Post 460 - Mangled

(disclaimer – the events detailed in this entry took place while I was extremely drunk, and my memories of that night are a little hazy, so it may not ring 100% true. But still, it’s a fairly accurate account of what happened)

This man is my arch-nemesis:

If you don’t recognise his gurning physiognomy, he is actor and comedian Mark Little, best known for playing loveable Aussie everyman Joe Mangel on Neighbours. I wasted a good ten years of lunchtimes during the 90s religiously watching Neighbours, I saw Joe arrive on Ramsey Street as the loutish, blue-collar nephew of Mrs. Mangel, I saw him marry Kerry Mangel in a butterfly sanctuary, I saw him grieve when his new wife was shot and killed by duck-hunters, I saw him adopt and care for Kerry’s daughter Sky, and I saw him get remarried to Melanie. None of that has anything to do with the story I’m about to tell, but boy – how much of a loser was I back in the 90s?

This story took place in around 2001. One chilly winter’s evening I accepted an invitation from my mate Wayne to shoot a few frames of pool down at Riley’s pool hall on Chapel Street. Upon arriving I discovered that I had actually been invited to an impromptu “work’s night out” from Wayne’s place of employment (Simpson’s Hotel, if you’re wondering), and there were about 10 or 20 guys in our party, some I knew, some I didn’t. These guys were on a mission, absolutely throwing drinks down their neck before the ice in the glass had time to melt, and I, still being of that age where the purpose of a night out is to get utterly slaughtered, freely joined in. As the drinks were flowing, one of the guys who could still see straight spotted a familiar face playing pool at the table adjacent to ours, and after much craning of necks, it was decided that none other than Neighbours legend Joe Mangel was enjoying a few frames around 30 feet away from where we sat. Still, we needed proof, and that wasn’t too long in coming.

“HERE MATE!” one of our group bellowed across the hall. “ARE YOU JOE MANGEL?”.

“Nah mate” came the reply, with a distinctly Australian twang. “I’m the guy who created him”.

“I FUCKING TELT YOU IT WAS JOE MANGEL!”

A chant begins. “MAN-GEL! MAN-GEL! MAN-GEL!”. Mark Little looks bemused, but puts up with it. The chant is soon interspersed with yells of “Hey Joe, where’s your Ute?!” “Hey Joe, where’s Bouncer?!” “Hey Joe Mangel, how far is it to Ramsey Street?!”

“I told you guys I’m not Joe Mangel. He was a character I played, that’s not my name”

“MAN-GEL! MAN-GEL! MAN-GEL!”

This went on in a similar vein for a good few minutes. Eventually Mark Little, realising that his artistic integrity was not going to be respected, got fed up of being heckled, and went back to his game of pool. However it did not end there. For probably the next hour or two, the poor guy, who lest we forget was simply trying to enjoy a quiet game of pool with his mates, was subjected to a slew of bad Neighbours jokes being yelled across the pool hall, not to mention questions about his character’s history, questions about other Neighbours characters (eg “are Scott and Charlene still together?”), and despite his constant protestations, he was continually referred to as Joe Mangel. We thought that the running joke that we firmly believed he was the real-life Joe Mangel character, and not just an actor who played him was side-splittingly funny, however he evidently did not, and in retrospect, we may have taken it a little too far.

After an hour or two, the cat-calling finally died down, and our numbers began to dwindle as people stumbled off either home to bed or onto a nightclub, and eventually there was only me and Wayne left. We had long since finished playing pool and were now focussed firmly on drinking.

“You know what would be funny?” I slurred. “I’m going to go and ask Joe Mangel for his autograph.” And so, pen in hand, I approached a seething Mark Little and said “Here Joe, how about giving me an autograph for my girlfriend?”

“For the millionth time, my name is Mark. And I’m playing pool just now. How about you come back and ask me after I’ve finished my game.”

“Yeah OK” I shrugged, figuring I could probably wait a while.

So I returned to my table, meanwhile keeping a watchful eye on the pool match unfolding, and as Mark sunk the black ball for a victory I approached him again.

“Can I have that autograph now Joe?”

“Nah sorry, I’m too busy”

“You said you would give me it once you’d finished your game”.

“Did I?” he replied, lining up his first shot of a new game. “I don’t remember saying that”.

“Well you definitely did”.

“Well you aren’t getting one, so why don’t you fuck off?”

This was like a red rag to a bull. I think I had forgotten that I didn’t actually want an autograph and I was just taking the piss, because I took spectacular offence to his refusal to sign anything for me.


“YOU FUCKING CUNT! YOU FUCKING PROMISED!”

“Oh did I? Well how about this? You and your fucking mates have been taking the fucking piss out of me for the last 2 hours. So you can fuck off and ram your autograph up your arse.”

In a flash, the pen hit the floor, my chest was stuck out and I was up in his face.

“Right! You fucking cunt! Come on! Let’s fucking have you!”

(It’s worth pointing out that I was a bit of a little ned at that age)

“Look, just fuck off will you little cunt!”

At this point, the barman who had been watching the whole thing unfold for the whole night, came bounding over from the bar and stepped in between us – which was probably good news for me - I’m 5’7” and was totally hammered, and Mark Little is well over 6’.

“You Australian bastard! You fucking kangaroo-shagging Aussie cunt!”

“Fuck off you little cunt! Go on, get fucked!”

