Tuesday, February 26, 2008

A five-step plan to keeping your man

1) Do not try to change him (you will find him unattractive should you ever succeed).

2) Remember most conversations take place at chest level (stuff your bra with bubble wrap and start popping if you need to grab his attention).

3) Leave the toilet seat upright at all times; for speed of use and in case of urination from distance (a necessity if he is watching football ‘between rooms’).

4) One pair of shoes looks like another. Just buy a pair and leave Hobbs/Nine West/Kurt Geiger before the dawn of the next ice age.

5) Don’t invite him to a Winehouse after-party. Ask if he would like any of Amy’s crack and he will say no.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Last words

'This vodka tastes a bit like paint thinner.'
'Why is your wife's head in the fridge?'
'Pass me more lighter fuel. Let's get this barbecue started.'
'The negotiations with the fundamentalists are going well. Oh look, they've sent us a parcel!'
'I strongly believe this cocaine is overpriced.'
'Let's happy slap that ninja.'

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Council geezer (overheard in West Hampstead barbershop)

‘You would not believe the drugs over there, man,’ riffs the council geezer. 'They got everything, coke, speed, meth, puff, crack, pills. I had a bit of everything over there, mate.’
‘How did you meet this Bulgarian....drug dealer?’
‘I saw a guy in a D&G t-shirt, but underneath the logo was printed 'I AM A DRUG DEALER’ in big ****ing letters. I was there pissing myself and this geezer come over to me and asked why I was laughing and I said your t-shirt is too much, mate.’
‘Actually, I am drug dealer,’ he told me. ‘The t-shirt never lies’. Serious. So he hooked me up for the whole time I was there with the bird in Sofia and I took everything that was on offer, man. It was a five star hotel but they hated the English people over there so we got a lift to Turkey for 500 Euros off this other geezer. No flights or anything so we had to take it. But [indecipherable place in Turkey] was the spot, mate. Mad weed over there, yeah?’
The council geezer’s mate leaves a tenner to pay for his pal’s haircut and they leave; the barber shrugs his heavy-set shoulders: ‘If he’d taken all those drugs he’d be dead, man.’

Sunday, February 17, 2008

I'll house you

UK bus stops feature in very few Hollywood movies. And for good reason, your local bus stop represents the routine and the mundane. The timetables are indecipherable and rarely kept to....the only people who understand them are older than Moses. But it's a good spot to sell life insurance.
'It just ain't the same nowa-days,' some toothless dear tells me at the bus stop while I'm squinting at the timetable in 6-point type inside the shelter.
'Wuh? Does this bus go to Havant?'
'It just ain't safe to leave your door open, love. Nowa-daaays.'
'I'm glad you're havin' it, dear.'
The silver generation love to tell us that you could leave your front door open and never get robbed in the good old days. Truth is, if everyone in 1943 left their door open burglars would not have the sheer man hours to rob more than a few houses. It is strongly believed that burglar burn-out was a major problem in the 1940s. 'Looting a house is a knackering business - drink Ovaltine and go back tomorrow.' - a public health announcement poster reads in the National Museum.
There was also nothing worth stealing. But the old folks won't listen when I try to tell them...they just smile and nod and turn down their hearing aids....while I try to remember if I locked the front door.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Raspberry McCartney

Most of you call it sugar....I call it white gold. Back in the day that's how the kids got high. Every break time, every lunch time, every end of school time, the ice cream man parked outside our gates and started peddling those sugary treats. Our pleasures were simple. Break a Milk Flake in half, stick a piece in either nostril and pour a can of Vimto down your throat in one go and you experience a euphoria, a giddy rush not unlike crystal meth while neatly sidestepping the psychotic behaviour and paranoid raving. Or so we thought. We were blinded by our sugary high, underestimating its grip and confusing the strange hallucinations that danced in our minds with lucid reality. We started to mess with our dealer....the silver-haired ice cream man...by requesting an ice lolly that did not exist. 'Can I have a Raspberry McCartney, please?' 'What?' 'The Beatles ice lolly...you must have sold me two or three last week.' 'Are you sure?' 'You sell 'em, mate.' The next kid asked for a Raspberry McCartney...and the next one....and the next one..and the next one. Our dealer got nervous....no-one was buying...the addicts no longer got off on Vimto and double flake...he made half his living off the sugar junkies and teen ice cream fiends....but now his business was on the rocks and he started to crack under the strain.....'N-next week. I've been searching everywhere,' he stammered the following day. 'It's all right,' said the kid at the front of the queue. 'I'll have a Lemon Lennon instead.' 'I-I don't...' 'Okay a Mango Ringo?' 'N-n-no.' 'An Aniseed Harrison?' "Uuuuuh.' 'Sod it, we're going to The Spar.' The ice cream man never came back again. I like to think he's still out there...looking for Raspberry McCartneys...wherever they may be.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Gifting the unfairer sex

Love hearts fired into the skies by mini-cupids on a romantic weekend in Paris, miniature teddy bears holding 'I love you' balloons, flute after flute of inhibition-loosening champagne (cava, if you can get away with it), a charming potted orchid (for the senior lady) or a bunch of blood red roses (for the hot-blooded young nympho), racy lingerie (M&S does the trick), some Blahniks or Jimmy Choos (just get the right shoe size - 8 equals clown feet) , a mini-iceberg from Tiffany or 'vintage' jewellery as worn by that sentimental aunt......all are accepted graciously (or otherwise) on Valentines Day by the 'unfairer' sex.....but for the love of God...don't buy chocolate......its purchase almost amounts to a hate crime....she can buy it (on the down low), but you can't, my brother man...so drop that Toblerone and put your hands in the air...play hacky-sack with your Ferrero Rocher....a bit of blow football with those maltesers....and your love may live to bloom...for another day at least......

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Things to do in London when you're dead

Dream of long, dark nights of the soul, drinking wine (red or white, but never rose) with women of suspect virtue; decompose gracefully, smirk silently from beyond at the unpaid bills of EDF, British Gas, Thames Water, Camden Council, Plus.net, Sky and Setanta, your landlord or mortgage lender and the will no-one ever expected; prop up the bar at any trendy nightclub or drinking establishment and marvel at how no-one recognises your deceased status and lack of conversation (a wannabe actress describes you as 'chatty'); go to the Emirates Stadium and sit in a corporate seat with 'le fans nouveau' and become known as the 'wild crazy man who sings all the songs'; stand for Parliament, win a seat and slouch in the backbenches; date a woman who reads celebrity magazines and refers to pop and movie stars by their first name; ensure all your conversations involve the subjects 'money', 'property', 'jobs', 'schools' and 'weight loss'....understand death and death in life are not dissimilar. Pray for a favourable reincarnation and start again......