How The Cookie Crumbles

Shower Alone

2007-05-25T23:45:00.001+01:00

Captions on a postcard please.

Digest This

2007-04-19T20:49:00.000+01:00

Reading has just been voted as worst place to bring up children in the universe, in a scientific Reader’s Digest poll. I’m not too fussed by this, since the 1000 people polled are the only reprobates left in the country who haven’t figured out how to cancel their Reader’s Digest subscription. They were asked questions about crime rates and schools, when the only question that should have been on anyone’s mind is “will my kid grow up to be a thieving scaghead?” And any self-respecting parent from The ‘Ding knows that the only place where every kid grows up to be a thieving scaghead is ten miles down the road in Bracknell. I should know – I was brought up there. And if anyone wants any quality stereos or mind-blowing horse, I’m your man!

Bon Anniversaire, Mon Petit Blog

2007-03-15T23:16:00.000+00:00

Great Googly Moogly! I've been so busy not writing this blog, that I completely forgot that I've been writing it for a year!

So, happy 1st birthday, HTCC, and I'm sorry that I missed it by over a month (now you know how my family feel).

Be Afraid Of The Ad Man

2007-03-12T21:27:00.000+00:00

There’s currently an advert on TV for some hideous Febreze/Ariel hybrid, in which an adolescent boy sticks his head down the back of a sofa, then proceeds to walk into a wall with a pair of underpants on his head. He is suffering from what I like to call the ‘fucking penis effect’, or as it’s more commonly known: ‘They’re Gonna Taste Great Syndrome’.

In 2006, the star of a Frosties commercial was reportedly murdered to death for pissing off just about everyone on the planet. His crime? Listening to some fucked-up ad man who promised him fame and fortune by uttering the immortal phrase “They’re gonna taste great” over and over, in an incredibly annoying monotonal voice. Oh, and the dance – don’t forget the dance. What it actually did was ruin his life. And quite right too, the loser.

The problem is this: kids at that age are desperate to get on TV, and when they get in that audition room they will do just about anything they’re asked to (not that, you perverts). What they need is someone telling them that acting like a cockmaster on peaktime national TV is not going to get you much pussy. In fact, you can write off beaver for pretty much the rest of your life. You think that Jade, Jo and that scouse bint had trouble after Big Brother? Well just imagine the grief that the Febreze-loving panty-sniffer got when he went back to school. Murder, I tell you, murder.

Too Close To Call

2007-02-13T22:09:00.000+00:00

They’re a security-conscious lot at my office – there are swipe card readers on every door (it has something to do with the highly-confidential, world-changing work that we do…). In almost complete contradiction to this, all of the doors have a soft-close mechanism fitted, meaning that once you’ve gone through, at least 14 people, two tea trolleys and a lost golf cart could follow you into the office before the door has even begun it’s leisurely, arc-ing back-swing.

It also presents a little dilemma. Having been to the drinks machine the other day, I rounded the corner to see the door at the end of the corridor coming to a close. I nonchalantly walked towards it, thinking to myself “I’m not going to make it. It doesn’t matter. I have my card with swipe capability.” Half way there, and it’s still not closed. This is a problem. What am I going to do if I get there and it’s still not shut? I could wait by the swipe card reader and listen for the ‘click’. But then I’d just look like a knob. Or I make a dash and catch it before it closes… but what if I don’t make it?! End of the corridor and the bastard door is still open; in a hastily brash decision I opt to leap for the handle and catch it just as it shuts, pulling myself into the door with such force that my face thumps hard against the glass, scaring the bejesus out of three people in the next office, who until now had been snoozing through a conference call.

“Huh!” I say, and throw them that knowing look. They stare back at me like I’ve just shut a baby’s head in the door. I swipe my card and make a hasty exit. I actually think this could be a direct ploy by my company to see if they’re employing idiots. I’ll be awaiting my P45.