As the insults flew back and forth, it occured to me that Joe Mangel was getting smaller and I soon realised that I was being dragged towards the doors. But still the yelling continued. Wayne, who had been in the toilet and missed the whole thing, came out of the gents to see possibly the most bizarre scene he could have ever imagined before we had set off out that night - me and Joe Mangel from Neighbours yelling insults at each other, before a barman physically ejected me from the premises and locked the door behind me.

At the time it was just a very amusing story, however with my older and wiser head in place, I realise now that I was acting like a total knob and he would have been quite within his rights to lamp me. However, we have unfinished business Joe Mangel. Our paths will cross again. Just you wait….

Song currently stuck in my head – “Hypnotize” by Notorious BIG.
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 459 - Filet-O-Pish

On Saturday I did something that I’m fairly certain no man (or woman) has ever done before in the history of the world - I went into McDonalds and ordered the Filet-O-Fish. This evergreen bastard has been on the menu in McDonalds since time began, but I’ve never actually seen one, or even seen anyone order it – and why would you? McDonalds makes burgers – it would be like going in to HMV and asking for a tin of paint, or going to Blockbuster and asking to rent out "Freddy Got Fingered" when there’s a whole shop full of actual films you could choose from.

So seldom seen is the Filet-O-Fish that I began to question whether or not it actually exists, or is simply a myth. The only reason I ordered it was to get proof of it’s existence, and when I placed my order the girl took ages to come back with it, probably a good 5 minutes. I began to suspect this may be part of an elaborate ploy to make me THINK they were fetching me a Filet-O-Fish, however they would come back and say “Sorry, there’s a problem, we’ve run out of the Filet-O-Fish” or some other excuse to disguise the fact that they don’t now and never have existed - however what seems like a more likely explanation is that they never have any pre-cooked and sitting on the rack ready to go out because they don’t sell enough of them, and so they cook it to order. Because suddenly there it was on my tray, looking resplendent in a bright blue box with the words “Dive in to your Filet-O-Fish!” written on it. (For the record, is it pronounced fill-ay?)

After tearing it open excitedly, like a kid on Christmas morning, I made the startling discovery, in much the same way as that kid, that the Filet-O-Fish, like most of his presents, is actually a bit shit once you get the wrapping off. It’s basically just a big flat Fish Finger on a very soft and pasty dry white bun, with a slice of cheese on top. How underwhelming. As my girlfriend tucked into her mouth-watering Big Tasty with Bacon, I was more than a little jealous, I don’t mind admitting, however at least I now have concrete evidence now that the Filet-O-Fish is genuine. I’m like the Fox Mulder of fast food, only with better dress-sense and a great ass.

In the young punk days of my early 20s, I was hugely anti-McDonalds. I never pretended to care about their ethics, or their treatment of their staff, or the animals, or how unhealthy it was – I just simply hated the food. The chips were always cold, the burgers paper-thin, burnt to a crisp and usually crowned with brown lettuce. Over the years though I’ve mellowed a lot (not to mention living right across the road from a McDonalds for 2 years), and McDonalds food has improved greatly in quality. I don’t think even the fattest of fat bastards would try to convince themselves that the food is anything other than fried garbage, high in carbs and low in nutritional value, but it has certainly improved in quality, the selection more varied and the taste more, well, tasty. At least the chips are hot now anyway. For on occasional hungover treat it certainly goes down well, but you couldn’t eat it every day or you’d end up looking Ronaldo (the fat Brazilian one, not the goofy Portuguese one), or a pre-cancer Jade Goody, and that’s not something you want.

But still I have a major hang-up about eating at McDonalds. This is the 21st Century, we’re a refined, civilised race – do we really have to regress to the stone age and eat with our fucking hands? Chimps eat with their hands – humans use forks. And if it’s not bad enough that you have to touch your food with your sweaty, shitty, snotty hands (well maybe that’s just mine), your fingers end up smelling like fucking chips all day, which unless you’re trying to pull a fat bird from Torry, is not a good thing to have going for you. And besides, they have the cheek these days to call themselves McDonalds “restaurants” – what kind of a restaurant doesn’t give you cutlery and makes you eat out of a cardboard box, like a homeless person? I’m not looking for solid silver antique cutlery, but would a spork be too much to ask for? Next they’ll have you drinking your Coke out of a bowl on the restaurant floor. We’re not animals. We have thumbs. Let’s use them.

Song currently stuck in m head – “(If You're Wondering If I Want You To) I Want You To” by Weezer
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 458 - Viva España

They’ve broken Spain.

I love Spain. It’s my favourite holiday destination, my recent sojourn to the Costa Del Chav being the 7th time I’ve holidayed on Spain’s golden shores. And it’s not just the sun, sea, sand, señoritas, and anything else beginning with S that keeps me coming back. (Er….. San Miguel? Salad Cream? Solanaceous vegetables?). The essence of Spain was, until recently anyway, that you could basically do whatever the fuck you like and nobody batted an eyelid. It was almost comedic at times how much you get away with there. When I used to go there as a teenager, it was always a bonus to find fag machines in supermarkets, shopping centres, cafes, and sometimes just sitting on street corners, ideal for a 15 year old kid looking to get his nicotine fix. Not that it made that much of a difference, as virtually every shop in Spain used to sell smokes, often just in a basket outside the front door, and I’m fairly certain that an 8-year-old could have strolled up to the counter with 20 Marlboro Lights and not been asked for ID. When I went on holiday with my parents aged 15 or 16, those machines were a godsend. I could go out for “a walk”, run down to the nearest café, buy 20 fags, smoke a couple, and then, because 20 smokes in them days cost about 80p, just turf the packet in the bin on the way back to the hotel and not have to worry about hiding them in the room.

