefit : knowledge they would get exactly the same benefit if they only did 20 minutes.

1) ‘Shits’ : Horribly fit people who wear tight kit and do 40 blistering minutes on the treadmill and only develop a little glow. And they all know each other. Fringe benefit : Imaging that if you keep this up then one day you too will be able join their hallowed ranks and be officially allowed to 1000-yard-stare newcomers, while regularly engaging in HI-NRG orgiastic sex with the instructor(s) of your choice. This is an illusion.

Ski

Time flies when you’re having fun . . . it’s been 3 weeks since my last confession blog and I can’t really think what if anything I’ve done with the time. OK, I went skiing to never so lovely Val Thorens – fantastic skiing, looks like an inner city ghetto plopped down in the middle of the 3 valleys where my skiing was just great. Most of the time. I had this completely obsessive ski instructor called Antonio – Mussolinni more like - and while I can safely say I loathed him, he did teach me an awful lot about skiing. It really doesn’t help when, as you lose it completely for the 5th time that morning and end up lying in the snow hitting it with your pole in frustration (bv the way very bad form to show such frustration and bad temper) instead of offering sage advice and words of encouragement your instructor instead clasps his hands to his head and moans “Oh my God – why am beeeing puuunisshed like theees”. And don’t forget – you’re paying him, not the other way around.

Still, I had a pretty good week – only a couple of truly spectacular wipe outs, including one where I must have gone about 200 yards on my back with absolutely no way of stopping. Actually as that was a particularly steep part of a really mogulled up and icy red I was quite content to go down it horizontally. And I wasn’t the only one. Top moment : S who has 20 years of extreme skiing experience and dresses entirely in black excepting his orange racing boots managing to cross his skis on an easy blue, try to recover, lurch forward, get it back, lose it again and totally head-plant – whilst being filmed . Yes!

Anything else to add – not really – quite a high injury week, saw 2 blood wagons, one grizzly looking unconscious, one large patch of red snow (usually a VERY bad sign) and my friend A nearly did for herself by spectacularly losing it and landing on her binding. Ouch. Trust me – it’s a very nasty moment when you look back up the slope, see them halfway up not moving and in the 1’ 30” it take you to get your skis off and trudge back up to them they don’t move so much as an inch. Scary stuff indeed.

Drunk.

Got absolutely trolleyed again on Saturday, despite my best intentions. Went to the Faltering Fullback (horrible name) in FP, which is practically the only halfway decent boozer in the area to meet Luce early doors despite having been out VERY VERY late on Friday night as well. It’s basically pretty grim, but it does have a halfway decent beer garden at the back which is not too unpleasant, and as I indicated earlier the opposition is pretty damn poor around there. Anyhoo the guys at the next table were absolutely wasted, totalled completely blunted. I can only assume they’d been on some sort of all day bender as they were utterly hammered and completely tripping as well. The large multi coloured slinky (yes really) that they had with them had become UTTERLY FASCINATING. I don’t see how you can expect to get served in the pub when you can’t stop talking about how the pretty colours keep moving up and down, but somehow they managed it.

So had a quick 4 pints there with Luce & Pats and moved on to Nellie Deans about 8ish and continued to get properly stuck in as they say. Ack ack ack, Think I got home about 4.30, but not really sure.

Ugh

Sunday was Like a Nightmare. I didn’t manage to get myself off the sofa (where I woke up) all day until about 8.30 when I crawled (oh the shame) to the Home of the Venerable and Inscrutable Colonel for a grease injection. It was absolutely vile and I ate every last bit of it. I also managed to miss the repeat of Dr Who, but did manage to catch episode 2 of Fingersmith. I read the book a while ago and it is a cracking good romp if you like that sort of thing, and frankly, what’s not to like – evil villains, tight corsets, wicked uncles, cackling crime monkeys, feisty heroines, brutal lunatic asylums and a hefty shot of saphic lurve as well. Who could resist that??

Pikey

Flatmate 1 deserves a special pat on the back : getting off with not one but *2* random blokes outside Crystal’s kebab shop on the Holloway road in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Double chav points!

Tossers

Sometime you just have to leave the gym because it’s just packed with unbelievable wankers. I get to the gym and there are no warm up bikes left because every single one is taken up by some designer stubbled track suit wearing numpty. I work in a building where people wear suits to the annual company picnic – who the fuck has stubble?? Anyway, not a problem I can warm up with a cross trainer instead. Anyway, just as I’m getting going these idiots quit their little bike ride (they must have done all of 5 minutes (I’d seen them earlier in the changing room)) and – oh what a surprise - head over immediately to the free weights where they proceeded to spend the next hour monopolising both weight benches doing bicep curls and ‘spotting’ eachother.

I go to that gym pretty much every day, I know who’s serious, who’s trying, and who’s just a galloping fart bag, and I’ve never seen these guys before. Who the fuck goes to an alien gym and then spends an hour prancing around doing bicep curls. Cunts that’s who. I wouldn’t even mind so much but it’s such a waste of time. 3 x 10 reps at maximum weight 3 times a week is pretty much the top of the range efficient work out rate for muscle build. Spending an hour doing the same thing? All they’re doing is damaging the muscles and wasting their time. So I suppose I should be grateful for that at least. Anyway I was so pissed off with these guys that I split my shorts doing over aggressive lunges, which provided me with the perfect excuse to quit my workout and leave. I can finish it tomorrow. If I know anything about gym wankers it’s this – you won’t see them in there 2 days running.

And you won’t see them doing any cardio and you’ll NEVER see them doing any stretching.