Why Play The Lotto

2007-01-25T19:25:00.000+00:00

You know, people often say to me: “Matt – what are the chances of me spontaneously combusting?”

“Well,” I say, with a wry smile, “That would be about 14,000,000 to 1. Approximately the same odds as winning the lottery.”

“But- ” they respond anxiously, “what are the chances of me winning the lottery, then spontaneously combusting from sheer frenetic joy?”

“That would be 196,000,000,000,000 to 1,” I retort. “Approximately the same odds as you travelling back through time, to wake up one week earlier, alive and well. Of course, if all of this were to happen, you could go and warn yourself not to play the lottery.”

Realisation passes across their face. “So you mean the chances of me telling myself not to play the lottery this week are-”

“That’s right,” I say. “38,416,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 to 1.”

“I guess I’ll go and buy a ticket then.” And off they go.

New Year's Resolution (Mk.II)

2007-01-05T23:27:00.000+00:00

I actually had another New Year’s resolution – abstention from booze. I realise that this is probably the most common (and most commonly broken) promise that New Year fad-followers make to themselves, but sod it – I’ve got spots on the insides of my eyelids and fur growing on my tongue so it’s definitely time for a detox. I set a reasonable time-frame: one month. In fact, I only lasted 18 hours.

“We’re going to start cooking properly – it’s one of my New Year’s Resolutions.”

Excuse me? Chicken, rice and peas is proper fucking cooking. You have to use pans and everything. Marilisa, however, was on a roll.

“This recipe of Jamie’s looks good: The Best Boozed Up Risotto With Booze, Diseased Livers and Booze.”

“Er, does it have any alcohol in it?”

“Just a splash of wine. Of course we’ll need to finish the bottle – it was a gift from my parents so I’m not letting it go to waste.”

So on day one of not drinking I washed down an alcohol-fuelled rice dish with two glasses of alcohol. But resolutions broken by other resolutions don’t count. If they did, time would start going backwards, the universe would implode and the only thing left would be unsmoked gym memberships and diets trying to be nice to each other. Or something.

I'm A Liar

2007-01-03T21:41:00.000+00:00

Well, I did say maybe, so technically I’m not a liar. Anyway.

There’s only one thing that makes me cry more than Big Brother and that’s Celebrity Big Brother. Who the hell are these people? Where did they come from? I thought that being a ‘celebrity’ meant you had to be famous - and doing something famous 30 years ago on the Indian sub-continent doesn’t count. I realise that the over-exposure of nearly-nobodys is hardly anything new – we had Who The Fuck Are You Love Island and Strictly Come Who The Fuck and I’m A Fucktard, Get Me On The Telly. I can understand why the old ex-celebs do it – making a knobend of yourself for three weeks will get you in the public eye again and may even make you popular (or maybe not, George Galloway! Ha Ha! Fool!). But this famous-by-association bollocks is just too much – I couldn’t give a fraction of a gnat’s shit about someone who once wanked off David Beckam’s dog or bummed some footballer’s monogloid uncle. They are attention seeking scum. But even they are not as bad as the amoebic plebeians who make the journey to the house on the first night to boo people they’ve never heard of who haven’t even done anything yet. Do you really have nothing better to do with your pathetic little lives??

New Year's Resolution

2007-01-01T15:47:00.000+00:00

1. Reacquaint myself with the vigours of blogging.
2. Try to think of something to write.

More tomorrow. Maybe.

Gay Spidey Has Infiltrated My Mind

2006-09-04T20:38:00.000+01:00

So I'm sitting there at work, beavering away, listening to my iPod, when somebody walks into my periforal vison. Suddenly I start visualising them doing this:

in time to the music I'm listening to. And I can't get it out of my head. This happens every time somebody walks past my desk.

I need help.

Rocket Man

2006-08-29T20:27:00.000+01:00

I had to go grocery shopping this evening; my third least-favourite activity after dusting and being nice to children. The checkout at Sainsbury’s was being manned by Elton John: age 4. I didn’t think it was possible for someone so young to be so fat and so camp, but the two carat diamond earring was the icing on the fairy cake.