Even better than the fag machines, were the Coca-Cola machines, again in shopping centres, cafes, arcades, and just at roadsides, which looked just like the Coca-Cola machines the rest of the world has, except that in Spanish ones there were always two slots at the bottom where you could buy an ice cold can of Heineken. Just right there, on the side of the road, anybody who was tall enough to reach the slot to put their pesetas in could quite happily sit there all day drinking beers. Can you imagine that happening in the UK, where you get asked for ID in supermarkets if you look under 25? This was a country where until recently you could walk into a shop and buy beers, wine, and spirits and 3,4,5 o’clock in the morning if you wanted. A country where not only did you not need to wear a helmet to ride a motorbike, you didn’t even need to wear shoes. Where hardcore pornography was shown every night on free television. Where speeding and driving home pissed were not only accepted, but expected.

Things seem to have changed dramatically recently though, as killjoy EU legislations threaten to destroy everything that was fun about Spain. These days España has to be in line with the rest of the Union, so fag machines on street corners and baskets of tabs sitting outside shops are a thing of the past. Instead they are now stored behind the counter like they are in boring British shops. Coca-Cola machines now simply sell Coca-Cola, and you’ve got no chance of buying a 6-pack of beer or a bottle of vino after 10pm. Motorcyclists are no longer zipping around wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a pair of sunglasses. Speed cameras line the motorways and police crews line the city streets, stopping and breathalysing motorists. Sex shops are hidden behind thick curtains.

Fucking Brussels ruins everything man. What's next? Banning weed and hookers in Amsterdam?

One thing the EU can’t ruin though is the deliciously unflappable Spanish attitude, where most problems are met with a simple shrug of the shoulders and a non-descript “meh” sound, which seems to mean “someone else’s problem” or “it’ll be fine”.

“Excuse me señor, that ladder you’re about to climb up doesn’t look very safe”
“Meh”

“I don’t think car isn’t going to fit in this space. You’re going to hit that car behind you.”
“Meh”
*crash*

“Officer! That man hit me over the head and took my wallet!”
“Meh”

“Excuse me. There seems to be a mangy stray dog eating the carcass of a dead seagull off the steps at the front of the hotel”
“Meh.”

“Excuse me. My incontinent wife has accidently shit in the pool and now the water looks like gravy”.
“Meh”

Let’s get one thing clear. Spain may have changed, but the Spanish have not. Waitresses still look at you as though you’ve just taken your morning dump into their favourite cereal bowl. Taxi drivers still quite blatantly call you a cunt to their mates in Spanish, and take the long way back to your hotel so you have to pay them more. Reception staff still make it quite clear that they couldn’t give a flying fuck if you’re enjoying your stay or not, and supermarket staff just, put simply, fucking hate you with the fiery passion of hell. And as long as they keep on being surly, unhelpful, holier-than-thou assholes, I’ll keep on going back :-)

Song currently stuck in my head – “Best Imitation Of Myself” by Ben Folds Five.
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 457 - All A-Bored.

1430 hours. I’m on a plane somewhere over France, confined to my tiny Flyglobespan seat as the captain has deemed the turbulence bad enough to require the “Fasten Safety Belt” light to be switched on. I’m bored. The battery on my Nintendo DS has long since been button-bashed into submission, and the unit has been placed back into my hand luggage in disgrace, well aware that I’m unhappy at it letting me down in my hour of need. My back-up, in the form of an unreadable Stephen King novel rests in my bag next to the defeated DS. I read the first 50 pages or so in Spain, and no level of boredom would be enough for me to considering reading any more of the piece of shit (not just my opinion it would seem). My girlfriend, having negated to take any form of entertainment on board for our three-and-a-half hour flight, relieved me of my iPod by the time we left the tarmac in Malaga, and promptly fell asleep wearing it, making it impossible for me to retrieve it without waking her up. Instead I’m forced to listen to inane snatches of conversation from the Aberdonian accents that sound slightly strange to my ears even though I’ve only been away from them for a week. Most of the plane seems to consist of elderly couples bickering and doing crossword puzzles. Still, this beats the flight out, where, already in a bad mood due to having to get up at 4am to go to the airport, I was stuck behind a crying baby for the whole flight.

This flight left at 12noon, and I caught it by the skin of my teeth. After sleeping in (due to being in a Spanish bar till 4.30am), then missing the exits on the motorway for the airport three times (it wasn’t signposted) then not being able to find a parking space, then getting held up at the check-in desk, we finally checked in with 30 minutes to spare before our flight left. Normally this would be tight, but possible, however given the hilariously disorganised nature of Spanish airports (or in fact, most of Spain in general), we found it quite a challenge. After check-in came another nervy 15 minute queue to get our hand luggage checked and to walk through the metal detectors. Having finally cleared that obstacle we sprinted round a corner to find a queue of at least 400 people waiting for passport control. As the people around me tutted and tapped their feet, I simply sprinted to the front of the queue and pushed my way through, dragging my girlfriend behind me. On the passport control desk were two bored-looking Spanish officials waving people through without even so much as glancing at the passports. And probably smoking fags, or having a wee nap, or something equally stereotypical. How the queue was so long I have no idea, but we got through it with five minutes to spare before they closed the gate, and made it onto the last bus to be loaded like cattle onto the plane.

