There's One Slight Problem With Saving Fuel...

        Being a thrill-seeking, fun loving, edge-of-the-seat kinda guy, I decided to break the habit of a lifetime and read an actual newspaper the other day. Since then, I've learned that apparently, we're all running out of fuel, that everyone is doomed to a lifetime of pain and sniffles, and that the Daily Express are still obsessed with Diana. Further venturing into the archives of the Daily Mail draws me to a list of things that cause cancer, and the answer it seems, is everything in the whole world! No seriously, it's a combination of electricity, long fingers, being tall, peanut butter and (my personal favourite) Prince Charles' Organic Crisps. The only obvious conclusion that anyone can draw from this is to build a shelter and camp out, waiting patiently for the plague to pass by us. So long as you don't bring any cancer-causing bread with you. Or be a man. Or a woman. All of these will literally make you explode in front of everyone's eyes. I'd be happy to dismiss this as sheer panic-talk and buy them all new tinfoil hats to replace their old ones, but then it occurred to me that they have a circulation of over 2 million! That's a lot of people who I assume spend the first few hours rocking in the foetal position every morning before braving the front door.

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The Riots, And The One Large Causal Factor That's Been Overlooked.

I want to start today by telling you about this guy I know. He grew up in one of the poorest areas in Scotland. School clothes were always hand-me-downs, which doesn't always do wonders for someone's self esteem. He didn't get his first bike until age 12, after saving up months of paper-round money as his family simply didn't have the money. TV was simply this pretty box that other people had, a telephone was that thing that you walked down the street to get to, and you gave it 20p to ring your date on. It's something that's somewhat hard to imagine, but those are just the luxuries in life! The idea of the toilet being in the garden as a glorified hole in the ground today would be unimaginable anywhere, but that was the norm for our man. When he had his weekly bath, he didn't pull out the plug, he simply tipped the water out and hung it up in the shed. This wasn't even in between working in the cotton factories in the 1800's, this was the 1970's! So what's he up to today?

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All these Health And Safety Signs Are Directing Me Up The Wall!

This morning, I noticed something interesting: while driving in to the office: I realised just how many labels, signs and the like are in my car. Honestly, it's like a small novel in there! There's one on the tax disc holder telling me that I can't smoke in there, because it's a company car, and if I do then the boss will come down and beat me up. There's one on the fuel cap telling me that it's definitely a diesel and if I so happen to put any unleaded into the tank, the economy will crash and babies up north will go without hugs. I'm also instructed to "thoroughly" read the manual before driving it, because I apparently need to know what a car is before I use one, and another electronic notice that tells me whenever it's 3 degrees C outside. This last one might seem sensible, but in early winter when the temperature hovers between 3C and 4C, the beep it makes every few seconds is enough to make you consider a bus as "an option" and not just "smelly". After reading, there's almost no time for driving!

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Get the world into perspective. Trust me, it's a big place.

Here's something that makes me go all weird for a few minutes if I think about it: the Earth's crust is only 70km thick at it's largest point, and something like 5-10km thick at the lowest points of the ocean bed. below that is 2,200km of mantle. Have you ever seen lava flow from a volcano? That stuff is magma. This swirls round at stupidly hot temperatures at very high pressure, and moves the earths crust around. Want to know what causes things like earthquakes and grounds your flight to Iceland? That'll be the mantle. below that is the core. This is mostly iron and is more dense than your average Big Brother contestant. it's constant moving causes the magnetic field that helps you find your way. It is unimaginably hot, and the whole shebang goes down a total of 6,500km, which is about the distance from England to Uganda. Wowzers!

Now, look at the ground. All that is going on right under your feet, right now!

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Peer Pressure: Forcing You To Make Silly Decisions Since Time Began.

Having referred to a handy collection of the millions of fashion websites, I now know that this summer, we need to be wearing 70's chic, "biker" gear, punk fashion and 60's ladylike in order to be wearing "this season's look". Not at the same time I assume, mostly because you'd look like you'd just stepped out of a panto having been dressed by Stevie Wonder. However, thank God we have these websites, eh? Otherwise, how else would we know what to wear? That's one less worry! However, come Winter, I think I'm going to make my own fashion website and decide what the "trend" is. I'm absolutely certain that it'll be a massive hit, and I'll revel in having made everyone walk around wearing, I don't know, bin liners on their arms. Seriously, who comes up with these fashion trends? Is it one person telling everyone what to wear ahead of time, or does someone see that a lot of people are wearing frilly tops and declare that to be a "look"?

