Short and to the Pointless

For those of you that may have recently become accustomed to my recent spate of rants ending in a 'witty' punch line, or an entire blog about something so trivial it really could have been summarised in a single sentence but I've somehow managed to digress and digress beyond all recognition, you may wish to stop reading at this point, as there will be none of that today, so you may as well save yourself the effort and hit the "next blog" link instead as, if you're really lucky, you might find what you're looking for there, and good luck to you.

Still here? Joy. Well, the astute amongst you may have noticed my blatant overuse of the word "you" at this point, I've written it literally several times at this point already, to the point where the word itself is beginning to loose all meaning and I'm even starting to question the spelling. I'm sure it's right though. Anyway, the point is, there will be no point, or purpose, or punch line to this blog, as the subject today, in essence, is you, my "readers". You see, the thing is, up until a few days ago, I had no idea that "you" (that's the last time I put you in inverted commas, I promise) existed - I knew you existed, as in society, the general public, obviously, I mean people that actually read my inane ramblings poorly entitled "blogs" - I thought the only people that read this guff were me, Tom when he's bored, a few other people that have followed a link on their skives lunch break, and my mum. And that was absolutely fine by me, as the truth is, I don’t write these for you, I write these for me, as a means to keep my mind occupied or just to kill the time whilst I'm rotting here at my desk. A few days ago however, I happened to click on the little tab on Dashboard (bit dramatic isn't it, "Dashboard"?) called "Stats". I'd seen this before but never really paid much attention to it, it's stats for Gods sake, it really can’t be that interesting, afterall, 62% of all statistics are made up on the spot! (Haa haa, I made a geeky statistics joke, I'm so funny). For some unknown reason that I can only associate with severe work related boredom, I clicked on this Stats tab and was alarmed to find that in actual fact, quite a lot of you people out their have been reading this stuff, and it's all a bit unnerving really. "So people are reading your blogs, that's a good thing, right?" Well, it's a bit like singing, I mean, just about everyone does it in private without even thinking about it, when they're sure they can't be heard, like in the shower or stuck in traffic for example. That's absolutely fine, nobody can hear you, and most people will stop immediately when they realise someone can hear them, out of embarrassment usually. The only people this doesn't apply to (apart from actual singers) is those wankers sat a few seats back on the bus that insist in sharing their 'talent' with us all, whether we want to hear them, or more often, not. These people drive me to some pretty disturbing thoughts of gratuitous violence, aspirations of gratuitous violence, or a firm "tut" and slight shake of the head. Anyway, I digress, once again.

The point I think I'm trying to make in a round about fashion, is that in this instance, ignorance really is bliss. Before I was aware of you, I could  quite happily spew shite until the cows came home (not literally of course, although that would be a pretty awesome and equally disgusting party trick but would require that I own cows, which I do not), as I'm sure a few of you will agree, and occasionally write about the running I haven't done and the cycling I've thought about doing, but now that I know you're there, I find myself a little lost for words, which is unusual for me. The problem is two fold you see. Firstly there's a touch of shyness or the pressure to deliver something actually worth reading. The second problem is your own assumption - I've had a few comments recently from people which almost make me feel guilty for leading them to believe an untruth or two; comments such as (and please excuse the slashes as I try to incorporate these into just two sentences) "So do you / did you do English Literature / Media Studies / Creative Writing (or some other pisspot £15k degree to be wasted in a career of administration) at Uni / Collage or anything then" and "Your writing style is very similar to [insert author / columnist here], do you read a lot of his / her stuff?". I've deleted these comments where made on my blog as it's a bit embarrassing having to answer to complete strangers really, no offence, but I'll respond here instead: I achieved a C in GCSE English and certainly have not furthered my education in that respect, I'm pretty sure I use the term "being" in the wrong context frequently, and I haven't read a single book in my adult life, and further to that the only internet reading I do is a couple of friends blogs, the BBC News website, and Facebook. That's a slight lie, I read Slash's autobiography a couple of years ago, and I'm not even a massive Guns 'n' Roses fan, ironically. Well I have that at least - I know the difference between irony and coincidence, so if all else fails, I may try to educate my American readers as to the blatant differences. I think I'm actually going to put this statement into my Profile (no not the American irony confusion thing, the lack of reading history / education thing), since it is distinctly lacking in content, and at least that way, I can't be blamed for leading people to the wrong impression, or hopefully people will stop thinking "oh he's trying to be like so-and-so" (Yes, "so-and-so", because as we've established, I don’t know who to reference). My friend Tom, whom I have a definite and mutual lack of bro-mance in our friendship with, did however say, and I'll copy this straight from his email to prove I'm not making this up or so he can't retract it, "you're quite a funny guy" [see, in your own handwriting and everything]. This was definitely a compliment, so I guess I have that too, if the purpose of writing a blog is to seek peer approval or demonstrate how hilarious I am. Which it's not, and I'm not, but still, it's nice to be nice.

