London's calling...

It was my friend Steve's stag do last weekend, and quite how he managed to convince another human being to marry him without any form of internet ordering or vast quantities of money changing hands is beyond me, but the stag do definitely could not be missed, even if it was in London. My other friend, Tom of blogging fame (he gets paid to write his blog, in actual sterling pounds!) who was also going to the stag do had very kindly offered to put me up at his house for the weekend, just leaving me to take care of the task of actually getting to London. As the ritualistic humiliation known as stag do was scheduled to commence on the afternoon of the Saturday we'd decided it would be wise to drive down on the Friday, and as Tom was working the day, I decided to go into work for the morning, drive down in the afternoon, and meet him in the evening. The only problem with this plan was that it meant hitting the notorious M25 slap bang in the middle of rush 'hour', which made my mates make a noise like a plumber assessing a leak upon hearing of my plan.

The M1 leg of the journey was remarkably uneventful, aside from my amazement at how many people don't understand the term 'Average Speed' - I'll try to give you dickheads a quick lesson in basic maths: It's a fucking average speed, basically calculated as distance travelled divided by time taken. If point A to point B is achieved faster than the assigned average as determined by the number in the big red circle, It's because you were speeding, no if's, and not but's. Ploughing through the 50 zone at 80mph then stamping on the brakes when you see the yellow cameras will achieve fuck all, enjoy your three points, a day rider will set you back the best part of a fiver. Whilst we're on the subject, although you will be relieved of £60 for doing 10 miles an hour over the speed limit, this is not in turn gifted to those that do 10 miles an hour under the limit as some sort of incentive or reward , that's not quite how the world works, so you may as well hurry the fuck up. Lesson over. Turning the corner onto the M25 was so clichéd it was almost funny, I was literally greeted by a wall of traffic, in which I proceeded to spend the next two hours of my life pumping the clutch pedal like a retard at a barn dance. I was quite amused at the rather optimistic variable speed limits along the various sections though, I was beginning to have fond memories of 40 miles per hour, and if the gear stick didn't have a little picture on it telling me where 3rd was I may have never found it again. It all became too much for one chap who I passed, casually mid piss against the central reservation for all to witness, who then had to begin jogging to catch his partner up. Unfortunately for him, traffic began to move a little faster at the moment his bladder could take no more, so it was a good mile or so before he managed to catch up with his partner, who was sat in the hard shoulder waiting for him. I'd have offered him a lift seen as he was jogging behind me the entire way, but then I'd have had to find some other way to amuse myself, plus I'm not that generous. I occupied myself for the remainder of the jam with traditional road trip games such as 'block the under taker', 'spot the wanker in the Pryus' [It's Pry-us, not Pree-us and don't even get me started as to what my beef is with the morons that actually believe the marketing guff in the brochure, because I'll start quoting Einstein at you, and it'll get messy] and my personal favourite 'carve up the Beamer'. This kept me entertained until the stroke of 7:00pm, where traffic seemed to simply evaporate and I could once again find 5th and take my trusty steed up to full speed - I say steed as a horse would have actually been better suited to the road surface which seemed to have been cobbled as a cheaper alternative to tarmac. Coming from my part of the world I'm quite familiar with cobbled streets, but I don’t usually tend to do 70mph down them! My head was nodding so violently I felt like the Churchill dog, on speed, at a rave.

 

"Insurance - Av iiitt!"

I did learn a couple of things in the eternity spent sat in traffic though;

• Londonites don't use their indicators to give me a clue that they are about to turn my stopping distance into a crumple zone, but only do so to request that I let them in. Request denied - although, coming from Bradford, this is actually an improvement to what I'm used to, where they majority of the population don’t even have a driving license or insurance so have no need to use the stalk on the left.
• Motorcyclists have the God given right to clip my wing mirror with their handlebars whilst squeezing through traffic, but interestingly, I have absolutely no right what so ever to offer to have a shit in their helmets.
• Starburst are not an appropriate driving sweet, unless you happen to like picking soggy bits of paper from between your teeth. I myself do not.

Eventually arriving at Toms I was rewarded with a couple of beers and an early night, after been introduced to his 6 week old son, George. George did not take my hand when offered it, which I thought was a bit rude really, so we silently agreed to disagree at that point. I believe his father took some taking to me when we first met actually. Must be one of these North / South divide things I hear about on the news...