“Would you like some help with your packing?”

I don’t know why they always ask me this. It's quite obvious that I have arms.

“No.”

I had obviously laid down a challenge. I reached forward to take a shopping bag and his fingers twitched on a jar of pesto. We glared at each other. I was somehow having a Mexican stand-off in Sainsbury’s with a fat, gay four-year-old. The next moment, I grabbed a bag and he started firing items across the scanner at the speed of light – there was no fucking way I was going to keep up with him (especially while trying to place the heavier items at the bottom in a sensible and logical manner) and pretty soon I was swimming in Hovis and Lloyd Grossman sauces, empty bags flapping on my hands like pom-poms. Elton stopped scanning and looked at me like I was pathetic. I wanted to smash his head in with a chicken kiev, but I knew they’d tease me in prison if I went down for that. So I finished my packing and paid, resisting the temptation to say “Go fuck yourself” when he asked if I wanted cashback.

Next time I go to Sainsbury’s I’m going to buy nothing but 24-packs of Stella. That’ll show the bastard.

An Astute Observation

2006-08-20T20:08:00.000+01:00

My Grandmother was down this weekend. Before we had dinner, she watched as I threw five ice-cubes into a glass and poured myself a Magners.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Pouring myself a Magners," I said, style oozing from my pores. "It's trendy to have it with ice."

"Well, why don't you just water it down and put it in the fridge?" she asked.

I have no answer to that.

Fun Fun Fun in the Sun Sun Sun

2006-08-16T22:09:00.000+01:00

I’ve just been on holiday. While this break was much-needed and much-enjoyed, it did mean a reunion with my age-old nemesis: suntan lotion. For some reason, I have the mystifying inability to spread the damn stuff over my body in an evenly-applied manner, like normal people. In fact, if you saw me after my first day on the beach, you might assume that I’d been leafing through Chapter 1 of the often-overlooked tanning bible How To Burn Like A Fucktard. I really tried this time – I mean, I really tried – two layers of factor fucking 30 all over and I still manage to get a bloody white handprint in the centre of my chest. What am I supposed to do? Gazillions of bronzed bastards on the beach, and there’s me on day two, having to sit in the shade because it looks like I’ve been bitch-slapped by Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Sigh.

There's A Monster In All Of Us

2006-07-25T14:52:00.000+01:00

I’m a mug for supermarket offers. The minute I walk in, trolley in tow, I make a beeline for the ends of the aisles, to see what bargains I can pick up (please don’t mistake this for the ‘reduced’ shelf. I’m not so tight that I’d buy a month-old artichoke for 6p). The supermarkets have clearly cottoned on to this, as the offers are getting more and more outlandish. Not too long ago, I came across a Buy 6, get 6 Free! offer on Müller Fruit Corners. “Fantastic!” I thought, and promptly bought 24. Of course, I hadn’t considered that I would need to eat 4 of my hastily-purchased novelty yoghurts every day just to keep on top of things. And of course, I hadn’t considered that I would forget about them until Wednesday, meaning I had to eat 8 a day to stop a yoghurt colony forming in my fridge. By Sunday I had Müller goodness leaking out of my eyes. But I never learn. I came across another offer recently that seemed too good to pass up: Buy one get one free! on 450g packets of Sugar Puffs. Now, that may not seem too bad until you consider that that’s almost a kilogram of Sugar Puffs. Do you know how much Sugar Puffs weigh? Nothing. They have to tie the packets to the shelves to stop them from floating off. I had just bought 8 million Sugar Puffs and two months later I’m still eating the bastards. It’s no wonder that fucker Honey Monster looks the way he does; I’m beginning to go a bit fuzzy around the edges myself. I bet you thought that was a man in a suit? No. William H. Monster was a normal child like you or I until he became addicted to the ‘Puffs. He went all yellow and furry; all the kids at school started calling him Honey and the rest is history. I don’t even like Sugar Puffs.