In fact that’s a not bad rule of thumb to judge the people who are serious about the gym and those who are just playing. Serious people stretch. Of course you can go too far – for every person who’s doing the right amount there’s some chick in a tight top and a pair of peddle pushers doing extravagantly thigh spreading half hour yoga moves right in front of the weights area. I hate them too.

Exercise

I don’t know what’s come over me – something very very strange anyway – it’s 5.45 and I’m actually looking forward to going to the gym. Somewhat hungover so will have an easy session – it’s remarkable how much harder it is to exercise with a hangover and if you monitor your heart beat closely you can definitely see it’s less regular than normal.

This isn’t just my hypochonriacal behaviour, it’s true – the BBC say :

"Electrolyte imbalanceVital electrolytes such as magnesium and potassium are excreted from the body with the urine. These minerals help keep the heart beating and dangerous cardiac arrhythmias can occur after heavy drinking."

I did however somehow manage to drop about 90 quid on gym kit today, so I suppose I should really use it. Flipping T shirts.

Health Food

On the other hand nothing on this earth could make me eat one of these fooddoctor bars. I don’t know what the others are like but the tomato and chile is so unrelentingly vile that they could quite legally put zero calories on the packet because no one with enough sanity left to tell that they’re not eating a 3 week dead King Charles spaniel left out on the beach could bring themselves to eat this . . . this . . . this . . . abomination!

I swallowed one mouthful before I knew what I was doing and then spat what was left into the bin. Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, it was reeeeeee-volting.

If the people from fooddoctor are reading here’s a tip: Either move into the maximum security asylum food provision business or make your health bars nicer. Never mind nicer – as a goal why not try for ‘not actually completely disgusting’. After all I’m a man who can quite happily live off cabbage soup, barley and liver, so I’m not exactly the most demanding of gourmets - Sort It Aaaarrrrttt.

Begorrah

Call me miserable but I *so* don’t get all this St Patrick’s Day nonsense. I like a drink as much as the next man, but this is a night to definitely stay in. In this respect I am like the undead on Hallowe’en in the Buffyverse.

Why would any self respecting professional drinker want to go out on the piss on the one night of the year when every pub in the world will be rammed to the gunnels with eejits and Sunday drinkers enjoying the ‘craic’ and swilling down pints of green dyed lager.

Ugh

My colleagues have all gone to the local branch of O’Neills (fake Oirish chain pub), which is a sack of shit at the best of times. Tonight . . . . . shudder!

What’s wrong with people?

Dinner

What do you think :-

Terrine of goat’s cheese, apple and home made fois gras with a green leaf salad and honey vinaigrette

Selection of Spanish home cured meats

Squid cooked in it’s own ink with rice

Chocolate Torte

Too much for a Monday night? Didn’t think so.

Dirty

Went to Dr Heartbreak’s leaving do on Saturday. Very good fun and I even DJed for about ½ an hour. Unfortunately my taste in music (bangin’ chowns) did not really meet the Fat Doctor’s required music policy (guitar music of the indie variety 1985-1992) so was removed, but the crowd were mad for it. Well some of them were anyway.

It would also appear that I could of pulled. OK the person in question was dead drunk throwing herself at everyone and generally making a bit of a scene, but they all count. Naturally of course I hid down the far end of the bar behind a big row of pints when I realised that X was lunging at me, but that’s NOT THE POINT ;-)

Speaking of scoring a certain Mr S was also to be seen locked in a hideous lip smacking clinch for most of the night. Now this is understandable because Mr S hasn’t had any action in about a billion years, and she was pretty damn gorgeous, so revolting spit swapping can be forgiven on this occasion. Poor Mr S. Women tend to fancy him until they realise what a very strange man he really is – a sort of cross between Bez, Worzell Gummidge and the Hermit of Lindisfarne – though usually they never get as far as touching him due to the massive cloud of drug crazed madness that swirls around him at all times. Self described current occupation : watching daytime cartoons and masturbation. And he’s not lying.

Catching up with him later he seemed somewhat bemused, not to say alarmed by having this gorgeous young lady surgically attach herself to his face. It didn’t help that he then told me that he hasn’t tidied his bedroom since he moved in 7 years ago. And note what I said earlier – it’s not like it hasn’t been tidied because it doesn’t need it. Must find out how the evening resolved itself. Hopefully Mr S played the gentleman card and beetled off home to clean up pronto . . .

But then I can hardly talk myself. Psychologically a room that looks like the left over dinner in Saddam Hussein’s beard is copping off protection. Nothing can ever happen because you can’t let it happen or then someone would see the midden you live in.

Why do we do it to ourselves? As if life wasn’t complicated enough without adding in one’s own concocted psychological mysteries. Eeeesh.

Feeble

Boss Man! Do stare at your computer like it’s an alien being and then proceed to hunt and peck your way through some tragic torturous e-mail? Here’s a tip : Retire. Now.

I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love . . . but unfortunately not with the Belle of St Marks or indeed with a human being at all. Instead I am engaged in a deeply meaningful relationship with my brand spanking new Mac Mini. Even though all I have done so far is stroke the boxes it is without doubt the most fulfilling personal experience I've had in years. just the sight of that wireless mouse looking like, like, well, a bit like a very expensive bar of girl soap to be frank, is more than enough to make me come over all 2 & 8.

Tomorrow I'm installing a router and then I will be fully SAD† compliant.

† SAD : Sad. As in ‘you sad little man’.

Boring

Eeesh – dunno what’s going on here – I’m exercising like a bastard, not drinking, going to bed at 10 every night, and can I sleep? No I cannot. Maybe it’s because in the few moments I’m not Boring For Britain I’ve been playing too much Mercenaries which I have to say is wicked good. As I’m lying there tossing and turning little figures are gesticulating at me and jabbering something incomprehensible, and the bullets are pinging around me. But resistance is useless because I’m in a tank and I’m about to call down an air strike on you. How d’you like them apples, useless AI live in a computer person! Seriously this is a GREAT game, but the potential for staying up all night is very strong.