On this plane, there are no mod-cons. My svelte 10-stone frame struggles to fit into the tiny seats, there’s no legroom, sacrificed in order to squeeze in more seats and generate more revenue, there’s no in flight entertainment (though the headphones in the armrest remain, a remnant of when the plane actually belonged to a respectable airline, before being retired and punted onto the highest bidder). Everything about it screams budget. Cups of tea, drinks, sandwiches etc. aren’t provided free of charge, and must be paid for, with cash, or you go thirsty. Even the cabin crew have a distinctly budget feel about them. Flyglobespan is based in Glasgow, and all the cabin crew are Glaswegian. As I boarded, I grimaced as they greeted me with false sincerity in their grating accent. I hope the pilots aren’t Glaswegian as well – I hardly trust a weegie to drive a taxi, never mind a plane.

On board, the air on the plane smells like a Spanish street market as all around me the elderly passengers are sporting new leather shoes and leather belts, and carrying new leather purses in their new leather handbags, most of which are carrying well known brand names like Gicci, Arhmani and Pradia. I am sporting a counterfeit KISS T-shirt, bought from one such street market, and a pair of “genuine” Armani sunglasses, bought off a black guy carrying a toolbox stuffed full of them on the street for £7. Fake they may be but they look ace, and with my track record for either losing or standing on sunglasses, it’s not worth shelling out for the real ones.

And so I've set the scene for you. An hour of this tedious flight remains. Ho-hum.

What do you do when you’re extremely bored on a plane, your girlfriend’s asleep, your Nintendo has run out of battery, your iPod has been liberated and your book sucks? Me? I write 800 word blogs in my head and try to memorise them….

Song currently stuck in my head – “No-One” by Alicia Keys.
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 456 - A Winter's Tale

What a miserable bastard of a day yesterday was. After looking out the window at grey skies and pouring rain all day long, and then getting soaked on the way home from work, I made a vow when I got home that I was not leaving the house again that evening. And so I didn’t. I ordered in a pizza, slotted in my newly purchased X-Files Series 3 disc, and whiled the night away nice and cosy on the sofa, eating my pizza and watching my sci-fi, listening to the wind howling and the rain battering into the window. Winter in Scotland is not a fun time. That Christmas card image of rosy-cheeked kids in woolly mittens building a snowman and warming their hands in front of a coal fire is of course nice and nostalgic, and makes us all go misty-eyed and think about better times, but in reality winter in Scotland is just a massive fucking drag. For 5 months of every year we wake up every morning to driving rain, strong winds, temperatures around freezing point, sleet, ice, slush and dead pensioners. Simply stepping out the front door your face is quickly battered with ice-cold rain, your collar turned up against a wind that chills you to the bone, and any attempts to protect yourself from the elements are quickly thwarted by the wind – hoods blowing down and hats blowing off, umbrellas blowing outside in. (And on that note, with the technology available to us today, how can no-one have come up with a better stay-dry design than the fucking umbrella? If the umbrella was an insect it would be the daddy-long legs – just all floppy limbs and extremities that falls to pieces at the first sign of a struggle.)

And then we get few weeks a year of snow that everyone seems to love so much. Snowmen, coal fires, Christmas carollers – what’s not to love, right? However what this also brings is a public transport system that grinds to a pathetic halt, hazardous driving conditions, and snow on the pavements which soon turns to slush, which gets compressed from people walking on it, which freezes over again and turns to solid ice, making the pavements on my street, which is on a hill, a complete nightmare to walk on.

And the worst part of the season? Darkness. From October to around March, the sun stays in its bed until about 8am, and toddles off home again at about 3pm. 7 sodding hours of daylight? I work more hours a day than the fucking sun manages, which means it’s dark when I get up for work, and it’s dark when I get home again. The only sunlight I get during the day is when I nip out for a fag on my lunch break, and even then it’s pouring fucking rain.

Anyway, to get back to the point of this story. For the next week while you’re all enduring the abject misery of dreich, grey Scotland, I’m going to be off sunning myself in Spain, where it’s currently 27 degrees. Wheeeee! See ya in a week!

Song currently stuck in my head – “In For The Kill” by La Roux
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 455 - Blue (WKD) Is The Colour

So I spent the last three days writing a monumental piece of work which I planned to upload to my blog yesterday. After reading it, re-reading it, and re-reading it again, I copied it from Word into my blogger window, sorted out the formatting, and hovered my pointer over the “publish” button…. and then chickened out. After a prolonged internal struggle I deleted the text, closed the window and shut my computer down. I do not wish to tease you, but after giving it some thought, yesterdays planned blog contains some information that I’m just not ready for the world to know about yet. I would describe it, if I ever talked about it, as My Deepest Darkest Secret ™. I can hear you screaming with frustration, “Come on you ass, it can’t be that bad!” but on this occasion dear reader, my lips will remain sealed tighter than the tape that holds down Lady Gaga’s balls. All I can reveal about yesterday’s entry is that it began with the words “Of all the bad things I’ve ever done in my life, the thing I’m least proud of is…”, it ended with the words “Remember what I said about a runaway ego? Hmmm….” and that a certain newsworthy occurence from this week brought it all flooding back. And that’s it. That’s all your getting.

