The Blog of Justice

The next guy's prostate problems

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 18:45:00 +0000

I have trouble going for a wee in a urinal at the best of times. It's okay when you have those little urinal divider walls, but when it's just an open trough, there are a number of issues to distract you from just getting on and having a wee and getting on with the rest of your life.

The guy next to you is bound to have problems. It's just the nature of weeing in public. Every bloke who stands next to you when you're having a wee has some weird habit that's going to put you off.

It doesn't need to be anything incredibly intrusive, but just the slightest distraction will put me off my "flow". In fact, distractions from the guy standing next to you can fall under any one of these headings.

Standing right next to you even though there are tens of urinals free

The toilet's pretty much sodding empty. Why stand right next to someone? There's no good reason for it where the consequences of performing such an action won't get you arrested and / or punched.

Checking out your willy

As above, but to the point where I can not only no longer wee, I'll never be able to wee in public again. This is like visual rape.

Starting a conversation

It'll end up more than likely being a monologue, because I'm not going to reply. I am here to expel urine, and not to participate in a conference about the weather / football / subjectIDon'tCareAbout. If you feel that you need to talk, talk to your mate, or use a cubicle and talk to the phone numbers scrawled on the wall. I'm sensitive about weeing, okay?

The guy next to you: Prostate problems

You know when older blokes go next to you or into a cubicle, and they have this initial flow of normal wee before they reach a point where they have to PUSH.

Splosh.

Drip drip drip. Shake, and put the mouse back in the house.

I can't help but pay more attention to the sound of that than concentrating on weeing. Granted it's the least distracting of the bunch, but it doesn't seem to take much to put me off.

Wayne Rooney in "Not a nice person" shocker!

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 18:23:00 +0000

Thank you, The Daily Mirror, for unveiling Wayne Rooney as the nasty piece of work that he is.

Without your much-needed assistance, I couldn't have possibly determined that he's a self-centred, misogynistic highly over-rated waste of skin without your keen journalism and eye for a story.

I'm probably being slightly harsh towards the Daily Mirror here for merely spotting the obvious, gathering a bit of evidence (Sitting next to a telephone and waiting for the inevitable kiss-and-tell call) and exercising their right to sell millions of newspapers, but I just can't help myself.

If you couldn't see Wayne Rooney was a nasty piece of work prior to the news stories regarding his "lurid" affair with Jennifer Thompson, you must have football blinkers on.

It can't be denied that he's a good footballer (though still hugely over-rated in my humble opinion) because he plays for one of the biggest clubs in the world. Surely however, you must be able to see by the way he speaks to the referee, and by the way that he conducts the very core of his body language both on and off the pitch that the guy is a grade A moron.

In fact, it can't be argued following the failed injunctions filed by Ashley Cole, John Terry and 75% of the rest of the England squad that the majority of England international footballers seem to have the moral fibre equal to that of a market stall pyjama set.

There's nothing stopping people from being themselves, and nobody's perfect, but if you can't see that the England senior squad are mostly mongoloids, you're probably still hopeful we'll win Euro 2012.

Trivial heavy metal

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 11:17:00 +0000

There's so much metal-based music these days where the lyrics revolve around things that strike me as a bit pathetic. Take the lyrics for Simple Plan - Me against the world.

I'm a nightmare, a disaster
That's what they always said
I'm a lost cause, not a hero
But I'll make it on my own
I've gotta prove them wrong
Me against the world
It's me against the world

You're not really against the world, are you?

It's you against your mum. The lyrics in my head go a little more like this:

I wanted fish fingers beans and chips for dinner, but mum made me chicken nuggets. Rahhhhh.

I wanted my birthday cake to have a football on it, but it had a racing car. Life would be simpler if I was deaaaad.

Give blood

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 14:23:00 +0000

The UK is consistently bombarded with advertisements for giving blood to the NHS. Blood vans are set up throughout the country to collect blood for immediate distribution to hospitals that need it.

The adverts are always telling us how much of a shortage there is, and how we need to give blood today because otherwise someone will die.

So why the bloody hell (pun partly intended. Thanks) can't I get near a blood van?! Every time I go down there, they're fully booked and I'm told to try again another time!

Tell you what. Tell me when you're REALLY short and I'll quite happily nip down and donate!

The way of the future

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 21:33:00 +0000

I've moved around quite a lot lately, and my transport preferences have shuffled around in a similar fashion.

My problematic commute was initially provided by the rail service, but now I have resorted to car, followed by bus.