I guess if absolutely nothing else,I demonstrate the fact that anyone with the ability to bash a keyboard, a short attention span, a spell checker and a boss who leaves early to pick the kids up from school can write a blog about just about anything, and people, if for no other reason than terminal boredom, will read it. That's as close to a point as I can get, but as promised, no punch line.

Oh, by the way, I have found a solution to my annoying "toilet friend" which seems to have been working quite nicely for the last couple of days;

Seems to do the trick, the door hasn't been tried once thus far. Result.

A Long Slow Comfortable Screw Against the Wall (teehee!)

Some years ago, quite a few years ago in fact (I'd say "back in the day" but I'm not sure I'm quite old enough to pull that off. Oh go on then) back in the day when the novelty of being served alcohol legally and without need for 'convincing' fake I.D. [purchased by a friend from the back of FHM, photocopied with my bus pass picture stuck to it] was still fresh, myself and a couple of friends decided it would be a wise investment to partake in the mid week offer of "2-4-1" cocktails at a relatively respectable establishment for the evening. I say respectable as I didn't personally know of anyone who had been either spiked or stabbed in there, and I say "relatively" as the bouncers would still grant me entrance in my cream jeans and Ben Sherman shirt (ironed by my mum of course). As there were three of us, the mathematics of the drinks offer didn't quite work out favourably, which inevitably left one of us having to drink the remainder of the equation each time - some form of brightly coloured and equally sickly beverage usually topped with whipped cream and, if really lucky, a cherry. Manly. This, more often than not, was yours truly. Well, my friends were both bigger than me, I had to make up for this by drinking more than them, obviously.


As the night rolled on more and more of these liquefied deserts were ordered, which in true cliché conformity obviously came with the added bonus of uttering suggestive remarks or making obscene requests to the fairly attractive barmaid under the innocence of simply ordering a drink, whilst of course giggling uncontrollably each time like a schoolboy - which to be fair, we pretty much were. Occasionally my gag reflex would be in urgent need of a rest so we'd take a break every now and then and order a proper drink; a Smirnoff Ice or maybe even an Irn Bru WKD. Just the one though, then back on to the 'good stuff' once my saliva glands had resumed normal service.

Inevitably, the night came to an end, or at least, our funds did. Even more inevitably, and provoked by the fresh air hitting my lungs, vomiting ensued, which was of course rewarded by my mates with a noise that can best be described as "WAAAAAAYY!!". I vividly remember being both shocked and impressed at my 'street art' which was like a visual orchestra of primary colours composed on a paving slab. You really had to be there to appreciate it, and since I was, this particular pavement decoration (of which there have been a few over the years) has etched itself into my memory, enabling me to recall my production in full glory.

I was reminded of this today thanks to my colleagues choice of blouse. It is simply spectacular.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life...

In some, the arrival of dawn and the sight of the rising run inspires motivational, poetic or even philosophical thoughts. I'm sure the answer to many of life's great problems have been solved with nothing more than a fresh mind, a hard think and a long stare out of a window at the break of the new day. Some may see the early morning sun as a fresh start, a blessing, or just simply take the opportunity to embrace life itself.

In my highly complex and intricate mind, waking up to the sight of the morning daylight flooding in through the skylight and gradually opening my eyes to the natural illumination of my bedroom provokes such deep and meaningful thoughts as; I really need to buy a fucking blind.

Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

The eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed I missed out Number Eight. So here it is; (8) … .. Ah balls to it, make up your own, it'll probably be more interesting. Well it's the end of week 7, and I still haven't caved, but the truth is, I'm even starting to bore myself with this now, so followers (hello Tom, wave!) that's the last I have to say on the matter. For now, at least.


Now that's out of the way, I find myself with little constructive to say, so I'll share with you a little conundrum which both puzzles and infuriates me on a daily basis; Why is it that when ever I use a certain toilet (the same toilet I may add, I'm a little stuck in my ways you see) at my place of work, without fail, someone - and I assume this to be the same person - will try the door, realise it is locked, and then defying all logic and common sense, try it again almost immediately afterwards!? I'm not expecting an answer here, to be clear, the question is rhetorical. But if we completely forget that they needn't have tried it in the first place if they'd paid attention to the little coloured tab on the handle that changes from white when vacant, to red when engaged (clever stuff!), why would the door be open when quite literally just beforehand it was locked?

