With friends like these

I told a friend of mind that I was only waiting for him to fuck up so I could steal his gorgeous wife and this was his response:

Yes that's likely:  "hello? Is that match.com? Well I'm finally rid of my ex. who was a short, fat, unfashionably northern waste of space whose major defining characteristics were having a train-wreck career, depressing taste in music and a drinking problem... So could you send over another one please? But with a smaller dick." 
No woman, ever.

Life in a Northern Town‏

So, I'm walking at a fair lick along The Headrow and I accidentally bump shoulders with a woman.

 I turn around to apologise (I am British, but it was her fault).

Her boyfriend who is 6 foot plus and dressed like he wants to be Dizzee Rascal so bad it hurts, spins around, looms down at me and gets right in my face so our noses are nearly touching. Mentally I'm seeing my bruised face on Look North tonight and he says to me, 'oh sorry, are you alright?'

Then he wheels round to his girlfriend and says, 'for fucks sake Leanne watch where you're going'

On my way back to the flat cutting through Kirkgate Market a 12 year old boy in a hoodie attempts to bum a cigarette off me. Life in Leeds eh.

Don't buy women flowers

I'm being very serious here.

Here is my point. Women do love to receive flowers, I understand that but it comes at a price.

If you give a woman flowers she will undoubtedly have a brief moment of delight. How pleased she will be that someone is thinking of her and someone cares.

But then, the hard work starts. She has to first get them home intact. Not so bad if you have a car, bit of a nightmare on public transport. Then she will spend a considerable amount of time selecting the correct vase or vessel, probably ferreting around the back of kitchen cupboards and under the stairs to find one. What follows is a long pain staking process of trying to 'make them look nice'. She will spend an inordinate amount of her evening trying to make them look as attractive as possible. Perhaps ribbons and ties will be involved. After that's done there is then all the mess to clean up. The trimmed stems, the removed leaves and so forth.

From my point of view it would be as if someone had made me an unexpected gift of an IKEA flat pack unit that I then had to struggle home with on the bus. Assemble myself before clearing up all the detritus, and then photoing the finished item, sending them the photo with a message about how nice it looks. But for me it ends there. For the woman with flowers she then has to keep tending these things like looking after an unasked for tamagotchi for days after to ensure they stay alive. Changing the water and feeding the water. Pulling out the dying ones and re-arranging to cover these losses. It's an ongoing nightmare. Especially if the thoughtful one who gave you this gift comes around and you are down to your one remaining stem of freesia.

My ex-girlfriend who was my no means a girly-girl (always hair scraped tightly back, never saw her once go to work in a dress or skirt, not that surprising really as she is an arc welder). Would spend hours trying to sort out flowers on the odd occasion that someone bought them for her She would consider herself a failure as a woman if she couldn't turn a cheap spray from the garage into something Elton John would envy.

So don't buy flowers for women. You are making a rod for their back.

Insomnia and e-pistles

thought occurred to me last night during one of my all too frequent bouts of insomnia. Normally I dismiss these ideas in the morning as ridiculous. Such as my idea for inclined travellators at airports to help people get fit, especially the tardy, and my idea for renaming all London Boroughs "Royal" to level up the playing field - think of it, "come to Royal Newham", seems only reasonable. OK so LiveTV took up my idea for Topless Darts and I'm still battling Pear Tree Productions for the rights to Monkey Tennis.

However this one has been on my mind all day, not so much an idea as an opportunity missed. In the early days of electronic communication through the internet, someone hit upon the idea of calling them e-mails, sticking the letter e on mail like so much i on Jobs. A bland and every day sort of coinage. Well there's a ready made word we could have chosen to resurrect, an old word meaning letter or message, little used these days and pre-e'd up. That is epistle or e-pistle meaning letter.

Would it not sound so much more interesting to be sending and receiving e-pistles than the rather dull e-mail. "I've just received another e-pistle", would sound grand and important, rather than the implication of another offer from someone to have your penis enlarged. It could have improved the whole language, "Tarry a while sir, for I must return to my e-scritoire concerning some e-pistles", sounds so much better than, "Wait here, I've got to check my e-mail on the computer". The whole language and our discourse could be thusly improved.

The campaign starts here not e-mail but henceforth e-pistle and to any nay-sayers I say this, you sir are what is holding back this country.