The difference in time to get from A to B is insignificant, but my experiences using the services couldn't be much more different.

For example, if I had still been taking the train, I wouldn't have experienced this little gem.

Whilst driving home later one evening on a deserted motorway, I approached a car in front of me that was travelling at what must have been around 45mph.

In the middle lane of a motorway.

With nobody else on it.

That, to me, is probably the most irritating thing that a person can witness on a public road.

There is a close second, however.

When passing the car at what felt like twice the speed of sound (I was travelling at 75mph incase the fool decided to really speed up and hit the fast lane), I noticed that he had his front foglights on.

On the clearest day we've had in the last two weeks. Not a cloud in the sky.

Why do people insist on driving with their front fog lights on when there's nothing wrong with the visibility conditions?! I asked one retarded gentleman this question some years back, and received the predictable response:

"It looks better".

TO WHO?! YOU?! YOU CAN'T SEE YOUR FOG LIGHTS, BUT I CAN AND I AM BLINDED BY THEM.

So, mr fog light driver; turn them off, or I'll turn you off.

You know what I mean.

Google adverts and Jade Goody. Again.

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 16:41:00 +0000

This is more than anything from an immoral advert-driven perspective.

My last post focused on the lengths that people would go to in order to make money on the internet, and in this particular circumstance, using Jade Goody as an example.

I've been keeping an eye on what happens when you type "Jade Goody" into Google, and sure enough, a "fan site" has sprung up.

It's in hot pink, the content is severely limited, and there are Google advertisements on every single page. This site shot to the top of the search rankings based on popularity and content relevance (Though obviously not quality of content!), and will be making the webmaster a few pennies if nothing else.

Making money off someone's inevitable death. Nice.

The Forgone Conclusion of Jade Goody

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 13:48:00 +0000

In August 2008, Jade Goody was diagnosed with cervical cancer.

Initially, quite a few of the incredibly cynical contingent of bulletin boards thought it was a publicity stunt, or that the cancer was less serious than reported, and was blown out of proportion by Max Clifford, Jade Goody's PR agent.

The actual situation was more serious than this however, and Jade's condition has since become terminal. She has been given around a few weeks left to live, though no date is precise.

With this in mind, I was having a scan around the internet to see what people thought of terminal Jade Goody. The result should've been unsurprising, but was shocking nonetheless.

An initial search for Jade brings up the URL of her official website, which has since closed and is just displaying sponsored ads. Searching for her twitter page produces what could be the most amazing thing I've ever seen online in terms of marketing over the value of life. I was taken to a Twitter page named something not dissimilar to "Jade Goody - Rest in Peace", which was taking condolences for her death.

She's not actually dead yet, and everybody seems to be shutting up shop to get higher in the rankings. That Twitter page will doubtless be a huge source for consoling Tweets from unsuspecting people, when in reality, it may very well turn out to be a marketing ploy.

Another effort is from a Search Engine Optimisation consultant, who's added it to his website to see how far up search rankings he can get. There's also a nice bit of Google Adsense at the bottom. Just in case you fancy earning him a few quid. Nice touch Matt.

The point of this post is that the internet never ceases to amaze me. It's always changing, and people are always finding ways of making extra cash, no matter how immoral the means are.

SEOBook.com has mentioned that @superbowl on Twitter is ranked #9 in Google's organic listings. So creating a rubbish twitter page about Jade Goody instantly ranks quite highly, bringing blogs linking to it up as well. Sneaky. Very very sneaky.

KFC Breakfast menu

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 09:33:00 +0000

Grim.

It's apparently being trialled in the North East of England, and looking closely, a lot of the menu items look like sore skin ailments.

I've always abhorred the sound of a "Sausage & Egg McMuffin" due to the sheer solidity and artificiality of the perfectly circular egg.

It appears that KFC have raised the bar however, by producing a breakfast menu that doesn't contain a single ingredient that remotely involves chicken.

In a current climate where health concerns are paramount, the breakfast menu has altered significantly to reflect this.

With this (clearly not) in mind, KFC have stumbled in with their size twelves offering the least appetising breakfast menu since 5am in a kebab shop.

Now then. Who fancies a "Charger"?

Holy Moly! Leaked usernames and passwords!

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 11:50:00 +0000

Popular gossip website Holy Moly has just had a bit of a revamp.

And they've had a raffle with people's personal information while they're at it.