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Why is "normal" so rare, when that's what we want to be?

So a few years ago, Marks & Spencer made an advert. This advert consisted of a woman running up a hill, taking all her clothes off as she did so, then standing on a box as she screamed "I'm normal!". The idea was that it would show her as a size 16, and that this is the average size in the UK. Apparently, it would stop people thinking they needed to be able to hide behind a pencil to be considered normal size, and that if you've got a stomach that keeps on turning even when you've stopped, then you're in the majority. An admirable goal, I agree. However, a pointless one, as the advert was a massive flop, and it was pulled pretty sharpish after it was launched. But why was this?

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What will you spend 150,000 hours doing? Something fun, I hope?

Sometimes, I've often looked at a mushroom and thought a little too hard about how it came to be sitting on my chopping board. For the moment, we'll overlook why I'd bother thinking about mushrooms instead of simply eating them. What I mean by this, is that they must have been cut by someone from wherever mushrooms grow, and then packaged. It's this person whom I think about. I mean, most people will tell you (while they're still young enough not to be dragged into that realm of scepticism and mis-trust that we call "being grown up") they want to be a fireman/doctor/lawyer/policeman. One of my friends actually wanted to be a bus. No, not a bus driver, or anyone who works on or in a bus. I mean, she wanted to actually be a bus. I know, right? Anyway, that aside, the person who cut my mushroom must've had these dreams about what they'll do as a dream job when they were younger. And now they're cutting mushrooms. What happened to the dream?

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I could learn every language in the world, and there's still one that will always stump me.

There's one thing about speaking English that I enjoy; everyone else in the world appears to speak it. It takes the whole "language barrier" thing away for the majority of the time. This was discovered by a friend of mine on a trip to The Netherlands last year when, in the belief that they spoke as little English as we do Dutch, she shouted "tits" across the train, much to the rapturous amusement of a German business-boy opposite me. Even if you're from, say, Norway and you're speaking to someone from France, you might not speak each others' language, so you'll both speak in English. Bonus! Now, this doesn't mean I'll do the standard thing while abroad of speaking LOUDLY... AND... SLOWLY while asking for TWO... BEERS... PLEASE because I can't be bothered to learn the local lingo.

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Everyone is individual. Some are more individual than others, especially when they say the world's ending.

I bet you were all as truly amazed as I was at 6:01pm last Saturday, when we all were still alive! Amazingly, despite repeated promises, we were not raptured. Well, I say "amazed", I actually mean you were probably doing exactly what I was doing: something else entirely that was infinitely more interesting, and only noticed the time had passed rapture-o'clock a few hours later. Professional doom-monger Harold Camping had told everyone that, after spending possibly minutes analysing Bible passages, that the rapture was coming on the 21st May at 6pm. Now, despite the fact that I've read War & Peace more times than I've read the Bible, I suspect that Mr Camping didn't put a huge amount of effort into his "analysing", because even I know that there's a passage that specifically states that no-one knows when the rapture is, not even Jesus. But, apparently, a televangelist knows. And I bet that it had nothing to do with promoting his radio station.... whatsoever. Nevertheless, he's decided that he missed a small chunk now (not the aforementioned important clause, however) and it's now been moved back to the 21st October. Of course it has, Harry, course it has.

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The kids in the corner are far too easily amused, it seems.-

On the face of it, rock-climbing is such a daft sport. I mean, you only need one thing to break, or your friend holding the rope to be distracted by some passing naked ramblers and you'll end up slipping, and turning into a giant pizza on the floor. You'll also find yourself wearing Lycra, which is shocking in itself, and you'll sweat buckets, making you stink worse than an MP's honesty pledge or Charlie Sheen's sanity. But, it is a good way of staying fit and active, which is why, last week during the toasty warm weather, the Peak District was loaded with climbers edging up and down the rocks in colourful shoes, enjoying the seasonal warmth. I know this, because I used to go there a lot, years ago. It was fantastic; there would be people from all over the country, enjoying themselves, nobody causing trouble, and having a good time (while making sure you weren't downwind of anyone).

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Sorry, how much is that rubbish? Oh, I want one now...