Damn you, Tesco! Damn yoooooooooooooooou!

Salad Dressing

2006-07-13T23:32:00.000+01:00

Whaddaya mean I’m rubbish at updating this thing? I’ve also got very rubbish at doing general day-to-day stuff recently, like getting my hair cut. Anyone who knows me will tell you that my hair only grows in one direction (upwards) which means I’m now taller than Peter Crouch wearing a policeman’s helmet. I’ve been struggling with stuff like that now that I don’t have Fridays off (I’ve not been struggling with Peter Crouch in a policeman’s helmet, you understand – just the regular non-kinky stuff) and I quite honestly don’t know how the rest of you wage-slaves cope.

Anyway, enough excuses. Something weird seems to be happening to me (or rather the people around me) every lunch time. Important people who I don’t know very well will sit next to me and then obliviously decorate themselves with their dinner. Something seems to trigger in their brain as soon as they’ve parked themselves in my proximity and their mouth becomes a no-go zone. It happened on my first day - a reasonably senior lady sat next to me and was engaged in a very important-sounding conversation with the person opposite her when she fired a piece of cabbage into her hair. And I mean right into her hair – I could hardly see it. Everyone bar me seemed oblivious to this; the conversation was just carrying on so I didn’t say anything. And that cabbage is probably a patch by now. But I could hardly pipe up on my first day; my first contribution to the lunchtime discussion: “Oh look, there’s some cabbage hidden in your hair!” Everyone would think I was weird. A couple of days later it happened again; another fairly senior bod sat next to me and bit into his sandwich, squirting pesto all over his groin. He just carried on munching in blissful ignorance, I mean - what could I say to say to that? I can hardly point at his groin and say “You appear to have garnished your nuts with sandwich sauce. I’m Matt by the way” and hope that he won’t regard me as some kind of sex pervert for the rest of my life. So in order to avoid these culinary predicaments I’ve taken to eating at my desk, which seemed to be the safest option. But now my boss has taken to bringing cakes into the office, which means I’m doomed.

Fear Of The Paaark

2006-06-21T08:53:00.000+01:00

I’m not sure what comes over people when they’re building office conveniences.

“Foreman, we’ve finished building the toilets.”

“Well, those cubicle doors look a bit sturdy. You better saw at least a foot off the top and bottom. And while you’re at it, make the walls extra-echoey. And break all the locks.”

At my first school, the cubicle doors were so low that anyone over 4ft tall got an eyeful of you curling one off the minute they walked in. On top of this they had grease-proof toilet paper: absorbency-factor 2; smear-factor 15. Five minutes of wiping and your arse looked more like the top of a chocolate sponge cake in the cookery room next door. And if you weren’t careful, you could accidentally crease the paper mid-wipe, which gave it the same consistency as kitchen knives. I don’t know if anything has improved now (I get told to move on every time I try to visit school toilets) but a generation of children have grown up with a phobia of taking a shit in public.

Back to the present day. Four hours until I go home and my arse is ready to explode. There’s really no hope. I walk as casually as I can to the gents and survey the area. No one about - great. I choose a cubicle (thankfully they’re kept clean here, so I don’t need to worry about avoiding the one with the skidmarks up the wall) and drop my trousers. I’m about to let all hell loose, when the door opens. I hear footsteps walking towards me. The cubicle next to me opens, and I see (yes, I fucking see – I’m trying to have a shit) some guy from the ankles downwards, sitting down to take a dump. Fucking perfect. I consider doing up my trousers and leaving, but the wolf is already at the door. And it’s so bloody quiet. I hear a fly sneeze in the next room. There’s nothing for it, so I part my cheeks a little and gently push.

PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRKER-SPLOSH!!!