Allow me to explain. For starters, they took the website down entirely for a week, replacing it with a webpage with a countdown. This seems like a bit of a schoolboy error considering the amount of revenue they must pull in through advertising, plus all Google search links go through to a text-only rubbish 404 message that doesn't tell you anything.

This aside, they've commited a much larger schoolboy error.

I got the email through saying:

We've had a bit of an overhaul at Holy Moly!

As well as a fresh lick of paint and a whole raft of new things to click on, we've moved house to www.holymoly.com

Everyone’s password has been reset and some of your usernames may have also changed slightly.

Great eh?

No. Not great. The new username and password they've given me is nothing like my old one. That's because IT'S NOT MINE. IT'S SOMEBODY ELSE'S. What they have done is leaked someone else's personal information in an email sent to me.

I'll be bringing this to the account holder's attention, but the fact remains that this has to be the biggest screwup I've ever seen outside of someone I know emailing the same person three thousand times instead of sending an email to three thousand different people.

So well done Holy Moly! You've set yourself up for a bit of a fall there!

Kerry Katona

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 12:35:00 +0000

Before I link you to what is an utter car crash of a television personality, I think it's about time I had something to say about her.

Celebrity culture has always been highly publicised and often abused, regardless of whether it is detrimental to the welfare of its focus of attention.

In the case of Kerry Katona, I can't think of a better case of the phrase "Car crash television".

Celebrities that are likened to her in terms of negative press are Britney Spears, Amy Winehouse and Pete Doherty.

Kerry Katona is worse than all of the above for three simple reasons.

1) She is a mother of at least three children. She might be hiding more in surrounding shrubbery or under flaps of skin she hasn't yet had tended to, but we'll soon find out about that in The Sun.

Amy Winehouse and Pete Doherty are solely responsible for their own degrading mental and physical state. Kerry has children to worry about, and isn't worried.

2) She's close to home. She's a British citizen, has a column in OK! magazine, a frankly abominable MTV show, and a sponsorship deal with lazy mum vending machine, Iceland.

This makes her more likely to be identified with. Your average pram-pushing sixteen year-old mother of forty-three is more likely to feel what she's going through, and she's therefore under more pressure to set an example.

3) She keeps denying it. Britney, Pete and Amy can't really deny their exploits. Kerry is still insisting (several months after declaring herself bankrupt) that she's absolutely fine, and that her kids are in perfectly capable hands.

This aside, judge her for yourself. We all reserve the right to do so, because it's not us.

Brilliant.

Kerry Katona drunk on This Morning with Fern and Philip.

Derive from this what you will.

The lesser of two evils

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 08:00:00 +0000

If you're desperate enough, sometimes you've got to make some pretty difficult decisions. Some examples are whether or not to eat another person if stranded on a desert island, whether you're happy to try that little bit of milk in the bottom of the bottle because it's the last one, and finally and most importantly, which cubicle to take in a toilet.

Desperation is key to making split-second decisions, and defines just how much of a gamble they can sometimes turn out to be.

For example, take my situation the other day. I was busting, and I mean literally rupturing my bladder, for a pee. So off I dash to the toilet, fit to burst.

I storm into the gents only to be met by a green cloud of noxious fumes that could only be the product of someone else's emotional trauma some minutes previous.

The sheer stench is unquestionable. What is questionable however, is which cubicle is emitting it.

Time is short. You're unable to pause for thought. It's not possible to think, even if you had the time because one hundred per cent of your brain power is concentrating on keeping the flood gates closed.

So you make a decision. Or rather, I made a decision. And boy did I regret it.

The Shining

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 07:59:00 +0000

Watching The Shining the other night, I was astounded at how a film that's now twenty-eight years old could be quite so creepy with minimal special effects.

However, there's one thing that's stopping me from immersing myself in the film totally.

The leading lady, Shelly Duval.

She looks like a goldfish with wonky teeth.

When she looks scared, she looks scary. I couldn't actually believe the fear she was supposed to be experiencing because I couldn't stop smirking at how ugly she was, and what ridiculous clothes she was wearing. Not just clothes that are reminiscent of that era, horrible outfits that made her look like she'd just stepped off the special bus.

If she was only half ugly, she'd be half believable.

A Tribute to Wasps

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 07:39:00 +0000

I'm starting to like wasps.

Well, maybe that's a bit generous, but I definitely prefer them to flies. Why?

Because they know what they want.

They don't waste their time flying into glass doors, navigating your lounge in circular motions or trying to land inside your ear canal or on your face.

If you've got a sweet drink, or an ice lolly, they're interested. They'll fly right up to you and try to land on it.