And now back to the diary

It occurs to me that of late this has become less of a diary and more a collection of rubbish jokes so back to the original Antabuse Diary idea.

This weekend my mother will be coming to stay with me. This is because my father is having a weekend away to go to the rugby. She's going to use her time with me to do some Christmas shopping.

She's staying in the spare room and wants to spend some time with me getting to grips with ancestory.com

We'll probably do our Christmas shopping together, not that I have much to do. Perhaps we'll go to the cinema as well or to the theatre if there's anything on (there isn't I checked).

We won't be going down the pub.

We won't be going to the off licence for a bottle of vodka.

We won't be returning to the off licence about two hours later. Looking a little confused and just pointing at the bottle of vodka again.

We won't be nearly getting knocked down on the way home.

We won't be dancing around in our underwear to the Buzzcocks whilst the bloke next door brays on the wall shouting, "turn it down you drunken bastard". *

We won't then be waking up the next day and wondering why we are covered in bruises, the radiator is hanging off the wall and there appears to be a half-cooked pizza all over the kitchen.

We won't then shudder at the thought that we went upstairs to the flat of the attractive, young rather shy Asian woman, who lives on her own, and asked if she wanted to come downstairs for a drink, dressed only in a dressing gown and clutching a half empty bottle of vodka.

We won't then start praying that actually we just dreamt this. Oh please god don't let me have done that.

We won't then make a decision that before dealing with the radiator and pizza apocalypse. Before washing, shaving or cleaning our teeth. Before all that -- we'll go out and get some more drink.

We won't stumble back across the car park clutching our bottle and being sick from withdrawal.

We won't get in kick off our shoes and start the whole horrible spiral again.

We're going to the Debenhams sale and perhaps the art gallery for lunch. For dinner I'll prepare penne with scallops and a cheese sauce.

We'll watch some telly and I'll apologise for not having any Colin Firth DVDs, again.

We'll get our Christmas shopping done.

See, it's not all jokes. I've joined a band by the way, they're called the 1039 Megabytes. We haven't got a gig yet.


*  Incidentally my mother bought me the aforementioned Buzzcocks CD as a Christmas present, she had asked what I wanted. I told her to check with the staff in the shop that it was the one with Orgasm Addict on it. She's 66 and I have a capricious sense of humour.

Help with packing to go away

With Christmas nearly on us, apparently, to me it's not even the middle of November yet but hey, some people's thoughts will have turned to going away. Perhaps a break with a loved one or family for Christmas or Twixmas. Perhaps to stay with friends or family and share the occasion together. I thought that at this tricky time of year, I Dixon Steele, could help.

Obviously packing is one the more stressful features, before you all pile into a small car and drive 200 miles through constant blizzards to see someone you hate.

Therefore I've created a To Pack helpsheet, it's available below.

By the power of Graceful Green

I had a very pleasant Sunday lunch with an old friend and his family yesterday. During lunch the topic of paint came up (these long winter evenings fly by) and the shade Graceful Green was mentioned and misheard as Greyskull Green. This led me to thinking about the new Dulux Master of the Univerese Collection which as well as Greyskull Green features

• She-Rasperry
• Ram-Magnolia
• Skeletaupe
• Orko-Orange

Please feel free to add to this brief list using the comments below.

And I looked and behold: a pale horse

Yesterday I popped to my local Sainsbury's for a few bits and pieces. [adopts Peter Kay voice] It weren't a Big Shop, you know just Bits and Pieces, Bits and Pieces [returns to normal voice]. With the expansion of supermarkets these days bits and pieces can mean anything. Sainsbury's now as well as the usual range milk, bread, veg and tins also stocks blu-ray players, Nintendo games, enough kitchen equipment to get Nigella wet, bedding, furniture a range of light weapons and industrial plant machinery.

"Yeah, you know what it's like. I just popped in for some milk and bread. I came away with a case of AK-47s, a JCB digger and a surface to air missile."

Well with it being Halloween here in the UK (and other places I imagine) the staff had been encouraged to dress up a bit. Saucy witches, pumpkin people and the like. Very entertaining. However, the chap who's job it is to help people using the self-service checkouts, was a skinny bloke of well over six foot tall and for his character du jour had decided to dress as Death. Fully clad in black robes and with a disturbing mask that concealed his face he gave me a start.