Damn those vegetables! I knew I should have never listened to my mother! I cringe, and wait for the reaction from next door. Nothing, apart from a slight cough to remind me that he’s there (not that I need reminding, dickhead – I can see your fucking socks). What the hell I think, and give it one final blast, stripping the porcelain and almost dislodging a ceiling tile. Mr I’m-All-Ears next door still isn’t moving, so I wipe, flush and get out of there as quick as possible, getting back to my desk with a sigh of relief. I keep an eye on the corner of the office to see who comes walking through the next, but there’s no movement for the next ten minutes. Mr I’m-All-Ears must still be in there. Maybe he’s dead? Maybe I killed him! It’s been several days now and I’ve still not bottled up the courage to go and find out.

Tis The Season To Get Married

2006-06-05T21:52:00.000+01:00

I’ve got six weddings to attend this summer. Number one, last weekend, was a good way to start. The picturesque Lake Como, glorious Italian sunshine and not a word of English being spoken for miles around. I didn’t have to talk to any peculiar, aging relatives with eye-catching hairs growing in conspicuous places because I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. It was great. It didn’t help however when Marilisa caught the bouquet, and I was suddenly the centre of a lot of unsought attention. “In England, it means she has to get the drinks in,” I tried. No one looked convinced.

At Stanstead Airport on the way home, we saw Pete Docherty and some haggered bloke I can only imagine is in his band, queuing at passport control. Banned from Easyjet, so now they’re flying Ryanair. Rock n fuckin roll, losers.

Time To Move

2006-06-01T18:36:00.000+01:00

I really don’t know what the world is coming to. In town today, I witnessed a hit and run, Marilisa was called a “cunt” by a fat heffer, a girl who crossed our path hocked a massive loogie all over her brother, and some little chav told Mari she was fit. Ok, I know the last point was technically a compliment, but I can do without the compliments from the baseball cap wearing fraternity, thank you very much.

The trouble is, we both work in Reading now. What the bloody bollocks are we going to do?

Sleepless In Reading

2006-05-30T02:16:00.000+01:00

Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it? But I'm jet-lagged again.

(and Marilisa's snoring, but she'd kill me if I told you that.)

Making Myself Heard

2006-05-26T02:44:00.000+01:00

I don't get this. I'm supposed to be in an English speaking country. I tried to book a cab yesterday:

I dial the number; the phone rings.
"Eastside Town Cars."
"Hello, I'd like to book a taxi, please."
Silence.
"Hello? I'd like to book a taxi."
"You wanna speak ta who?"
"Er, no, I'd like to book a taxi."
He hangs up. I decide to give the hotel reception a try instead.
"Hi, can you call me a cab, please?"
"Sure. What time would you like it?"
"Quarter past eight."
Vacant stare.
"Quarter past eight, please."
"Er, what time would you like me to book the cab for?"
"Quarter. Past. Eight."
"Tell, you what - there's a cab right here, why don't you just take that?"
I resignedly get in the cab, even though it means I will arrive half an hour early at my destination. I decide there's little point in talking so I hand the guy a map of where I want to go. He looks at it like I've just passed him my stool sample, then looks back at me.
"So where da ya wanna go, then?"

I give up.

Sleepless In Seattle

2006-05-23T12:07:00.000+01:00

4am. I've been up for an hour. Jetlag is a bastard.

I went for a walk around town yesterday to try and tire myself out. I was pretty spaced out already, so it didn't help that the town centre looked like a film set, with big, brightly coloured shops with made up names like Wetzel Pretzel and Schmizza Pizza (and yes, I know every name was made up at some point, but you know what I mean).

One thing that is very real though is the food. I went to a diner yesterday where they had bottomless fries. What a concept. I think it would be a little dangerous to bring Mari here, who will eat everything you put on her plate - I don't think she'd stop downing the chips until she exploded - Mr. Creosote-style.

Anyway, must sleep. Sleeeeeeeeeeeep....