Aroma

Tip from the Panster, Godfather supreme, if you can smell the nappy from 2 rooms away nothing good therein lies. In fact something that could hold it’s head high in the company of pooh produced by the devil’s own satanic herd therein lies. In the ski world it would be red/black run (nice), maybe a mogul field (off-piste is for when the stuff’s escaping round the edges) so perhaps not the best ever introduction to nappy changing, especially as for reasons too complicated to go into I was pretty much on my own out there, but the Panster got there in the end . . . as indeed he should.

Drunk

If you give up drinking during the week despite pretty much a lifetime of non stop hedonism, by the time Friday comes around you are more than ready for a pint or 2. In fact, ready to the extent that all caution is thrown to the wind as pint after pint is consumed in what can really only be described as a bit of a lager frenzy. Result : realising you’re on a bus without your bag, phone or house keys, it’s 3.30 am and you have no idea where you are. Happy days!

There’s a limit, presumably to how much salad one can profitably eat. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument that Pan’s intake today has been 1 low fat yogurt, 1 cup tomato soup and about ½ kilo of mixed raw vegetables, specifically onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, lettuce and turnips. And I now have a blistering headache. It can only be junk withdrawal, provided that is one ignores the two mega gulp buckets of coffee I’ve consumed today.

BTW, when someone tells you that they have given up drinking and smoking and are de-toxing, do not say ‘ah-ha, but you haven’t given up the old caffeine I see have you?’ because that makes you a pedantic hyper-zealot wanker. Giving up drinking coffee is not going to help you one iota, toss pot. Don’t believe me? From the British Heart Foundation :-

“Conclusions that were made are that drinking a moderate amount of caffeine does not influence coronary heart disease.”

“If you have an abnormal heart rhythm, limiting your caffeine intake is not likely to help.”

“Studies to date suggest that coffee does not cause high blood pressure.”

However there is a possibility that coffee may increase cholesterol.

But by and large there really seems to be no problem with slugging the stuff back. So why are all these macrobiotic Nazis getting on my back about it. I can only assume it’s because they are having no fun and don’t want anyone else to either. Grrrrrrrrr.

By the way the exercise freaks were correct. I do have more energy, every last drop of which I feel can be confidently and profitable challenged into aggression, anger and grizzling. YAY! HA HA HA HA AHA AHAH HHAHHAHA.

Maybe I should cut down on the coffee after all.

This guy is just brilliant : http://www.trosch.org/

I particularly enjoyed his comments about the Challenger disaster . . .

In case you want to keep your blood pressure at a normal level the thrust of his argument seems to be that God destroyed Challenger as just punishment for Hilary Clinton having appointed a woman to be Commander of Columbia : 1 Tim. 2:12 I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man.She must be quiet.

Never mind that Challenger was years before Hillary turned up on the scene, I guess God already knew what she was going to do and thought he'd get in first.

Plus of course, ladies, in case you were wondering why you’re having relationship difficulties, it’s probably because you don’t have brushed hair, a clean face and a quiet and modest demeanour. Or an arranged marriage. Because remember – the thing that God dislikes the most is “haughty eyes”. I’m assuming that Fr Trosch is referring only unto womankind there, but perhaps I’m doing him an injustice. But I doubt it.

The really scary thing is that this guy seems to be a genuine Catholic priest - though it's hard to tell of course . . .

Now while it’s fun to laugh at these people it shouldn’t be forgotten that people like him are genuinely dangerous, not necessarily because of his extreme religious views, but because he is obviously unbalanced to the extent that he not only believes the voices in his head but is willing, and indeed happy to act upon them as well. Again that’s normally OK, but when those voices are saying things like the murder of an abortionist is a justifiable and legal killing you have to start to wonder . . .

Actually is that in fact an illegal act – to have a web site that is, to all intents and purposes, endorsing, or at the very least sanctioning murder? I’m fairly sure that the right to free expression doesn’t include the right to promote violent criminal acts – even on the internet – even in Mobile, AL.

So in the interests of tolerance and community amongst women and men (NB – that’s a particular Trosch bug bear – mentioning women before men), please do not give Trosch the kicking he so richly deserves, but instead send him a fair and balance email outlining any disagreements you might have with his socio-eclesiastical position. I have.

However should you actually be in Mobile, AL please don’t worry that I’ll be offended should you in fact choose to lock Father Trosch in a coffin full of broken glass, set it on fire and then kick it over a cliff.

I know I shouldn’t let whack jobs like him get to me but I can’t help myself. To use a phrase I’m sure is close to his own heart : “All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing” and ‘rising above’ or ‘refusing to pander’ to psychos like Trosch can sometimes look pretty much like doing nothing. Ignoring people like him won’t make them go away, it just encourages them to believe that their spewing boiling hatred of their fellow human beings is acceptable. I’m somewhat reminded of the scene from Manhattan (and I paraphrase) :-

Party Guest 1: Did you read that piece about Nazis in the New Yorker Magazine
Party Guest 2 : Yes – there’s nothing like really biting satire to get through to these people
Allen : ReallY? I find with Nazis that nothing gets through like a baseball bet

Regular readers (if there are such things) will know me to be a generally peaceable live-and-let-live sort of guy, if a trifle vocular (not to say opinionated) on occasion, but this guy has really got me ticked off.