Since I only see Tom about once a year, and since the stag do didn't kick off until 3:00pm, we'd said that if I sling my bike in the car and fetch it down with me, we'd get up early and go out for a ride, so that's exactly what we did. Up, dressed, quick bowl of cereal and out of the door for what was to be my first jaunt on a bike since last October.  Part way through we did the whole "you can have a go on mine if I can have a go of yours" swap, which left Tom describing my bike a being "a bit like a Rolls-Royce", which I think was more a reference to it's weight and bulk than build quality and luxury. My speedo wasn't working for most of it but Tom assures me we did 8.35 miles in around two hours, which wasn't bad considering this was pretty much all off road and up some fairly long and rough hills, and the fact we had to repair a massive puncture in my back tyre due to getting a bit lost in some pretty savage overgrowth. Overall it was an enjoyable and completely made up run out, although I was glad to see the home stretch as my quads and calves were burning a fair bit, but this is to be expected really as a result of sitting on my backside for the best part of a year. When we arrived back, Tom wheeled out his pride and joy to show off - Project Yolkie: The Fixie - a fancy pants pushbike to you and me, which he built himself. "Want a go?" well, it would have been rude not to really, but I was soiling myself a little bit, you see, Tom is more proud of this bike than he is of his first born son, and I was shitting myself more at the prospect of scratching it than I was at dropping George. Having Tom push me off like a child riding a bike without stabilisers for the first time must have looked quite funny to his neighbours, thinking about it now. I was pleased to hand it back unmarked, as I'm sure this would have resulted in the offer of temporary accommodation being revoked.

A quick shower and change of clothes and it was time to head over to Greenwich to meet up with the stag, which meant spending about an hour on various trains. London used to be 'home' to me for a little while, and as much as I have some fond memories of aspects and made a couple of good friends in my brief time there, I don't miss it, especially travelling around in any form other than on foot. Why people in the capital have never adopted the British tradition of actually queueing is beyond me, forcing me to have to do the exact same, but, when in Rome I guess. After an hour of overhearing a couple of girls hold a conversation that involved "like" used between every other word and all sentences ending in "or whatevor", plus witnessing not one but two lads wearing glasses with no lenses in them (must be a trend thing, because I don't get it) I was glad to get off, although listening to Tom singing "Abba's Waterloo" quietly to himself did tickle me for some reason.
Arriving ''fashionably'' late we walked into the stag do in full swing, and spotted the stag wearing a hat that said "half man / half badger" on it - I don't get it either, something to do with a childhood nickname or something. It became apparent that the stag had a list of thirty challenges / dares to carry out during the 'do, and just to make absolutely sure none were forgotten, the best man had printed a full list off for each of the guests, so I did the decent thing and assisted where ever possible in ensuring as many as possible could be ticked off. I arrived just in time for the start of challenge number 11 where he had to approach 5 strangers and ask them if a pair of underpants that he had "found" [purchased in advance for the occasion] belonged to them, resulting in some strange looks. The one challenge Steve (the stag, keep up) made the biggest fuss over was challenge number 3: doing a Tequila slammer. He was absolutely adamant that he was not doing this one as, apparently, the last time he did one he "nearly died" (his words, not mine) repeated at least eighty two times. The "last time" he was referring to was 1995, when he was 18, and had drank a skin full before attempting the 4 slammers, and "nearly died" was actually a bit of an exaggeration - he was tended to by those voluntary busybodies with fuck all better to do and absolutely zero medical qualifications, the St. Johns ambulance, as he threw up. Life threatening. A few sighs of despair from all and comments such as "worst stag do ever" soon took care of that, a tray of slammers was ordered, and Steve downed a shot of the stagnant cactus juice for the first time since his near death experience. It was nice to know Steve could be heavily influenced with a little peer pressure and the fear of being a disappointment to those that turned up for the event. This was knowledge was to be exploited as the night went on. After a while was time to leave Greenwich and head down river to Covent Garden via a boat, with another quick challenge thrown in - Challenge Number 8: Stand on Greenwich docks wearing a sailor hat holding a sign which says "For Rent". So, looking a little bit like our favourite 80's paedophile (no, not Timmy Mallet) Captain Birdseye, we waited for our vessel to arrive, attracting some strange looks from the local residents and tourists around, although this was probably more to do with the fact we were all wearing badger masks than the good Captain offering his services.

'Captain' Birdseye; fucking terrifying!

Once all aboard the ship, and taking Steve's impromptu toilet trip as an opportunity for childish shenanigans, we switched seats and hid from the stag, with the rest of the passengers on the boat seemingly in on the gag too. I don't believe it was my idea to hide so I don't feel remotely guilty at Steve's public embarrassment as he returned from the loo to find us gone and proceeded to stare at the seats we had previously occupied with a great deal of obvious confusion on his face and some comedy beard scratching (still wearing his Captains hat, may I add), as if he'd maybe imagined our existence, or we'd vanished into thin air. Although it does sound like something I would do... Anyway, we alerted him to our presence just as he was about to step off the boat a good few stops too early, to the unanimous laughter of many of the tourists aboard.