Another Blog Entry, Another New Continent

2006-05-22T02:40:00.000+01:00

Yes, I'm abroad again. My new employer has been kind enough to ship me off to the States for some much needed training, so for the next week I'm hotel bound in sweaty Seattle (not sweaty in the Florida sense - sweaty in the Thames Valley "it's a bit muggy and I've bloody overdone it with the clothing again" sense).

My flight was exciting for two reasons (let it be known that I'm actually terrified of flying) - firstly it was a Jumbo, and I've never been on one before. I still don't believe that anything of that size and weight can get off the ground, so I suspect that they just rolled some footage of clouds past my window for nine hours, and I'm actually now residing somewhere near Milton Keynes. Secondly, BA upgraded me to World Traveller Plus, which meant that I got my own seat, and didn't have to share it with 11 obese Americans and a wailing child. It was very cool.

Customs was interesting. I usually get nervous when I pass the guys with guns in an airport, but this was nothing in comparison to how jittery I felt when I passed the guy with the rubber gloves. And all he wanted to do was check my immigration card. Why the hell do you need rubber gloves to check an immigration card? I swear they do it to shit you up. I was then given my baggage, which was then taken back off me and thrown down a black hole, while I was thrown on a train. The announcer on the train then said "Everyone for zones A, B, C and N depart now. Those wanting connections to zone J should go via N then C. Those wanting connecions to A should go through N then C via B. Anyone looking vaugely confused or disorientated will be subjected to a rectal cavity search. Have a nice day." I looked at my ticket. Zone S. I frightenedly followed everyone else off the train. As luck would have it, my bag miraculously appeared from another hole in the floor and I escaped in a taxi.

So here I am in my hotel room (with wireless connection! Woohoo!). It's just about dinner time but my body says it's 3am. So I'm going to bed. Goodnight folks.

Genesis

2006-05-17T22:39:00.000+01:00

I started my new job on Monday, and the lack of anything blog-related in the past few days is due in no small part to the lack of anything computer-shaped on my desk. In fact, in the past three days I have done little more than play games on the office console (we have two of them, and 32” LCD TVs on the desks – I love this place already). I was actually given a laptop today, but a delay in getting my email alias sorted out has meant I will probably have nothing to do for the rest of the week. Lara Croft and I are becoming very well acquainted.

In other news, I have just watched the Champions League final. Bastard.

Bastard
Bastard
Bastard
Bastard
Bastard.

Bastard.

More On Magaluf

2006-05-10T19:30:00.000+01:00

I had a couple of comments yesterday suggesting that I’d made Magaluf up. I seriously wish I had. But then all the burglars and muggers would have nowhere to go on holiday. For those of you who don’t know it – try to imagine all that is bad about Britain, then shovel it up in a giant pooper scooper and dump it on an unsuspecting Spanish island. Rows and rows of British cafes, British pubs and British louts having British fights – the only reason that the Spanish put up with it is because there’s none of them there. Seriously. I don’t think I saw one Spaniard the entire time I was there. They’d all gone on holiday to Luton.

Fortunately for us (the law-abiding, morally upstanding types of lout), high season hadn’t yet hit and the area was reasonably trouble free. On the day that we left, a party of 120 lads from Manchester turned up at our hotel. Our rep told us that several days later, a party of 100 Leeds boys would also be arriving. Glassing, anyone?

A Week Goes Missing

2006-05-09T12:40:00.000+01:00

The Take That reunion quickly descended into chaos

Don’t worry, I’m not dead. Technically. I’ve spent the last four days on a stag do in Magaluf, so I’m just coming to terms with reality again. Briefly, the highlights:

2hrs in: The transfer coach breaks down.

12hrs in: We are given enough free booze to kill a rhino. Anarchy ensues.

24hrs in: The stag gets food poisoning and spends the rest of the trip turning himself inside out.

36hrs in: I get lost and spend three hours walking aimlessly around the island.

48hrs in: I lose control of my legs and spend the next 12hrs lying on my face.

60hrs in: Honestly, I have no idea.

Magaluf’s lovely though. I expect.