But enough of such nonsense. On Sunday I was very, very happy for no particular reason which is not particularly like me but nice all the same. Went to a fun party on Saturday night – total strangers, but pleasant all the same. I feel my mojo may be returning. Not in any obvious way, but somehow, something . . .

Anyway felt a bit rough on Sunday, unsurprisingly, but had to get going as we were having lunch at Angela Hartnett at The Connaught. OK, by the time you’ve added on wine, water & coffee it might seem a bit steep, but actually this was money very well spent indeed, and I’m not the only one who thinks this. Given that it’s almost impossible to pay any less than half what we paid for an entirely average and forgettable experience I can’t recommend strongly enough going out less, but going somewhere good. The food may be modern French but it was, make no mistake, an immensely superior, formal and grown up experience.

The sheer pleasure of immaculate service can’t be underestimated either – the sight of a phalanx of waiters approaching with laden trays almost made me swoon like a girl. It took six of them to serve each course – 3 to carry the trays and 3 to dish out the grub. As I said it doesn’t come cheap but still – 8 people, 3/4 courses (+ an amuse bouche), 4 bottles of wine, 6 bottles of mineral water, coffee, petit fours : £500 inc 12.5% service. Bargaineous. IMHO

Cauliflower puree, truffle oil, pheasant ravioli, calves liver, just FANTASTC.

So I was feeling very amiable by the time we finally wheeled ourselves out of the dining room at 4.30 and into the pub for a couple and then off to Notting Hill to meet Phil. But that’s another story.

Crab

Mmmm – ate the best soft shell crab last night at Au Lac. Looks a bit like a canteen straight from the People’s Republic, but really great food. As ever starters are better than main course – prawns in a coconut and lemon grass sauce were just amazing – really good. Did drink 4 beers and smoke about 10 fags though, so that wasn’t good, but I guess you can’t win them all – was caught up in the moment.

iPod

On the serendipity front though I left my iPod running all through the meal by accident, but it still had enough juice to get me home and into work this morning – gave up the ghost just as I was stepping into the lift . . . perfect timing really. Plus got a seat on the tube as well – fairly unheard of on the Piccadilly line. Why is the Piccadilly line always so crowded. I mean there must be reasons, but what are they? I suppose it is the main artery of tourists running out to Heathrow, but even that doesn’t account for it. It’s a pity you can’t just put an extra lane on the outside. Now that would be weird – multi track tube lines. Actually it wouldn’t be weird, after all they have them in NY. And Paris as I recall, but it’s been so long since I was there I can hardly remember. Je ne reviens pas.

European

It’s cool being European. I just got a CD in the post of Belgian trance that I ordered from Germany. Technically you could do the same thing from America, you just wouldn’t. It wouldn’t occur to most people to order something not available at amazon.com. Which means that you can’t buy a multi region DVD player which means you can only play region 1 (North America) DVDs. But then why would you want to . . . if it’s not available in Region 1 NTSC can it actually be worth anything anyway?

As you can see still feeling grumpy despite a relatively painless day. Got three different social engagements this evening. Oh what it is to be popular ;-)

Ah the joys of Jin Kichi – gross consumption as usual

Miso soup
Edemame
Gyoza
Mixed sashimi
O-toro sashimi
Tempura scampi
Chicken gizzards
Green beans with black bean sauce & sesame
Boiled fish roe
Chicken liver skewers
Pork with shiso leaf skewers
Asparagus with pork skewers
Sake
Kirin

And now I feel very, very, guilty.

Having said that, the alcohol notwithstanding it’s all pretty healthy stuff, which I’ve totally undone today. Was planning a healthy meal day and then some psycho went and screwed it up. OK – we know that left over meeting food gets left out and you can help yourself, and that’s fair enough, but leaving out over 100 overstuffed bacon sandwiches and an entire tray of Danish pastries is NOT FAIR. You’d have to have a will of iron not to crumble slightly at the sight of all that delicious *FREE* food.

But I’ve been good, as good as I can be, and only eaten 1 Danish. I have unfortunately also eaten (count them) 8 bacon sandwiches. And washed them down with a full fat coke. Did have a low fat yogurt for breakfast though, so that’s OK.

In theory going to the gym should help you stop eating all that crap – the thought of the effort required for each delicious mouthful would be enough to stop the most dedicated gastronaught dead in his tracks, but somehow it doesn’t seem to work that way. Instead I’m carrying on as usual but each mouthful is now accompanied by a feeling of horror at the effort I’ve just undone, an appreciation of the sweating and grunting that now needs to happen to undo the bad, and a feeling of despair at the unending cycle of it all : eat food to quell hunger and love cravings : feel guilty at potassium laden saturated fat intake, quail at thought of hardening arteries, suffer torture of gym, feel hungry and *STILL* unloved, crave food as compensation, etc, etc, etc, and we’re off to the races again.

Congratulations, Pan. You are well on your way to your own little home grown eating disorder.

The only solution is to go to the gym *AND* give up eating. Which when you add to the low alcohol / low fags regimen makes you wonder why you’re even alive at all. Let’s face it my 3 big loves are fags, booze and gluttony and I can’t have any of them any more. And the tragedy is that after all this inner torment and self flagellation I’m still not going to get laid because I have become a crashing exercise/carbo loading/‘ugh that cigarette smells vile’ bore of the worst kind. To quote The Guardian “a great big galloping fartbag”

Having said that all I need to add is utter shit to my current personality mix of health nazi and thundering yawn inducer and I would seem to have the right mix for sex success, after all, the worst people seem to get the most action.

But stop, young grasshopper, you are in danger of making a grave error of cause and effect. None of the above about personality really matters because these prancing shitrugs aren’t getting laid because they are charm bypass areas, but because their superior physical presence simply make such considerations irrelevant.