The order of the remaining events of the evening are a little hazy in my mind after this point, although I do remember a few more challenges been carried out a various points of the night, including buttocks being signed, a bellydance being performed, and a riverdance being.. well, danced, again all encouraged with "worst. stag do. ever" been used as encouragement. Well, that and alcohol. We all went for a curry at some point, and been sat at the end of the table I quietly entertained myself with what I can only describe as the opportunistic bullying of someone I'd outed as a complete cunt earlier in the evening.

Anyone who knows me knows I have never read "How To Win Friends and Influence People" as is obvious by my ability to alienate just about anyone, you see I'm a little bit too sincere for my own good really, and coupled with the fact that I seem to just attract absolute wankers, this makes for some 'interesting' social situations. I'd spotted this particular smug faced, expensive shoe wearing tit earlier in the day, and knew instantly we'd clash (or at least, his chubby dial would clash with the sole of my cheap boot) if we were left alone to shoot the shit for too long, so figured it would be best for all concerned if I just avoided him all together, which meant at times just walking off or turning to face the other way as he was mid statement at me. Eventually he corned me and came out with the feared statement of "How do you know Steve then". No, I don't mean question, and I didn't miss out a question mark from the end, this was not a question from him, just an opening statement to which my responses was of no interest, is simply served as an opportunity to speak once it was his turn again. I didn't bother justifying my acquaintance with the stag, instead once I'd realised there was indeed no way out of this situation, I skipped straight to providing him his opportunity to talk about himself for a bit. "Well back when I was on Grange Hill I got Steve the job working for my mum...". Excuse me? "I used to be on Grange Hill". Right, and quite what that had to do with how he knew the stag is somewhat questionable, if I cared, which I of course didn't, but for some reason he felt the need to inform me. Thankfully, Steve heard this and came over to unintentionally provide sufficient distraction for me to escape, and informed me he was actually an extra on Grange Hill for all of nine episodes. Extra. This was priceless.

For the remainder of the night, every time this pompous mummy's boy whose name I don't believe I was ever informed of / successfully paid no attention to interrupted my conversation with someone else or blurted out some irrelevant statement of the drunken variety over the top of me, I'd take the opportunity to throw some form of pisstakery in his face, which rather surprisingly seemed to be at the approval of his "friends". I can't remember now exactly what I said to him that he took particular exception to, although he did corner me later on in another bar with what I believe was intended in his head at least to be a threat thought out in advance but fucked up severely on delivery, to which I informed him how pleased I was to meet him and how I was looking forward to telling my mates back up North I'd been talking to an actual celebrity because all I'd ever met before was amateur actors with overly pushy parents that once did an advert to be aired on the shopping channel at 4:00am as a child and still put this on their CV's. He seemed to disappear all together after this conversation, which I probably should feel a little bit guilty about, being the stags mate and everything, but in my defence, he should have never approached me, as I'm not exactly renowned for my people skills. Not that he was to know this of course, but for anyone with an ounce of social awareness it is about a obvious as I can make it without hanging a sign from around my neck with some form of pre prepared statement on it. I'd like to point out that I'm never rude to people for no reason however, just people who have either given me or I've found an excuse to be rude to. So most people then.

Eventually it was time for the off, as it was quite late, I have no idea what time the last trains are but the prospect of missing it and paying for a cab was not an option, Tom was tired due to interrupted sleep á la George, I was knackered from the mornings bike ride and was struggling to stand up for too long, and to be fair, none of us are 21 any more, so homewards bound at a respectable hour it was.

The following morning it was time to load up the car, say goodbye to George, and head Northwards fuelled with a cup of fancy coffee and one of the best full English breakfasts I've had in a long time courtesy of Tom, after (despite my protests to the contrary) the best stag do I've been on yet. Or like, whatevor.

PS: I understand I may have possibly offended some people with some of the points made above, so I'll issue this statement; if you are a BMW driver, a motorcyclist, a Pryus driving moron, a lenseless spectacle wearing trendy kid, a Londonite, a St. Johns ambulance loser volunteer, Captain Birdseye, or a fat dough faced "actor" and feel I am either wrong or completely out of order in any of my statements, please feel free to debate your point in the comments box below, which I'll strongly contest as being complete bollocks, or if you have a point I can't contest, I'll delete. What? You want democracy, fuck off to China... oh, hang on...