I’ve admitted to some terrible things on this site – from humping and dumping ugly chicks and fatties, to getting it on with over-60s, to putting a guy’s roast beef sandwich down my pants and doing a little dance before serving it to him, to workplace incompetence and sleeping on the job, and of course the infamous story about the blind chick in the Student Union (all these can be accessed in the archives though are quite heavily edited). But all of those things just play up to my image of Elwood, the lovable rogue, the rascal, the rapscallion, playfully mischievous in a harmless way, like an excited puppy with oversized paws. However nothing, but nothing could repair the damage to my reputation if My Deepest Darkest Secret were to be revealed, and even now, 11 years after I made that phone call as a wide-eyed 18 year old, I’m still not ready to let that particular cat out of that particular bag yet. Ask me again in another 11 years when I’m 40 and I might tell you then.

So last night I went with my girlfriend to see the new Pixar movie “Up”. An enjoyable little tale it was, but my enjoyment of it was soured by a group of annoying young students in the bar prior to the film, and one of the most irritating of all student habits making an unwelcome appearance. The film was due to start in 15 minutes but I was determined to squeeze in one of the cinema's delicious lattés in beforehand, and when I hurried upstairs to the bar I was relieved to find it almost deserted. Standing at the bar was a group of fresh-faced young girls, instantly recognisable as students due to their deplorable penchant for wearing garishly-coloured hoodies with the names of the various University clubs they belong to emblazoned across the left bosom. Rowing Club, Archery Club, Hockey Club – you get the idea. Each of them appeared to the untrained eye to be about 17 years old, and had it not been for the fact that the bar was being manned by a student guy clearly sniffing around at the opportunity to get a bit of skirt, I’m certain they would have all been asked for ID.

“A blue WKD please” pipes up the first one.
The barman goes and fetches the drink.
“£2.30” he says.
She hands over the cash. He rings it through the till. He hands her her change and she walks away from the bar, leaving 3 more.

“A blue WKD please” pipes up the second one.
“Fuck’s sake” I mumble aloud to no-one in particular.
The barman goes and fetches the drink.
“£2.30” he says.
She hands over the cash. He rings it through the till. He hands her her change and she walks away from the bar, leaving 2 more.

The third one approaches the bar.
“A Blue WKD please”.
“Oh come on to fuck” I say, mostly to my girlfriend, but loud enough so they can hear my displeasure. I tap my foot in exasperation and look at my watch. 10 minutes till film time and I still haven’t bought my tickets yet.
The barman goes and fetches her drink.
“£2.30” he says.
She hands over the cash. He rings it through the till. My eyes are drilling boreholes of hate in the side of her head, He hands her her change and she walks away from the bar, leaving 1 more.

“A Blue WKD please”.

To make a long story even longer, by the time I actually got my latté it was time for the film to start and I burnt my fucking mouth trying to drink it. Had I had more time I would have pulled up a chair at the young ladies’ table and given them a little talk from an experienced drinker about the merits of buying rounds (the main one being that you can hold off buying your own round till last, by which time most of your pissed mates will have wandered off somewhere thus making your round half the price) but alas, animated mirth was calling me, and so I can only hope that they happen across this blog and read the lesson for themselves. As a more senior member of society these days I feel it’s important to impart my wisdom.

And here’s one nugget especially for the barman – don’t serve underage girls you foolish foolish man, no matter how much she flutters her eyelids and flirts with you. There’s no doubt at all that after a few more of those blue WKDs her panties are going to end up in a ball on someone’s bedroom floor, but with your unfortunate coupon, it’s definitely not going to be yours!

Song currently stuck in my head – “Midnight Train” by Journey
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 454 - Things I Learned This Weekend

Today my first visit to the dentist in 9 years ended as I suspected it would – with a sore mouth and a lighter wallet. £20 for a scrape and polish which hurt like fuck and left me spitting out blood and bits of gum (and still with yellow teeth), and the news that I need to have my wisdom teeth extracted. This I’m not looking forward to. I don’t care about losing them, they grew in sideways 10 years ago and they’ve been a pain in the plums ever since, it’s the method of extraction I’m not too excited about. I have an irrational fear of being put to sleep, worrying that something will fuck up and I won’t wake up again, but at the same time I’ve had a tooth extracted while awake before and it was fucking traumatic and not something I wish to repeat. Even as the wretched things finally exit my mouth they’re still causing me fucking trouble, the irritating bastards. I wrote a haiku for them.

A Haiku for my Wisdom Teeth:

When I’m chewing food
You sometimes chew on my cheek.
It’s annoying and sore.

Please exit my mouth
The root of all my problems
Fuck you wisdom teeth.

So….. molar-related ditties aside, on with Things I Learned This Weekend:

Dizzy’s bar and diner on Carden Place, Aberdeen - Shit food, even shitter service. I slopped my way through what was supposed to be Spaghetti Bolognese – it turned out to penne, overcooked to within an inch of it’s life, watery Bolognese sauce completely devoid of any flavour whatsoever, mouldy parmesan cheese that I didn’t ask for, and about an inch of watery fat in the bottom of the bowl. I ate most of it because I was fucking starving and when the waiter came over at the end to ask if everything was OK I told him “Mine wasn’t good. I didn’t like it”, expecting to be able to tell him then what was wrong with it. Imagine my surprise when he simply shrugged “Oh well” and took the plates away. Never again shall you get my custom Dizzy’s.

Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Titch – Shit name, good band.

Steven Gately – Dead.

Asda – doesn’t sell garlic sausage any more! What the fuck has happened to the world?

Zombieland – good if you like zombies. Which I do.

Jim Beam – heady. Especially if you’re pouring your own nips.

San Miguel – Just isn’t as good here as it is in Spain.

Sky TV – shit. Unless you want to spend 24 hours a day watching Top Gear, Everybody Loves Raymond, Futurama or South Park there’s literally nothing on there worth watching.

Scotland friendlies – not even worth the effort of watching.

Recently dumped mates – do not take kindly to accusations of being a paedophile.

Trumpet – hard to play when drunk.

So anyway. Stephen Gately died. What a bummer. I promise I won't stoop so low as to make jokes about it. No matter what. I hope none of his fans take offense to this. It's only words...

And after all I really do feel sorry for his fans. It can't be easy having such shit taste in music.

Song currently stuck in my head – “Tell Her Tonight” by Franz Ferdinand. Who I saw live in concert last night.
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 453 - Pet Hates Part 2

As a continuation from last Friday's entry, here's a few more of the things that get on my nerves.

***
NOSTALGIA

If I hear one more person bleating on about bringing back Creamola Foam I'm going to beat the shit out of them. For a start NO parent would give their child that shit to drink in this health-conscious day and age - it was akin to just pouring a bag of sugar straight into their mouth! Plus, nostalgia aside, it tasted wank.

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CHAVS

Whenever I hear someone talking about having life experience, it's usually some fat tart who grew up in a council flat with 12 brothers and sisters and got knocked up before she left primary school. They've usually got a voice that could strip paint and a cloud of Lambert & Butler smoke following them around.

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TECHNOLOGY

I had a bluetooth headset which had voice recognition, you press the button on it and say the name of the person you want to phone and it finds them in your phone book and rings them. Only problem is it only understands you if you say it in an American accent. I used to find myself hurtling down the dual carriageway at 80mph yelling, "Mom!" or "Mardin!" trying to get the bastard thing to work. I had more near misses trying to work that thing that I did just using the fucking phone.

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SOFT FOOTBALLERS

Lee Miller cried when he got pulled over by the cops doing 120mph in his car. What he should have done is gone "Yeah? So fucking what? See this car? Think you'll ever be able to afford a car like this? No. Now fuck off and write some parking tickets, you fucking cunt".

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TECHNOLOGY

When I first got my laptop I used to set it off downloading music or films or whatever before I went to work, and I'd get back in at 6 looking forward to having all this new stuff to watch / listen to. Unfortunately more often than not I'd get in and the bastard would be sitting whirring away happily with no download software open. Cos Vista had cunting well downloaded Windows updates and fucking re-started itself. Fucking Vista.

It was also good if you were watching a film on it, and the pop up appeared saying "Windows will restart in 5 minutes" and you didn't see it because it was BEHIND the film window. So you're happily watching a film and it just fucking switches off.

***
SUPERMARKETS NOT GIVING OUT FREE CARRIER BAGS ANY MORE

You can still buy the big strong re-usable ones for about 9p each, then just chuck them in the the bin when you get home to prove your point. That's what I do.

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SOCKS

Fuck that balling shit. I just shove the whole lot in a drawer and in the morning I pick up two that look vaguely the same colour. Nobody looks at my fucking socks anyway, unless I'm wearing shorts, which is never.

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PETERHEAD

Still, Kemnay may be a shithole, and full of chavs, cunts, single mothers, murderers, rapists, paedophiles, muslim extremists, Rangers fans, cannibals, Big Brother contestants, scientologists, werewolves, vampires, rabid dogs etc. But it's STILL a million times better than Peterhead.

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INTERNET USERS

Are you fucking serious? The chat on here in the last few days has been absolutely abysmal. I feel like my IQ has dropped several points simply from reading it.

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TECHNOLOGY

I'll tell you my pet hate. Those self-service tills at Asda and Tesco. What a fucking awful invention.

You scan one item and and you get about a second before that irritating woman starts saying "please place the item in the bagging area" and the screen helpfully cuts away to an animation of someone putting something in a bag, in case you're too fucking stupid to figure out what you're supposed to do. But even when you have put the item in the bag, the animation has to play all the way to the end before the screen will return to normal. And you have to wait for that before you can scan the next thing, because it won't read the next item until the screen has returned to normal. Then when you finally get it to accept the second item, you get another second before it goes back to cut screen animation thing. Repeat for your entire shopping basket. Add to this:

A - if you try to move anything in the bag around to make space, it fucks up and falls on it's arse. "Please wait for assistance".
B - if you have too much stuff to fit in one bag, and one bag is full, if you move it aside to start filling a new bag, it fucks up and fall on it's arse. "Item removed from bagging area. Please wait for assistance".
C - If you have an item that's light, like a packet of chewing gum or a birthday card, it doesn't pick up the weight, and after about 20 seconds of the annoying animation telling you to put it in the bag, it fucks up and falls on it's arse. "Checking item weight. Please wait for assistance".
D - Every fourth or fifth product seems to break it anyway, things that have variable weights such as bags of fruit and veg. "Checking item weight. Please wait for assistance".

Inevitably I get pissed off at having to wait for assistance all the time and start swearing at the bastard, then the member of staff comes over to help me and looks at me like I'm retarded. IT'S NOT ME THAT'S RETARDED IT'S YOUR FUCKING TILLS.