IMHO ‘action’ is largely unrelated to personality, despite what your friends / relatives / women’s mags / psychiatrists / ‘they’ say. It’s all about looks, baby. If your face fits it doesn’t really matter that you have the character and charm of a Milanese racing spittoon, people are still going to want to shag you.

Don’t believe me?? Look around you – who’s getting laid? It’s the unpleasant shallow good looking people isn’t it? Who’s sitting at home with a packet of Furosemide and Everybody Loves Raymond? Thaaaats right! It’s all those witty, charming, kind and genuinely charming people who aren’t as good looking.

Rats. There’s really only one solution. Ferocious dieting, frenzied body sculpting, plastic surgery and above all : EARN MORE MONEY!

Alternatively I could just give up and happily sink into the wheelbarrow of shite tv and ghee based ready meals, handily lined with my own body fat and the crumpled Kleenexes of despair.

At this moment, both options seem equally appealing. I.e. not at all. It comes down to this : resign myself to spending the rest of a rapidly decreasing lifespan building an exclusive relationship with my right hand or become a monster.

It’s a tough one – it really could go either way.

I’m not saying that a bad personality is a turn on, I’m just saying that by and large it’s irrelevant in the machinations of shag. I suppose in the ideal world you might get picked in an otherwise dead heat because of your oh so witty anecdotes about the similarity of Tony Blair speeches to The Ballad of Reading Goal, but it’s always going to be pretty much a tie breaker. Whereas, and let’s face facts here, no-one was ever been passed over because they were better looking than their mate were they?

You know what all this self loathing and bitterness is really about don’t you? Yes, it’s about the 8 bacon sandwiches.

Last night I made a muchroom rissotto from the ground up.

First - make a vegeatable stock :

(all very roughly chopped)
2 x carrots
1 x bunch of celery
1 x parsnip
1 x baby turnip
1 x clump fresh thyme
3 x bay leaves
1 x large leak
1 x bunch green beans
1 x red onion
seasoning
3 x litres water

reduce down to 1 litre over 2 hours simmering - add more water when needed

for the rissotto :

2 x chalottes, finely chopped
2 x celery stalks finely chopped
12 closed cap muchrooms
seasoning
mustard seed
red pepercorns
3 x bay leaves
1 x bouquet garni
best olive oil

soften all together and then add 250g risotto rice. Add 200 ml stock and stir. Simmer gently for 30-40 minutes stirring continuously. When the rice is perfectly cooked add 50-100g finely grated parmedan and stir in.

Result : Fucking boring. Tasted vaguely of celery and turnips.

Tonight I'm going out for Japanese, lager and fags instead.

And a loud hussah for that.

Keeerist! I just spent 4 (count them - FOUR) hours in a meeting room with the following people :-

1 x Marketing Boss Man
1 x IT Boss Man
1 x Web metrics manager
1 x Web project manager
1 x Web editor
1 x Software architect
1 x Information architect (SUICIDAL WITH BOREDOM)
1 x Business administrator
1 x Market researcher
1 x Web developer
2 x Useabilty consultants

Actually Pan is one of the 12. Can you guess which one?? Trust me by the end of it I was so keen to get out of there I was actually happy to go to the gym. Ghhaahhhhhh! Ackk. Thrrppptttt! Ick ick ick.

Arse

This is a new one for me. Explosive diarrhoea. Seriously it’s like a never ending Niagra of running to the loo. Which when you’re supposed to be in a 3 hour planning meeting can be a bit annoying.

Skiing

I think I caught it off some whipper-snapper skiing last week. Excellent week though – great snow, cold, sunny, beautiful and still quiet. But then Switzerland *is* the master of all things alpine. If you’re wondering it was Verbier and I can thoroughly recommend it. Not what you would call cheap though, but that too is one of Switzerland’s specialities. I could have had 2 weeks all inclusive in The Bahamas for less but that’s not the point.

I suppose I could summarise my skiing style as ‘the art of being out of control whilst remaining upright’ though I shite is also a reasonable description. I know most people count falls in holidays/fall rather than falls/holiday but where’s the fun in that?

Especially when you can combine the Pock and Fly† with the Car Boot Sale‡ whilst your friends are travelling overhead in a chair lift with (almost literally) a grandstand view of the entire event. Suffice it to say that over exuberance, showing off, not paying attention, and just going too fast ended up with me creating a cartoon-like Pan shaped hole in a (handily located) snow bank while poles, skis, hat, sunglasses and one glove exploded down the hill in a 360° bid for freedom. I got everything back in the end though apart from part of one pole. Don’t ask me, I have no idea.

What’s amazing about skiing is the intense pain it inflicts above and beyond financial and physical injury ie the dead toes, ulcerated shins, crushed insteps, trapped nerves, aching muscles, exhaustion, cold, wet, sunburn, windburn, indigestion, chafing and total humiliation falling over standing still into a big pile of slush.

Having said that Hairy Richard fell 150 yards down Tortin, so I guess it snows on the just and the unjust alike. Arf.

So you add all that up, throw in a subsequent dose of E-Coli 0157 (or similar) and balance it against a couple of drinks and a rather flirtatious snowboard instructor (albeit a very cute one of the hearty, fresh-faced, blond haired blue eyed, public schoolgirl variety). Hardly seems to add up does it, so why is Pan desperate to go back already? Who can say, but a few pointers might be :-

1. The Immodium is kicking in
   
2. It’s still the most action I’ve had in eons.
   
3. I’m one of nature’s natural skiers – ain’t no mountain high enough etc
   
4. Toe’s overrated
   
5. Japan equally expensive
   

Actually I’m not really one of nature’s natural skiers but I do have certain advantages – an ability to hurl myself over the precipice without really considering the consequences and a personal credo of "faster is better and easier" being amongst them.