I sometimes go into charity shops, and even go as far as to buy things from them. There, I said it! I even said it on the interwebs and everything. I'm not embarrassed by this, but what I do remember is at school, it was somehow the ultimate insult that something you owned helped to do a small bit of good in the world via it's second hand purchase. I remember a girl who was massively picked on because she had a bike that came courtesy of a Marie Curie shop for £3. Nowadays, it's not so bad to go in and see what you can find, especially if it's something for a one-off or to get dirty. However, this isn't the main reason I'll be seen going into them. It's because they are home to some absolute stonkers that, somehow, the lady behind the counter who looks as animatronic as the cash register didn't realise was worth a fortune/rare/explosive. I've bought a pair of brand new Converse shoes in an Oxfam for £8, as opposed to the £50 I planned to pay. I was mightily impressed with myself, but nowhere near as impressed as I was with a friend of mine, who wondered into a Cancer Research shop, gave the robot lady the £4.50 that was on the price tag... and walked out as the proud owner of nearly £1,000 worth of (seemingly) brand new Gucci handbag!



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People's dignity: cheaper by the day, it seems.

So there I was, in the queue at a shop in Cambridge to buy a pair of shoes, as you do, and I can see him at the end. He's wearing the kind of cringe-worthy blazer that someone dons when they've just proudly bought a boat, and insist on calling everyone "skipper". He had a straw-woven hat that matched the awful ensemble that he was sporting, and had a John Thompson-esque goatee. His wife was next to him, with that "sun-kissed" skin that could only remind me of a ten year old sofa. I don't like making snap judgements about people I've never met, but I couldn't shift the belief that these two are the kind of folks who are full to the brim of their own pompous opinions, and take great enjoyment in broadcasting them to everyone.



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Lack of Honesty = Broken Wine Glasses = Hilarious X-Factor Auditions

This morning, I have this to say: the world is now full of people who have this massively mistaken belief that they can sing! Have you ever wondered why that person in your office, or on the bus, or in the room next door to yours keeps belting out "ballads" that have yet to feature a correct note? Are you sick of replacing your wine glasses because your neighbours singing makes them explode on cue? Where did these people, and their mistaken beliefs, come from? Well, I blame "X-Factor" personally. I mean, let's look at someone like Gareth Gates (yes, I know he was on Pop Idol). He started as a nervous nobody with a stutter. Now, he's a household name. He's a successful recording artist. He's even appearing in Les Miserables in the West End! The thing is that previously, we were used to hearing of great singers after they'd been working at it for years. People like Rod Stewart seemed to have been born for singing; I can't imagine anyone like that having a stutter. This does cause a slight problem, however...



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Going To a Festival? Don't Annoy The Locals, Everyone Else Has!

Every Autumn, around where I live my commute is regularly held up by potatoes. No, seriously, around deepest, darkest Bedfordshire, (it be farmin' country around 'ere) every August the tractors full of tasty goods fill up their loads and trundle along the roads at what is basically walking speed, to send them off to Mr Morrisons, so you and I can enjoy a lovely salad, or a Turnip Surprise (comments at the end please, on what the Surprise is...). It does make my hay fever go bonkers, but hey, they've got shots for everything nowadays. Now, this may sound like the start of a rant, but it's barely even worth complaining about.

Those who live (or regularly commute) around London must be looking at the combo of the royal wedding this April with dread, but not half as much dread as the up and coming Olympics next year. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for them, but can you imagine trying to get the Circle Line to work, only to find the first three trains crammed up by people in "amusing" shorts, questionable baseball caps and massive cameras? Crikey, it'd drive me mad! Constantly being stopped in the street and being asked in broken English where "the big sports place lives", and not being able to get anywhere due to the endless traffic from the events, leading tourists to question if anything actually moves on the roads! If I lived there, do you know what I'd do? Go on a massive holiday! Some people are renting out their flats or houses in London to tourists who can't get a hotel, sometimes for crazy money for a week. One person I know is asking for £1,000 for a weeks stay in their central London pad to anyone who wants somewhere nice to stay during the games.

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The brain-dead are in my way... again!

As much as I would rather crawl to a far away place than take the bus, driving does become somewhat annoying at times, don't you think? It's always the stupid little things that get you. For example, my car tells me for miles and miles that it's got loads of fuel and can go for ever and ever, seemingly. Then, all of a sudden, it starts crying and demanding to be fed. "But I'm hungry", it cries with a beep and a flash of the little picture of the fuel pump, "feed me now", like a small child. My pleading with it to shut up and wait a minute are clearly ignored, because it still screams. "But I'm really hungry, and I'm gonna totally die if you don't give me food. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!".