I find that the amount of time you spend waiting for the machine to catch up, or waiting for someone to come over and log in and reset the bastard, you're usually quicker just queueing for a checkout with an operator, who can scan your shopping at the rate of about one a second, rather than one item every 10-20 seconds. I have since boycotted these mechanical Hitlers, but I often shop late at night at Tesco and Asda and it's the only checkouts they have on. Death to them all. If we ever go to war with the machines like in the Terminator I'll be right on the front line, with a good old fashioned burning stick.

***

More next Friday

Song currently stuck in my head - "All You Need Is Love" by The Beatles
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 452 - Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves.

Walking from my flat in Ferryhill to my work in the morning is like running a junkie gauntlet. On Millburn Street, which I have to walk down every morning, there is a little chemist which is well-known as a “methadone specialist”, and hands out around 200 doses of methadone every day. When I walk past around 9am there is already a queue of junkies waiting outside for it to open, and every I time I turn a corner from then onwards there seems to be either a group of emaciated zombies shambling along the pavement towards Millburn Street, or one singular guy hidden under a baseball cap, walking with purpose and with his eyes fixed firmly on the prize. There is rarely a morning when I don’t get stopped and asked for spare change at least once, and due to my displeasure at A) having to speak to junkies and B) being parted from my beloved wonga, I try to take different routes to avoid them every morning. I call this whole encounter “The Crystal-Meth Maze”.

I rarely give money to beggars, as a general rule. I don’t go in for this “they’re just going to waste it on booze and fags” mentality. I just don’t like giving away cash that I myself intend to waste on booze and fags. Sitting on the pavement on Union Street under a dirty blanket repeating “Any spare change for the homeless?” all day long does not persuade me to part with my hard-earned money. In fact the question in itself is ridiculous – who has ‘spare change?’ Who looks at money and thinks “I don’t need that”? It takes either a very good sob story, or a threatening demeanour to squeeze some money out of me. Catch me walking down a quiet street on my own and stand a little bit too close to me and chances are I’ll chuck you a shiny quid just to stop you from mugging me. Actually burst into tears while telling me your story and I might spare you a pound just for making an effort (though to date this has only happened once). Or maybe just spin me a line I haven’t heard before.

So far this year I have been successfully begged from a grand total of three times. The first was on North Silver Street one evening, where some unwashed lunatic in a dirty camo jacket approached to ask me for a spare cigarette. I politely refused him. He asked again. I told him to go and get his own fags. So he got right up into my face and yelled “I WIZ IN THE ARMY! I COULD FUCKIN’ KILL YOU!” I didn’t believe him, but it was quite apparent that he was, for want of a better word, fucking nuts, and I didn’t really care for him spraying his junkie saliva all over me, so I handed him the very fag that I was actually smoking and beat a hasty retreat.

The second was just off Justice Mill Lane, in a quiet alley down the side of the old Odeon Cinema. It was around 6pm and I was taking a short-cut home, when from behind me I recognised the throaty whine of “Excuse me mate!” as being that of a junkie. I knew immediately what was coming next. “You couldna spare a little bit o change could ye? Ah’m homeless, ken?” Normally I would have simply acknowledged him and given him the smallest of gestures to suggest I don’t have any money. Shaking my head and slightly upturning my palms is usually enough to get the message across. However the lane was deserted and the sneaky fucker had come and stood right in front of me, effectively blocking my exit route. He then leaned over me in a manner I could only describe as “menacingly” and waited as I scrabbled in my pockets. Deftly lifting three coins from the twenty or so in my pocket (which is a good tip for not being fleeced out of change) I uttered “I only have 13p mate”.
“13p?”
“Yeah”
“I suppose at’ll hiv ti fuckin’ dee” he harrumphed. A better man would have told him to get fucked if he didn’t like it, but I am not a better man, and I am quite fond of the way my beautiful face looks, devoid as it is of any fist shaped marks. As I handed him the 13p I grudged every fucking penny of it, and silently willed him to get hit by a falling anvil.

The third time came just last week as I was walking past Starbucks near the Holburn junction. Carrying my freshly ground coffee and listening to my iPod, this tall scruffy-looking scarecrow who was walking towards me starting waving his hands around trying to get my attention. “Excuse me” he moaned with fake anguish. “Do you know anywhere where a homeless person could get a free meal?” Ho ho, I thought. This one’s new.

I shrugged apologetically. “Sorry old bean.” I proffered. “Can’t help you out of that little pickle I’m afraid” (I probably didn’t use those exact words, but these are my memories and I can tell them any way I like, OK?).
“I know this is really cheeky, but you wouldn’t have a spare pound so I could get a hot roll or something would you?”

And just like that, his wish was granted. He received a shiny pound coin, simply for going to the trouble of spinning me a yarn I hadn’t already heard. Of course, the next time I encountered him (see yesterday’s post) his story wasn’t quite so new and he was routinely told to sling his hook.

What happened to the days when beggars would make their money by actually doing something to earn it? Juggling, washing windscreens, shining shoes – all much more noble arts than intimidation and blatant lying. I’d happily pay a junkie a quid to shine my shoes for me. While he was bending over polishing my brogues, I’d smash the cunt over the head with something and take my pound back.