† Pock and Fly : Pock – noise your ski makes when it hits a rock/patch of grass/chewing gum wrapper and stops dead. Fly – that’s you that is.

‡ Car Boot Sale : Everything everywhere.

Pancakes

If anybody wants I have about a gallon of stupid pancake batter sitting in my fridge. I ate 2 last night and went to bed at 9 o’clock.

No-one else came home at all.

The tragedy of a thirty something bloke eating pancakes and watching Becker on his own.

I just spent a fortune on ribbon and some cards. Now how logical is that. Medium. How Christian is that? Not very is the answer there I think.

So I’m all set. Perhaps this year I will make a big effort and ‘put on a happy face’. Or perhaps not. Jolly? Jolly? Just because my names Jolly doesn’t mean I have to be fucking jolly all the time does it? Ah if only – however I consider it extremely unlikely that my parent’s have a copy of Mr Jolly Lives Next Door, which I can strongly recommend to anyone in need of a good laugh.

OK – it’s a bit studenty but sometimes we need that. And also features more classic lines than you can shake a stick at.

However they do have a large collection of Luis Bunuel classics, though not I think my absolute all time favourite : That Obscure Object of Desire, partly because it features the sublime (almost unnatural) Carole Bouquet, and partly because it’s just such a funny movie. Strange, surreal, misanthropic yes, but above all hilarious.

Ach – I’m bored bored bored. Only another 1¼ hours to go and I’m outta here. But back on Weds X(

So have a good Christmas guys - Get drunk, take drugs, sleep with your partner’s siblings, fall asleep under the Christmas tree with your head in saucepan. Preferably whilst wearing a Santa hat that lights up and plays Jingle Bell Rock all through the long hours of your booze, vicadin and speed comedown coma. Now that's what I call festive family fun!

Lollipop

Has anyone but me noticed what a weird word lollipop is? I mean it’s just weird. Try saying it a few times, see if it makes any more sense. Lollipop lollipop lollipop. Ugh even thinking about it now is freaking me out.

Festive

But enough of that. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m not feeling even the slightest bit Christmassy yet. And who can blame me. What I am feeling is hungover beyond the powers of man or beast. Not that beasts normally drink until their heads fall off, but there you go. Ack. As they say.

But the BIG news is that The Panster has finished his Christmas shopping. YES! Normally I’m still scrabbling around on Christmas Eve so being done by 22nd is nothing short of miraculous. Don’t know how I’m going to transport it all but that’s another story. I even have the paper and tags as well!! The only thing I don’t have is ribbon. Where can I get ribbon from (apart from vvrouleaux of course)??? Do I even care? Answer: NON!

And even after the forthcoming festivities I’ll still be coming in under £1K! Bargaineous.

Cards! Cards! I haven’t got any bloody cards. Maybe I can get some at James Selby a store so old fashioned they don’t even have a website of any kind . . . or . . ooh I just don’t know anymore. What with the massed wosnames and the hangover from beyond Hades I can’t think straight anymore. Everything hurts – back, kidneys, neck, stomach. Plus feel dizzy and sweaty. Not to mention sick as a dog. I need my bed. Probably dying. Anyway, no more booze for me till, erm Friday. And possibly not even then. Will I never learn. Apparently not.

The Inferno


I walked past Argos last night and it looked like the last chance lucky dip at Satan’s Own all-comers BBQ and pot roast. Those poor unfortunate souls.

Maybe they sell cards in Waitrose? Well actually I know they do but can I be bothered to brave it? I think not. But I bet they have cards and ribbon at James Selby.

Sofa + duvet + DVD + Chicken Korma Ready Meal = YES!

I made some prawn balls last night and they were . . . not good. I think my mistake was to use some cod as an additional binder. When I try them again I wont bother with fish at all – as they are simmered in broth the fish gains a rather unappealing fibrous texture and a very dominant taste and smell. Still – live and learn I guess. Plus should really have chopped the garlic and ginger a bit more finely – was a bit chunky. Still have tons of the bloody stuff left over as well – perhaps frying would be better. But then you don’t get the benefit of the lovely broth with noodles & pak choy.

The question would be – how to get it all to stick together without the ground fish – maybe use pork instead . . . now we’re talking, or somehow mince up some of the prawns . . . I don’t know. They did hold together pretty well thanks to the gloopiness of the ingredients plus the addition of egg and breadcrumbs, notwithstanding the addition of distinctly unbinding coriander.

I’m feeling rather random today – saw the funniest episode of vintage Frasier last night, now that the cable is fixed – Eddie was depressed and everyone else got depressed as well – Daphne opining that ‘human’ Eddie would cook poached salmon if he was giving a dinner party made me laugh and laugh. I don’t know why . . .

The reason for all this noodling is that I’m trying to avoid thinking about either a) work or b) Christmas. And in particular Christmas shopping. Thankfully I’m *nearly* done, just a few more to get, but it’s draining. And then there’s the wrapping, and the travelling and the enforced jollity . . . ugh.

Most bloggers seem to really look forward to Christmas – it seems to be something they are actually going to enjoy. What’s wrong with you all?? Locked in the bosom of the family without enough booze and fags, forced to regress to being a sulky 14 year old, everyone trying not to notice the fact that each respective member of the family is another year closer to the grave and more than another year closer to becoming a full blown freak / loner / nutjob / crashing bore / common or garden pervert.