Rather than panic, the best way to deal with it (rather than trying to bat them away) is to blow air directly at them. They mistake it for a breeze and it puts them off balance. After a few of these, I find they tend to bugger off to find something else to land on.

In the process of getting rid of them, I've found that the vast majority, when fed up, will find a way straight out of the vicinity. No getting stuck in curtain netting, no circles.

Just out.

Fair play to them. Just don't piss one off.

Spitting Games

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 07:39:00 +0000

"Always look after number one."

That seems to be the mantra of the majority of the population of Bristol's cyclists, and given the amount of dangerously driven cars on the road, it's a good one to have. The trouble is, some cyclists have a slightly different derivation of this.

"Only look after number one."

Spot the difference? As a pedestrian, I've been cut up, cut off, nearly hit, and sworn at for merely being in the way of someone who wants to go forty miles per hour.

Just the other day I witnessed a perfect example of a spoon-fed on a bike.

I watched a guy cycling along the street. He turned his head slightly, and spat a massive amount of god knows what out onto the road, narrowly missing the bonnet of the car patiently waiting behind him. About one hundred yards down the road, he then looked behind him to make sure it was safe for him to swerve across the lane without getting run over.

So essentially, he was quite happy to spit on someone's car, just as long as they didn't run him over.

Cheers mate.

Roger Gregory

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 07:19:00 +0000

My Mum had me at the early age of eighteen and relied heavily on my grandparents to help her to bring me into the world in tough circumstances. Her relationship with her parents has always been very close, and they have never lived more than twenty miles apart, with us all seeing each other several times a week for the last twenty-five years of my life.

I consider my Nan and my Grandad my best friends who would do anything for me, as I would do anything for them. They've taken care of me as though they were my parents, and have never questioned any of my decisions in life, only supported me throughout it all.

Each Sunday we get together for a family meal, and my Uncle, Aunt, two cousins, my two sisters, my Mum, my Step Dad, my Nan and my Grandad are all regularly there. I can't describe how close I am to these people, and how I can't imagine my life without their support.

With this in mind, I was devastated when my Grandad passed away on Sunday morning, 10th August, aged sixty-nine. He died after a very short battle with pancreatic cancer, the acceleration of his decline in health the likes of which I've never seen before.

Even in the hospital he won the affections of several doctors and nurses due to his quiet calming demenour and his kind and thoughtful nature. His unmistakeable sense of humour and his sparkling personality were alive until the very end, and he swore he would fight his illness despite impossible circumstances.

He taught me responsibility, how to conduct myself with dignity, and to care for those who also care for you. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't thank him for his advice, his love, and his unending support throughout my early years. He will never be forgotten.

Thank you for everything Grandad.

Thank you Max

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 06:53:00 +0000

Today's blog is a long one, but it goes somewhere, I promise.

I started playing guitar around 2003 after I went to my second festival, and decided that there was a gap in my life that could be filled with playing music and providing me with some emotional fulfilment I wasn't getting at the time.

Times were difficult, and even though I had a reasonably good ear for music anyway and had picked out certain things on the piano, learning guitar was frustrating and troublesome. I stuck at it, and got only half crap by 2004.

I then took lessons for a year with a good teacher who opened up my eyes to a range of different acoustic music, which is where my preference tends to lie.

He taught me to a point where I knew enough to get by, and asked me if I was interested in angling towards recording or playing live. I said I would be more of a recording artist because the thought of playing in front of people intimidated me. He explained to me that it's normal to feel like that, but once you've played live and it's gone well, you're hooked. I took it with a pinch of salt, but still fancied giving it a shot.

The first time I played and sang in front of someone was in front of some family friends in the winter of 2006. I was terrified, but they all seemed to think I was very good and were shocked that I was capable of this, having been very quiet and reserved as a child. The whole family's very musical, and the Grandad asked if I'd like to go down to an acoustic open mic night to try and play a few songs. I agreed reluctantly.

So off I went to the Burnham-on-Sea acoustic club on a Thursday night. I played three songs that I had rehearsed spectacularly frequently, and it didn't go too badly. From thereon, I was addicted and played three or four more times before music took a bit of a back-seat in my life.

Around six months later I picked up an electric guitar and joined a short-lived ill-fated band that was a lot of fun, but was never going to go anywhere. It disbanded four months after I joined, and after a few big changes in my life left me feeling very down and depressed, I decided it was time to give live music another push.