Song currently stuck in my head – “I Can’t Look At Your Skin” by Graham Coxon,
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com

Post 451 - Things I Learned This Weekend

I decided this weekend to start my Christmas shopping. Not that I’m one of these people that needs to have everything meticulously planned and organised months in advance - I just can’t be bothered trailing around crowded, roasting hot shops in December hearing the same fucking five Christmas songs over and over again.

So on Saturday, armed with my iPod, I walked into the city centre to have a leisurely stroll around the shops and get the first few presents out of the way. My first port of call was on my way from my flat to the centre - Top Note Music on Crown Street, where I made my first purchase of the day - a book of sheet music (for myself). On reaching the centre, I decided to check out the International Street Market on Union Terrace, which was so unbelievable busy that it took me about 20 minutes to walk the 200 metres from one end of the street to the next, and another 20 to get back again. The whole street was literally at a standstill as Union Terrace struggled to contain the sheer volume of people wanting to peruse the tat on display, and I silently fumed as I shuffled my way back towards Union Street. The people around me kept stopping and gawping at the garishly decorated stalls, and there wasn’t enough room for me to go around them, I was completely hemmed in. Frustrated looking mothers tried to manoeuvre double-buggies through a forest of legs to no avail, and really were just making the crush worse, not to mention clipping my fucking heels. My mood was not helped by the strong winds whipping leaves and twigs into my face the entire time, although I was listening to Sigur Ros, which helped restrain the urge to start kicking people out of my way.

Finally free of the market mayhem, I headed to One-Up on Belmont Street, whereupon I purchased no less than 5 CDs (for myself). From there I moved up to Jack Wills on the corner of Belmont Street and Schoolhill, which was infuriatingly busy, then The Disney Store in the Bon Accord centre, which was infuriatingly busy, Top Man in the Bon Accord Centre, which was infuriatingly busy, then Next in the Bon Accord centre, which was infuriatingly busy. Close to losing my temper I left the Bon Accord centre altogether, having made a grand total of zero purchaes, and popped into WH Smith for 20 fags and this month’s Q magazine, and then into a very busy bookshop where I picked up the Motley Crue book “The Dirt” (for myself). The combination of crowds and autumn leaves continually hitting me in the face was beginning to drive me crazy, so, sweaty and flustered, I headed for the oasis of Caffe Nero, hoping that a nice quiet latté in a relaxing coffee shop might be just the tonic for shopper’s rage. Not quite. I had to queue for 20 minutes for my coffee, during which time people kept coming in and putting their bags and jackets down at various tables before ordering their coffee, so by the time I actually got served there were no tables left. I had to stand around the side like a spare part, still wearing my jacket and scarf, with shopping bags in one hand and a coffee in the other hand, waiting for someone to move. Finally someone did, and after clearing the table and wiping it clean myself I sat down to enjoy my coffee. Approximately one second later, an old man approached and, pointing at the empty chair, asked “Is anyone sitting here?” Thinking he was going to take the chair away to another table I told him he could take it. Instead he just sat down right opposite me, and proceeded to loudly talk to himself. Cursing, I stuffed my headphones back in, tuned into Tom Petty and read my Q, trying my best not to make eye contact with my new friend, who thankfully left again quite quickly. By the time I had finished my second coffee, I couldn’t face going back into the shops so I gave up, meaning to return the next day, and actually buy something for someone else this time.

So on Sunday, after a nice leisurely breakfast I headed into town again with my girlfriend. This time I was definitely going to do some Christmas shopping. Upon arriving in town I found that, in complete contrast to the previous day, it was almost eerily deserted. The shops were virtually empty, which suited me right down to the ground, and I did manage to get some shopping done. It was only when I got home and realised that all I’d bought was a pair of trainers for myself, a pair of leather shoes for myself and a t-shirt for myself, did it occur to me that I had done it wrong.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, the return of an Elwood's Odyssey favourite – things I learned this weekend.

Newsagent sandwiches, which boast on the label “slices of honey roast ham, with mature cheddar cheese on white bread” really means “one slice of wafer thin ham and a Kraft cheese slice, on dry white bread which is also stale”.

Motley Crue – those cats knew how to party.

The junkie that stopped me on the way to work on Thursday morning and asked if I knew anywhere that a homeless person could get a free meal (having tried all the churches) before tanning me for a quid for a “hot roll” is still, as of Saturday, looking for somewhere a homeless person can get a free meal (having tried all the churches), and still attempting to tap a quid for a “hot roll”. Only this time he got told to fuck off.

Starbucks Caramel Macchiatto (or as I took to calling it, Caramel McNuggets), is really, truly disgusting. It’s like drinking hot ice cream with shit drizzled on it.

Buying shitloads of CDs, book, shoes and clothes for yourself is altogether more satisfying than buying stuff for other people.

And one especially for the junkie mentioned above:

Aberdeen International Market is a great source of free food at 5.55 as it’s about to close. As I approached the paella stall, the girl manning it was preparing to throw the remaining paella in the bin, I asked for a small paella and she said she would give me a large for the price of a small, as it was just going to waste. As she was serving it up, I spotted a huge pile of fried chicken, I enquired if that too was going in the bin. Before too long I had an enormous tray of paella and enough free fried chicken to kill a man. And, just for the hell of it, I haggled the price of the paella and got her to knock another quid off it.

Perhaps I could wrap up the fried chicken and give it to my family for Christmas.

Song currently stuck in my head – “Miserlou” by Dick Dale & The Del-Tones.
ireallyhatelucky@googlemail.com