Perhaps they thought they'd "done it wrong" the first time and just to be absolutely sure they figured they try it again, I mean, I myself have on occasion had difficulty in operating a door, but that is usually those fancy arse doors they have on the public toilets on the new trains - on the outside they are quite simple, one brightly illuminated LED button in an assuring shade of green, not too dissimilar to that of a Granny Smith apple, for 'Open', and another almost identical in design with the exception of colour (red this time, obviously) and the fact it is this time labelled 'Close'. Nothing to worry about there, it's all quite simple really. It's when we throw caution to the wind and venture inwards that things get complicated. Inside we are greeted with the same arrangement, one for 'Open', and one for 'Close', except this time we have another button, labelled as 'Lock'. It even has a picture of a key on it to assist in its description. It would be safe to assume that you enter, press Close, then press this new button, 'Lock'. Or so I thought. I did things in the correct order, and was rewarded by the Lock button flashing at me to tell me the door is successfully locked. Fancy. Or does this mean there's a problem indicating I've done something wrong? Panic ensues, and to be sure, I decide to test the doors locked state by pressing open; if the door is indeed successfully locked, it won't open, surely? Oh look, the Star Trek inspired door is opening. Fantastic. "Shit, Close, Close!" Oh I see, the door has to fully open before the action of closing is allowed, just to make sure that the smirking twats stood in the vestibule area can fully compare the shade of my face to that of the 'Close' button which I'm frantically bashing uninterrupted. I may also have pushed a 'Pull' door once, maybe. Mistakes happen. Well, I am human after all, despite my slight and completely unjustified superiority complex.

My point is however, this is not a Star Trek inspired electronically operated sliding door, nor are there an arrangement of brightly lit LED buttons designed specifically to confuse uncomplicated matters. This is a regular door, constructed from some sort of wood chip laminated in authentic looking "wood" veneer, hung on actual hinges, and operated by a regular door handle which I believe is detailed in the tradesman's catalogue as "plastic"; a quite frankly archaic design despite it's modern appearance and a quality of construction that could at best be described as "shit", which has remained pretty much unaltered in function through time. Not a great deal you could get wrong really. Didn't open the first time? It's because it's fucking locked, now jog on.

Or try again, you know, just to make doubly sure. There we go.

Perhaps I'm not giving my infuriator [spell-check reveals this is not a real word. I'll invent it. The instigating party in an act of extreme annoyance. See 'infuriatee'] enough credit, maybe this reoccurring annoyance reveals a more sinister psychological issue within my 'toilet friend'. If we forget for one minute that a simple door handle cannot really be operated improperly (unless you really put your mind to it), we get back to the construction of the door itself. I can hear everything that's going on on the other side of the door (and often the other side of the wall too; the adjacent toilet. The women's toilet. Grim) so we'll assume he - and I assume "he" as it's the men's toilet I occupy, in this scenario at least - can hear everything that's going on on my side of the door, which is quite blatantly and rather crudely someone [me, keep up] in the middle of having a piss. Sorry to be so vulgar, but I had to point that out as I didn't want you picturing me doing the other thing I do there; flexing in front of the mirror. No one wants to picture that. Whilst we're on the subject, I don’t do anything else in there either, ever. Because of the AIDS, obviously.

You're singing it, don't pretend you're not singing it,

I know you're singing it.

To get back on track, again, this leads me to speculate quite heavily as to exactly why this mentalist insists on trying the door a second time when [a] as we've established, it's locked, and [b] I know full well he can hear me conducting my business. Perhaps this [insert preferred derogatory-term-for-person-of poor-psychological-health here] envisages some sort of secret garden on the other side of the door, and the sound of 'running water' is actually a Charley Dimmock-esque water feature, and that entry to this flowery wonderland is dictated not only by the purity of ones soul, but also by trying the door handle twice at very specific intervals. 0.7 seconds not doing the trick today? Try 0.6 seconds tomorrow.

The mind boggles. I am however intrigued as to who the chap is, but am unsure as to how I can trap the culprit without resorting to "cutting off" mid act and flinging the door open, as you could absolutely guarantee it would be some senior manager type person, and the indecent exposing of myself would surely lead to a lengthy period of time off. I'm putting my money on a colleague we'll refer to as Super Gaz. He's retarded enough to push a 'Pull' door twice. He also does an awesome Alan Partridge impression when I'm in the middle of a conversation with someone else and he has something he just needs to get off his chest, because clearly basic manners are too much to expect from a man-child who finds the picking of ones nose in full view of the office perfectly acceptable behaviour.

Partridge; persistent.

I am at this stage left feeling a little guilty for using what started off as a legitimate series of blogs about my progress of keeping fit as a platform to vent spleen, and not for the first time. I'll have to get off my arse and do something about that to make up for it.

I'll change the name of the blog.