Now it occurred to me that those usually most in need of help at the self-service check out are the elderly. Well if he made me do a double-take what must he have done for the poor old folks trying to get the hang of scanning their own bananas when he suddenly appears behind them?

- DO YOU NEED A HAND PACKING YOUR BAGS TODAY?

- HAVE YOU GOT A NECK-TA CARD?

I fully expect to see the headlines in the local paper to be, mass cardiac arrest in self service section of local Sainsbury's.

Jimmy Savile gave me the willies

Yes, I can honestly say that as a child, come Saturday tea time it wasn't the daleks or the cybermen that had me hiding behind the sofa but the strange white haired man dishing out medals from his ominous, gadget laden chair. Of course I had no idea then that he may have been a child molester. In fact, other than the warnings provided by Charlie (see below) I had no idea what one a pedophile was. There was just something faintly upsetting and unsettling about the man. Never mind how was he allowed near children, how was he allowed near television centre? He appeared to have no discernible talent and was really quite creepy.

And speaking of the daleks am I the only on to notice a strange resemblance between his gadget laden chair on Jim'll Fix it and that of Davros? OK just me then.

Obviously child abuse is a terrible thing and not something to make flimsy jokes about. However with each fresh allegation on the news I'm starting to be reminded of the end of Spartacus or the Life of Brian where everyone stands up at once to volunteer themselves. I'm just waiting for the news were someone announces, "I was abused by Jimmy Savile and so was my wife", they can use this Action Man doll to show them where he touched them. If you weren't abused by Jimmy Savile, it's only because you were eagle-eyed (I'll get my coat).

Of course I agree with many people who say that it is a terrible shame that all of these allegations have come to light following his death so that he is unable to (delete as appropriate)

1. Defend himself
2. Be tried, found guilty and sent to prison
3. Have his balls cut off and displayed in a cabinet in Westminster Abbey

I've been noting the Stalinist style re-naming of everything Jimmy Savile related (room at the Royal Armouries, road in Scarborough etc.) and I've begun to compose a list of things that also need renaming in the light of these allegations:

• Jimmy's hospital in Leeds
• Savile Row in London
• The film, Jingle All the Way
• The song, Mr Bojangles
• The Marathon chocolate bar - ignore that, they obviously move fast in the world of confectionery.

Please feel free to add to this list using the comments section.

This blog is a travesty. It's a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a travesty of two mockeries of a sham

The below is probably more deserving of a tweet than a blog post but I already have more fake online identities than Grant Shapps and don't want to add another Twitter account so it will need to live here.

I was contacted by one of my army of readers to let me know how much his wife enjoyed reading my blog and I quote, "[my wife] thought your blog was very funny and 'just like a proper one'. Whatever that means." - I too am now puzzling over this. If this isn't a proper one what is it?

The post title of course, for those wondering where I had purloined it from is a quote from the excellent Woody Allen film, Bananas. 

How do you like your doughnuts - Wi Jam in

Well if there's one thing I've learned from not being able to touch a drink it's the importance of finding something to fill that void in your life. I seem to have unconsciously selected food. Every time I feel like having a drink I just reach for the least healthy snack or junk food I can find.

I was at a local tea shop on Saturday and had a coffee and a large slice of chocolate brownie with my morning paper. I then found myself back at the counter, empty plate in hand saying, "same again please" as if ordering my second pint of the day.

I imagine my next visit to my GP will be along the lines of, "well the good news is that your Gamma GT levels indicate your liver is recovering from alcohol abuse, however you do now have gout".

My weight seems to be gaining at a dramatic rate. This didn't occur when I didn't eat from one day to the next, beyond the occasional packet of peanuts. In fact keeping food down was often more of a challenge that keeping my first vodka of the morning down. Now I don't seem to be able to get from breakfast to lunch without imbibing something otherwise only seen on Man vs. Food - and he's only doing that as a challenge, for me it's a tasty snack.

One pill makes you larger and the other makes you small

Well fish and chips with salt and vinegar did no apparent harm, beyond the normal damage to my body that it would do anybody not on Antabuse. This has led me to thinking. What if these are just chalk white tablets with no active ingredients and not Disulfiram. What if, in fact, I'm a part of an experiment on heavy drinkers to see if the fear of being ill would be enough to keep them away from the booze long enough for the medical world to look smug and say, "see, you weren't really addicted after all". A little bit like Dumbo's magic feather that allowed him to fly but in tablet form.