I started off in a pub in Weston-super-Mare where I didn't know anybody with the exception of one friend that I dragged along for the sake of it. I was intimidated by the quality of playing and my first performance didn't go too well.

Due to the rest of the band being very good at what they played and not knowing anything I knew, I found it quite discouraging so decided to go back to the drawing board of open-mic acoustic music. Solo.

My first attempt back at this was in a pub two doors down from the live house band pub. I recognised a few faces and did my best to fit in. A chap who the others instantly recognised and referred to as Max turned up around 9pm, and began to set up.

He did a set on his own for a while with a lot of character and enthusiasm. He was instantly likeable and unassuming, and I found that very encouraging. I volunteered myself to get up immediately after him, and played a song I had written and recorded a few months previous.

The praise he lavished on me was unexpected, extremely flattering and helpful. I agreed to attend a busier night a week later, which, although he didn't attend, I enjoyed and met lots of new people. That extra push Max gave me helped me to get to where I did and to enjoy playing live music with enthusiasm.

I carried on writing, and I don't think my life would be the same as it is now without his hand in my enthusiasm to keep writing and performing music.

Max passed on a few weeks ago, and even though our encounter was brief, he had a big impact on me and I want to say thank you.

So thank you, Max. Rest in peace.

Feel the music

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 07:43:00 +0000

Sometimes when you listen to music for long enough, regular sound effects around you remind you of songs. A rhythm of a heavy-goods train travelling past reminds you of a hip-hop track.
Things that people say to you in regular circumstances match those of lyrics you're very familiar with and you can't help but start singing those lyrics in the song they're present in.

More recently I've started to step up to the next level of this phenomenon. My car has begun harmonising with songs.

Driving my car the other day, I was listening to The mamas and the papas, and couldn't help but notice that "California Dreamin'" had an extra backup singer. Using the windscreen washer jets to squirt water on my windscreen produced a pitch-perfect harmony for the verse.

Geek! Yes, yes. I know.

Spider Squatters

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 07:08:00 +0000

Generally I don't mind mind sharing my house with spiders, just as long as they mind their own business.

To be fair, most of them do. You can go about your daily business, watch TV, do your ironing, and the spiders will just mosey on down the wall for a bit of a stroll and then go back to their corner. Everything's fine.

But there are always a few that are just trouble.

Don't ask me why, but there are a few that just have it in for me. Eight-legged terrorists.

The worst of the bullies are those that actively try and catch you out by spinning webs in the most ludicrous places.

I have a garden path to my house which has hedges either side in parallel.

Front door
| |
| |
| |
| |
Entrance

So why in god's name would a spider think it's a good idea to spin one right across the two hedges, therefore blocking my entrance to the house? Hang on, but it's not blocking my entrance is it. No. It's just going to cover me in web when I walk through it like a spider finishing line. I've caught him at it on a few occasions and cut the web to leave him hanging up-side-down and probably shaking his tiny fists with fury, but more often than not, I've been picking spider web off of my jeans.

Just last week the same spider (I assume only one spider could be this vindictive) managed to spin a web right across the front door. Across the place where my face was about to pass through. Oh yes. I strode through the front door after a long hard day at the office to get a solid line of spider web right across my face.

The battle rages on even now as I remove spider silk from my eyebrows. I'll name him, and then I'll blog about the war of webs as it progresses.

It's not just the terrorists either. It's the creepy ones.

Spiders are usually just as scared of you as you are of them but when I see one sat on the wall and it makes me jump, it's because they've been there the whole time staring at me, and I find that disconcerting.

It's like in those detective thrillers when the protagonist walks into his office to find someone already sat behind the desk in the dark with a glass of red wine.

"Hello Karl. I've been expecting you."

Stay tuned for further complaints...

Cheese and Marmite

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 07:47:00 +0000

Let's get off on the right foot. I like mature Cheddar cheese. None of that rubbish "mild" rubbish. It has to be strong to give a decent flavour.

I also quite like Marmite for similar reasons.

But then that got me thinking. What if you were to combine those two flavours? Two of the strongest and barely edible flavours on the planet combine, and what do you get?

There can only be one answer. Or maybe two, but let's concentrate on one.

A Black Hole.

The flavours are so strong that when combined, the sheer flavour mass of them attracts their own gravitational field which then sucks everything else in. First the bread disappears, and then the rest of the planet follows.

Either that, or it just tastes a bit strong and you probably won't do it again.

Or you'll like it, which'd make you a bit weird.