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.

Things I've noticed...

...since I stopped smoking:

1)I never have any change in my pockets.
2)I never go to the cash machine.
3)I never see Mr Patel.
4)I've started saying "I don't smoke" rather than "I've stopped smoking". When did this happen?
5)I don't see my neighbours anymore.
6)I clock-watch less.
7)Both my hands now look the same [one was a slightly different colour].
9)Smokers are very negatively opinionated on my efforts to stop smoking, whereas;
10)None smokers are quite positively opinionated / supportive. Which is nice.
11)I'm less fidgety. Still quite impatient though.
12)My workmates forget to invite me along on their fag breaks. Yes, I know I don't smoke, but I still get bored and like to get away from my desk from time to time.
13)I'm going off mayonnaise.
14)I can taste the difference between a good pint of Guinness, and a not quite as good pint.
15)Other people claim they are going to stop smoking when I mention I've stopped, although when asked "when", they can't answer.
16)I'm drinking more cups of coffee at work than usual.
17)I can smell smoke on people or trails of smoke really strongly.
18)More women smoke than men. I could be imagining this.
19)I have an annoying tickly cough, particularly on a morning.
20)I bite my fingernails less.

So there we go. On Monday it will have been three full weeks without a cigarette, no cheating or lying or anything, not so much as a drag. I've been a good boy, I'm quite proud of myself, and am clearly owed some form of reward. Might go for a pint tonight, since by the time Monday arrives, I will have saved £94.50

Scary isn't it!

I'm sorry Mr Patel..

Mr Patel is the very friendly chap that runs the corner shop across the street from me, and instinctively upon seeing me walk into his shop, reaches behind him for 20 Regal King Size. Saves on unnecessary conversation you see. I of course have to explain to him that this won't be required any more, so today it'll just be a pint of milk please. "You'll be buying a bloody cow next" he replied.

Well, first week over, and in all honesty, it's been pretty uneventful really. My last cigarette smoked was on Monday night, and I can't really say I've had any strong cravings either, a few mood swings here and there, but that's pretty much business as usual with me. This is turning out to be much easier than I both imagined, and remember it been from the last time I "stopped". One thing that may have made life a little easier is not been at work for a few days this week, which took care of the routine side of things.
Admittedly however, there have been a few moments where I've forgotten that I don't smoke any more and have thought to myself "might go for a fag" and then remembered what I'm doing. Well, I guess old habits die hard, but it could be and probably should be a lot harder than just "forgetting" from time to time.

I've been noticing a few things recently since I stopped smoking too, some good, some not so good, such as I can taste and smell things a little bit more (not always a good thing, especially when travelling on public transport), I can smell smoke on other people really strongly (again, not good, as that's how I used to smell), I'm noticing other people smoking a lot where ever I seem to go. It's a little early just yet to start talking about benefits to my health that I'm noticing, plus I was struck down with manfluenza last night, which I seem to remember getting the last time I stopped smoking too; must be some weird immune system thing from depriving my body of a shed load of chemicals that it's been accustomed to for the last ten years.

On a financial note, I notice that I go to cash machines less frequently, and as I'm no longer handing over a ten pound note to Mr Patel every couple of days, I never seem have any change in my pockets any more, which will begin to annoy the ladies in my works canteen I'm sure. Whilst we're on the subject of money, I've also been keeping track of how much money I've saved since I first stopped, based roughly on the days of the week I'd usually buy a packet of fags, times by roughly the cost of a 20 deck. So far I've saved a whopping £31.50!! This both surprises me and doesn't surprise me at the same time - it's a lot of money when I actually stop and think about how much £6 here and there adds up to, but then again as I mentioned in my last post, the last time I stopped I saved enough to fund my snowboarding [note to self: must do more snowboarding].

I also mentioned in my last post that I roughly worked out that the cost of smoking, and in turn the money saved by stopping smoking, roughly equated to the repayments on a small car. So, to combat the feeling I often get of money burning a hole in my pocket, the above is exactly what I've just done; I've gone and bought this:
So after a conversation with a salesman that went something along the lines of "Hello sir, can I help you?" - "Well, I'd like a car please, but I've got no money, so I don't know, can you help me?", I am now the relatively pleased owner of a 2006 Fiesta "Style", and yes, that really is the colour I've gone for. Lovely. Well, it beats the colour of rust that I'd become used to with my last trusty steed. So, no turning back now, my fag money will be paying for this for the next four years.

And on that bombshell, goodnight!