That said I was speaking to a 'fellow traveller' some time ago who told me that whilst he was on Antabuse he had thought, "I'll just have half a lager, how bad can it be". Next thing he knows he's having to stand under an ice cold shower, fully dressed, to try and get over some of the worst of the sensations ripping his body to pieces. So on reflection I think I'll stick to the plan.

What about pickled onions then?

Speaking to my Dad last night about the whole no vinegar on Antabuse issue yesterday evening, he pondered and mused on this for several hours before eventually saying, "so does this mean no pickled onions then?".

Up until this point this had not occurred to me. This led to a discussion around the whole area of pickled cabbage, pickled beetroot and so forth before my Dad finally said, "and what about Branston*".

Well, this was just too much so it was decided there and then we should test whether this would produce an adverse reaction in me. We decided to perform an experiment. I realise this is hardly the kind of experiment that gives Professor Brian Cox a hard on and I doubt they are shitting themselves at the Faculty of Medicine of Imperial College however we felt it was important to test early on.

A cheese and pickle sandwich was prepared and consumed. It is now fully 9 hours later and I can confirm no ill effects so far. This bodes well for tonight's fish and chips experiment where we will push the bounds of clinical testing further.

I will of course be writing all of this up for Nature in due course.



* Other brands of chutney and Gentlemen's Relish are also available

The Bitterest Pill

Well job done, first dose administered. If I never took another tablet of Antabuse again, I still wouldn't be able to have a beer until a week tomorrow without being very ill.

The doctor very kindly explained to me that I now have to forego vinegar as well. Vinegar? It's in bloody everything. Try going out for a meal and saying 'I hope you didn't use any vinegar in cooking this or it's coming straight back up'. I'd adjusted to the thought of no more wine, beer, vodka or whiskey but now I'm going to have to forego balsamic, malt and so forth. Still I'll live, I suppose. He also kept making a big deal about aftershave despite my assurances that I hadn't worn it since I was about 20. Drank it yes, but not worn  it.

On leaving the doctor's my first thought was, I could murder a pint. They thoughtfully provide a very, large pub at the end of the very, short road. So I popped in for a coffee.

Idea for a new TV Show

This will combine a survival show with a Rough Guide/Lonely Planet Style travel guide.

Title: Lower Middle Class Liberal Survival Guide (may need some work)

To star: Myself

Synopsis: Each week our hero is dropped into an unknown European country with only 500 Euros. He doesn't speak the language and must get by using all his years of honed skills in the field. His first job is to ascertain whether the Euros will do or he needs to change them.

Next he must book into a reasonably priced boutique hotel avoiding the major chains, close to the town or city centre, using only his own years of trained know how in gesturing and pointing.

Once having established shelter, he must locate a source of English books to read and not just 50 Shades of Grey or Jeffrey Archer but something intelligent and readable without being a weighty academic tome.

Having acquired a source of reading materials he must next find sustenance. A restaurant for the evening that will offer genuine local cuisine and not some fast food dive. It can't be one of those places though that's so authentic they serve the fish with the head still on.

Next will be to locate a local bar that is warm and friendly and offers the opportunity to attempt sexy chit-chat with local girls who he's probably old enough to be the rather attractive uncle of.

After resting for the night, he must scour the town looking for his own brand of cigarettes, jabbing wildly at his empty packet.

Once sated he must then book a local river/canal/sea cruise that will allow him to see the local town or city without having to walk any further as his feet are killing him.

etc, etc, etc. Contact the blogger for further details.

Day One - Taking my first dose

Well, I've been meaning to do this for some time so here we go a blog. This will be a mixture of observations about being on Antabuse and my general ramblings about life.

After many years of letting myself, friends and family down due to the booze, rehabs and programmes today I'm switching to Antabuse a tablet that will make me chronically ill if I so much as sip on a Bass Shandy.

I take my first observed dose (ooh, methadone chic) this morning. Let's just hope, despite the words of Richard Ashcroft that the drugs do work.

This will be my third attempt at taking my first dose as on the previous two occasions they have refused to give it as I've been drunk. I will be accompanied this time by my father to ensure I get it.