Midland tourists

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 07:13:00 +0000

Anybody who lives in the South-West of England benefits from a fair amount of tourism due to the rural nature of the environment and the fact that we have several sandy beaches around here. One of which is the beach at Weston-super-Mare.

It's your typical British sea-side town and tends to attract a lot of people who don't have this scenery, mainly from the Midlands.

Birmingham is a city in the Midlands of England and has no such beaches. As a result it's become a standing joke that due to this, those who live in Birmingham tend to visit Weston-super-Mare all the bleeding time. Also, the joke's extended by mentioning that they know the place better than the locals do.

With this in mind, I hopped on a locally-running train home from work on a Friday before a bank holiday. I cast a glance around the train and saw the usual suspects you tend to see on the same train home every day; the sort of regular commuters that breed familiarity.

My eye was then caught however by the sight of a map on the side of the train. As I looked closer, I couldn't believe it.

It was a map of bloody Birmingham. It was a train designed to run locally within Birmingham, and it was taking me home.

Even their trains holiday down here.

Toilet seat warmers

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 12:17:00 +0000

I just can't understand it.

Why the hell would you want a warm toilet seat?

Allow me to elaborate.

I think my fear of warm toilet seats stems from being in some sort of queue for a toilet cubicle and seeing the guy who was just in there make a swift exit. Perhaps he's mopping his brow a little from the strains of the movement endured, or maybe he's got a smug grin on his face because he knows you're now entering the zone of punished porcelain.

Either way, you're aware that cheeks previous have touched that toilet seat. Your awareness is re-enforced when your own cheeks touch the seat and the warmth of that previous person and other previous people's stay is still escaping the seat and now touching your cheek-skin.

Why would you want to party to that? More importantly, why would you want to replicate that feeling with a toilet seat warmer?

Hear me now people. Cold seats are winners.

When the company laugh goes too far

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 08:30:00 +0000

Company laughs are a necessary evil, I understand that. When a potential professional suitor cracks an unfunny joke, you want them to feel that they're special and that you genuinely like them.

However, there is a time when this can go too far, and you may find yourself laughing at your own humour in the same way.

I experienced a case of this sat on a morning commuter train the other day.

The chap next to me was speaking to a woman about his children and the unfunny things that they do, and laughing at every single thing with the exact-same number of repeated guffaws per unfunny occurance.

I can't give you examples because I (thankfully) had headphones in, but I could tell by the look of the woman's face that she wasn't an account manager and was unable to keep the polite grin for much longer.

Next time you're sat opposite a laughter vacuum of a person such as this, do your best to keep a polite smile, but don't feel too bad if you just punch them in the face instead.

I'm sure they'll understand.

Flying the flag

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 12:19:00 +0000

Good news!

I managed to make my way into work (A total of around twenty-five miles) with plenty of walking either side blissfully unaware that I had my flies undone for the entire journey.

Result.

How to tell bad quality sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 12:08:00 +0000

I know when I'm either stressed or not that tired because I dream.

If I'm shattered, I won't dream. If I have things on my mind, I dream.

If my body's just taking the rest because it's lazy, I dream. But I don't just dream. My alarm clock woke me up this morning while I was dreaming about my Nan telling me what a great deal on interest rates her bank just gave her. She was actually reeling through the details. In my dream.

If your body doesn't really need the sleep, why not just let you wake up?!

That's rock 'n roll

noreply@blogger.com (Karl) — Fri, 11 Jan 2008 23:10:00 +0000

It is my dream to one day own a Gibson Les Paul Standard. I think they're absolutely superb guitars, and they're the biggest status symbol that I could possibly dream to own.

I don't think I'm going to own one in the next twelve months, so whenever I see one floating around on TV, I'm desperate to own it.

What really breaks my heart is when I see a £1,300 guitar get smashed into the ground by a "rock star" for the sake of what he or she determines as "rock 'n roll".

Don't be a dick, and don't smash an expensive guitar that some guitarists will never own and some aspire to own for the sake of looking cool.

Now I'm a huge Foo Fighters fan anyway, and Dave Grohl is one of my personal heroes, so you can imagine how much my heart soared when I recently saw a documentary on him filming the music video for The Pretender.

The director instructed Dave to "smash the guitar into the ground at the end".

The guitar is a Gibson Explorer and costs around £400 here.

"Are you serious?" Dave enquired. "This is an $800 guitar."

He relented quite quickly, but nonetheless, it was good to see a real rock star express concern for the value of instruments that some people will never own.

Rock on, Dave.