Still, at least you get some decent fud. This year I fully intend to eat sufficiently grossly on Christmas day so that I can pass out for most of the afternoon while my body desperately attempts to avoid some sort of gastrointestinal meltdown by diverting all the blood from my brain to my stomach. I don’t even like turkey that much but that’s OK, because we’re probably not going to have it. Hurrah. On the other hand it does tend to increase feelings of sleepiness due to all the Trytophan, but I’m sure that as a factor compared to the general killer blows of carbohydrate and lunchtime alcohol the effect is pretty minor.

Having said all of that if I need to fall asleep all I have to do is think about my work for 5 minutes. I’ve got this monster XML script to write . . . it’s driving me insane . . . it’s so repetitive. And no matter which way you look at it falling asleep with your head in your keyboard doesn’t make a good impression.

I absolutely fail to understand what people can be thinking most of the time. Here we are in the middle of one of the jolliest political debacles for years and what does the great British public do? Only go and give Blunkett a 67% approval rating. Here’s the perfect opportunity to rub his nose in it and they go all soft on us. Depressing or what? I can only assume that despite the fact that journalists regularly come out even lower than politicians in public opinion polls most of us still believe what the papers tell us, to whit the largely reactionary press telling us that foreigners are a dangerous scourge attempting to invade our island nation and infect it with their filthy heathen ways.

So let me explain something about immigration once and for all. Britain is currently producing kids at a rate below the replacement rate (about 2.1 children / woman). “So what?” you may say, but this is basically very bad news indeed for anyone who wants to ever retire. Wealth, and in particular the value of pension schemes, is largely based on the number of people working / the number of people not working. The sums are simple. Aged population with fewer kids : everyone has to stay working till they’re 97 because there aren’t enough people of working age to support this demographic.

So when a bunch of gypsies turn up at Dover instead of shipping them back off to whatever God forsaken sink hole they came from the immigration people should be saying something along the lines of “yes please come in, and here’s some English lessons to help you integrate, and by the way, if you’re thinking of having any kids the national health service offers excellent benefits you know.” What we need to do is encourage people from other parts of the world to come here and have a bunch of rug rats at our expense. Why? Because someone has to pay for my pension and at the moment the kids from Jumblistan look like my only hope.

Dear Kids from Jumblistan,

As you may be aware some of us here in the West are having a little problem with our saving schemes over the lifetime (that’s pensions to you). It may come as a bit of a surprise to you to realise this, but saving money without a stable demographic profile is frankly a bit of a waste of time. In the larger scheme of things (and nothing is larger than pension schemes) money invested in the financial markets is really just a guarantee of a slice of the future earnings of those markets. If there aren’t enough people working to maintain the value of these bonds, companies or weird derivative bets then we might as well flush the money down the toilet. Either way we’ll all be working till our fingers drop off.

Meanwhile things for you don’t look that rosy either. You don’t have a pension at all, and your neighbours hate you because they think you look funny. Well stop worrying. Here in multi ethnic Britain we gave up worrying about people dressing funny long ago, and (disregarding a few local nutters, hem, hem) you’ll be completely free to practise whatever bizarre cultural and religious affectations you may have. When you add in the current dangers to you from pollution, local climate meltdown, political ostracism and exploitation by unscrupulous foreign multinationals it hardly seems worth the candle does it?

So here’s the deal : come to Britain (now re-branded Sunny Fun Britain™) and you’ll get the following great benefits :-

• A free* education for all your young family


• Local authority help with language and adult education


• Access to the full range of social security benefits


• Automatic local authority housing while you get on your feet


• Full employment at competitive rates


• Full access to The National Health Service (including complete ante natal care!)


• Automatic residency rights


• Full access to Sunny Fun Britain’s™ unparalleled range of retail and investment opportunities.

* Does not include further and higher education.

And remember, Residency + 10 years guarantees citizenship. All that we ask in return is that you shag like a bunny and have plenty of kids. No Jaffas.

Don’t delay – sign up today!

Yours in expectation, etc etc


I just don’t understand it. I suppose it’s simply the case that many of the people currently banging on the hardest about a ‘tide of illegal immigrants’ (courtesy The Daily Mail Government Policy Unit) are not the people who are going to have to face up to the fact that without these immigrants we are, technically speaking, completely fucked.

And I haven’t even got onto the excellent humanitarian and social reasons for allowing people into the country, to whit, most people only want to come here because their lives back home are unbearably shit. And who am I to gainsay them?

The more I read about Kimberley Quinn and her ever so entangled love life, the more I like her. It’s seems to me that she’s basically just completely up for it, and doesn’t really give a monkey’s who knows it. I can see the great and the good squirming with horror at all this. Here she is – a married lady of independent means, and she’s *SPILLING THE BEANS* left right and centre and there’s no way they can leverage her to shut up. Compare this to the way 20 years ago that ultimate creep Cecil Parkinson browbeat poor Sara Keays into shutting up and then used the full power of the courts to stop her telling anyone what a shameless revolting disgrace he was. How times have changed. Tee Hee.

All those naughty boys who thought they could get away with a bit of extracurricular shagging on the side are going to be hung out to dry. I love it! You just don’t get stories as entertaining as this very often. I’m only hoping that there’s more to come. Oh if only Boris could somehow be drawn into the frame – then my week would be complete.

Don’t get me wrong, you know she’s a complete monster – probably egotistical to the point of insanity and utterly cavalier with the careers in the hands, but at the same time, she’s just kinda cool. All those slimey blokes undone in their debauchery because ultimately she didn’t really give a stuff about exposing herself and (as a corollary) them too.

Kimberley Quinn – dangerous, but refreshing.

Shagger

This whole David Blunkett thing is just getting weirder and weirder. It certainly looks like Kimberley Quinn is a bit of a serial power junkie – looks like she’s been knocking off Simon Hoggart as well . . . the plot thickens.