Things like this can be overcome easily, it's the things I can't fix that really get me. Do you know what I love, especially at stupid o'clock in the morning? It's driving somewhere, only to be stuck behind someone driving so slowly, that sensitive measuring equipment is required to ascertain if any movement is actually happening. Good god it winds me up! They drive along, being steadily overtaken by continental drift, with that stupid look on their face that tells us all that the only thing that's going through their mind is the Magic Roundabout theme tune. I'd like to also point out that these people are different from They (as previously mentioned, check the link to learn more), as they're not co-ordinating their efforts to frustrate you; such a move would require something called "thinking". So now, I've started looking at ways to counter these people, and have some interesting ideas.

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If I can have my Summer back, that'd be nice.

So today, I've got to go to the doctors to get an injection. It's not a blood-test, it's for hay fever. Yes, every year, for about four months, I find that I can't venture outside without being smacked upside the head with sneezing and a blocked nose. However, this injection should solve it for about a month and a half, which is a massive blessing as I love Summer about four hundred times more than any other time of the year (except 31st March, jus' saying). I had the injection last year, and it was a surprise, mostly because I rolled my shirt sleeve up only to be told "nope, guess again". But, it worked, and it was well worth it just to get my Summer back. I love Summer; I love that a t-shirt and shorts are all that's needed, that it's daytime until about 9:15, that sitting by a river or a pool becomes more enjoyable and less masochistic, but mostly, because it just makes everything that much more awesome. Therefore, it'd be nice to experience it without filling my pockets with tissues and sounding like the man from the Tunes advert.

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Oh Charlie Sheen, how you show us all how to live!

This week, for your TV viewing delight, there's a programme about a TV cook who does no cooking but does design a school, there's a chat-show starring someone who's barely famous and annoying but has a Dad who's barely famous and annoying, and a whole programme about a house that Queen Victoria stayed in, maybe, for 4 whole days before she was even Queen, thus rendering the whole thing pointless.

Now, I'm not going to spend next Wednesday's blog telling you how it all turned out, because I rarely ever watch TV. Now, I'll give you a moment to take that on board.... You OK? Good! That's right, I barely ever watch TV, due to a combination of what is on being a waste of my time, and my aerial having a personality of its own. This would be fine, if it wasn't a personality that sporadically hates TV when it decides, and sometimes simply can't be bothered to do anything. This week, my TV has been used mostly for watching copious quantities of LOST on DVD, Xbox and occasionally, re-runs of QI and Top Gear on Dave. When the Aerial lets me.

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Stop being so grumpy. It could be worse. For example...

I do love mornings! Not the "getting-up" part, or the "few-grumpy-minutes-before-the-kettle-boils" part obviously, but after then, when I'm wide awake and can find the mental capacity to laugh at everything and everyone. I try not to get annoyed in the morning, especially if I have to commute somewhere. This is for a very good reason, you see. I see every morning the same people getting very and hilariously wound up behind the wheel of their car in the jams. I can even see them shouting abuse at everything before them, which simply means I can insert my own amusing commentary to what they're saying, or give these complete strangers, who I see all the time, their own nicknames. Hey, some of those traffic jams are pretty long, I'll have you know! Anyway, I am always cheery on a long morning drive for a very good reason. I call them "They".

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I dunno, something about a Big Society?

Welcome, one and all, to the "Big Society". Don't ask me what it is, because I honestly have no clue. Apparently, that's the point? I don't know, but what I do know is that the jist of it is that we all contribute a bit of effort to make everything lovely. How nice! However, one problem I've noticed is that I'm not really sure if I'd be a lot of help to this volunteer force. Unless, that is, sarcasm and Xbox is in need on any particular day. That aside, I do think that if it works as suggested, it would be quite nice. There's a number of factors though, that could scupper the whole deal, and the biggest factor... is us.

On Saturday, like a good lad, I helped an old couple do up their garden. Is it fun? No. Is it rewarding? sort of. Is it messy? Oh yes! The small amount of money I received from doing this good deed merely went to replace the gloves and trousers I'd ruined. Could have had a lie-in, but noooooo...

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My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding? I'd Rather Spend The Money On Me, Ta!

As we slide merrily through February and March, we seem to have entered the other part of the year where everyone's birthdays seem to congregate. Seriously, everyone seems to have a birthday either in November or in February/March (myself included). It just makes for a headache planning everything around it; I can get a thoughtful present and a lovely card for all, but if I miss just one person, then the grief I get is colossal! Still, it does at least let me cram in as many parties into the shortest space of time as possible.

However, and this is a big however...

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