Poor Simon. His career is pretty much based on being the outside sneering at the antics of the inhabitants of the goldfish bowl, and suddenly – whoops – it’s caught with pants down time, and you’re exposed as being just the same as everyone else – desperately shagging around, lying your head off about it and crossing your fingers that you don’t get caught.

I have to admit though that I’m liking Mrs Quinn more and more. It would start to appear that she’s basically just been staggering around Westminster shagging anyone who catches her eye – nice one Mrs!

Shithead

Perennial Leper Boy Donald Rumsfeld seems to have been acting like a total wanker again.

Donnie Boy – it’s too late to say you’re going to start signing the letters by hand after you’ve been caught out having them photocopied. The fact that you allowed this to happen in the first place tells everyone exactly what you really feel for the soldiers who have been killed in Iraq : contempt.

Don’t believe it? – then answer this. If Rumsfled really gave a shit you’d think he could take 5 seconds to scrawl his name at the bottom of a letter put in front of him by a secretary. But clearly not. I guess Rummy just doesn’t think that the life of a young soldier is equal to 5 seconds of his time. Now that’s arrogance for you.

It’s quite beyond belief that anyone can still stomach this guy. Still, as I’ve blogged before the thing the GOP is best at is persuading people that they are in fact just a bunch of Good Ole Boys, not the sociopathic, violence obsessed, billionaire autocrats they really are. Combine that with a heartland of American voters who are willing to swallow any bullshit to avoid seeing the actual consequences of America’s current policies and it starts to be understandable. It still makes about as much sense as poking yourself in the eye with a sharp stick, but it’s more understandable : the combination of a bunch of compulsive liars and an electorate of starry eyed masochists is a powerful thing indeed.

I went for dinner at the Boss’s house last night. Culturally it was a little slice of the 1970s preserved. We were all on our best behaviour and trying to make with the social chit chat.

That is until Boss lady got pissed and started telling everyone which of my colleagues are secret coke heads. You’d never have guessed it of some of them. Others however . . .

Sad but true conversation :-

Pan’s Colleague (F) : You know that woman?

Pan & Pan’s Colleague (M) : No . . .

PCF : Yeah you do, she’s new

Pan & PCM : No idea I’m afraid . . .

PCF : She works in IT.

Pan & PCM : Drawing a blank here . . .

PCF : She’s blond and has got big tits.

Pan & PCM : Oh yeah, I know who you mean.

Well what can I say? BIG DAY!

Not only does Blunkett finally get his, but the worst of New Labour’s anti civil liberties agenda seems to be getting the silver bullet as well, thank you Law Lords. It’s such a pleasure to once more be able to have the most senior court in Britain make a legal ruling without Blunkett immediately rushing in from the sidelines to try and kick them to death for even daring to think about ruling against his own personal wishes.

My only regret is that Blunkett went over something as stupid as all this as opposed to on the grounds of being a horrible heartless megalomaniac, knee jerk authoritarian fuck stick – not to mention all round Daily Mail suck-up. In fact I was *almost* beginning to feel a bit sorry for him until I read this quote from the man himself in the Guardian :-

"I misunderstood what we had. I misunderstood that someone [Mrs Quinn] could do this, not just to me, but to a little one as well"

Nice one David.

Even in the middle of pouring out his crocodile tears for the press Blunkett couldn't resist doing a little bit of spin, and suddenly you see the real unvarnished Blunkett again : “I’m always right, White is Black, Black is White, I'm an honest man, you're a terrorist, I can have you arrested you know, when did you last see Bin Laden?“

Word of advice David – it wasn’t Mrs Quinn who ‘did’ anything (apart from shagging you of course which *is* fairly unforgiveable I admit), it was all you mate – bullying, blustering, sneering and attempting to get your own way in everything as usual. It was you, Blunkett, who dragged the ‘little one’ into the middle of this – purely for your own personal edification without a single thought to the feelings of anyone else involved. If you’d done the honourable thing and backed off none of this would have happened.

So what have you managed to achieve through this exercise of your monumental and utterly charm free hubris? You’ve lost your job, Mrs Quinn (7 months pregnant) is in hospital suffering from stress (and presumably insanity as well), and her husband, who seems a decent enough bloke and rather undeserving of your predatory antics is now Britain’s biggest cuckold and all round laughing stock, not to mention of course that all this will now have to be explained to the ‘little one’ in a couple of years. Plus everyone hates you, but that’s not new. Let's be fair though, there aren't really any innocents here - The Quinns are not by any stretch of the imagination anything less than master manipulators . To some extent we'll never really get the whole truth about all of this because everyone involved is fully embedded in the media. It's a media story about media people - normal journalistic rules (such as they are) need not apply.

Really everyone comes out smelling of poo - after all Mr Quinn is guilty of at least one complete foolishness best summed up by the quote (I forget from whom) "The man who marries his mistress immediately creates a vacancy". Except that in this case its Mrs Quinn who's wearing the trousers.

The rules on this are fairly clear after all. If you've been shagging someone's wife and she makes it perfectly clear that she wants to stay with her husband and the affair is over, the only decent thing to do is slink away, keep schtum and nurse your wounds to fight another day. Stumping off to the Family Division of the High Court with a HM Secretary of State sized sulk on is the act of a bounder at best, and an out and out psycho at worst.

So well done, David. Give yourself a slap on the back – you’ve acted like the utter shit you are and you’ve finally managed to shoot yourself in the head as well as everyone else.

Congratulations, you twat! Sorry – redundant twat.

See-Ya! BYE!

Wanker.