Drinking Story

Some time back I set up a chat bot with the ace company/website MyCyberTwin.

Ever since then, it’s been happily picking up customers occasionally and basically putting them in their place so perfectly it’s actually like talking to me back when I was 20…

This morning, I wake up to see a new e-mail in my inbox from MyCyberTwin to tell me that a conversation has taken place. Genuinely, this is interesting for me as I love reading just how fucking good the responses from this chat bot are sometimes. (I’m not sure if it’s just randomly lucky or if it’s some higher power)

Check this one out, it made my coffee eject:


Chris - "I still have a lot to learn about people."
Bummed Out - "what don't you know?"
Chris - "Well if I don't know it then I can't tell you I don't know it can I?"
Bummed Out - "you're good."
Chris - "at everything.."


I just don’t remember ticking a box that said “smarmy twat” – but it’s making me giggle.

I also like this one…


Bummed Out - "is it better to kill one to save a million, or let one live so a million die?"
Chris - "You first."


Unfortunately, he missed out a comma there.. “You, first”

Other news

Anyway,

Two things happened to me for the first time last night:-

1. I won a pub quiz for the first time in my life. Highlights in my correct answers were these…

“How many squares are there on a side of a scrabble board?”
“In Bingo calling what number is ‘the key to the door’?”
“What decade did coronation street start?” (Sadly I knew this)
And
“When was U2’s ‘beautiful day’ released?”

Trust me, without Google, they aren’t that easy and I got them all. Earning me 13 british pounds. (Which have the monetary value of three nuka cola bottle caps) – Feel free to post the answers in the comments. I’ll just assume you used wikipedia.

2. I threw four three-dart doubles in a single night. (I.e. playing around the board, I threw, “1″, then “2″, then “3″, then got another go, hit double “4″, then “9″, then double “10″)

I did that, four times in total, and lost every game. Amazingly…

I’m going to buy a dartboard…

One of the many reasons I love this bloody phone is that I can now immediately check and write shit. Like just now how I just saw someone I really didn’t want to see and all of a sudden noticed I’ve got the itchiest eyebrows in the world, hey it hides my face, and therefore job done.

Top Gear then, right from the very off, let me make it hugely clear, I’m a big fan. Honestly. So before I go off ranting I just want to clear that up. I have nearly all of Clarksons books, (and quite a few of the others) – and apart from trying to stand in the crowd on the show (looks at Sharky) – I religiously tune in.

My biggest ranting point however, is this new “six show” format they have. It’s winding me up, Surely they didn’t always just do six shows a series and then have a massive twenty week break before coming back?

I know that the production values have obviously gone through the roof (I can’t imagine flying to Japan, filming a couple of cars, then jumping into spitfires and flying to Germany can be cheap) – but come on. Six shows?

I think because it’s so obviously gone big budget, they now feel that each part of the show has to be either, Dramatic, Comedy, or one of those races / car comparisons. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a stick in the mud where they have to review “normal” cars, (I absolutely hate that argument – I’m seriously not interested in watching a Lexus being driven around a track).

But the one thing they really need to start looking at is the following predictability.

Clarkson will always win, be the last doing anything important and will always get the final word. Fair do’s, it’s his show, but it makes the other two presenters come across as a bit weaker than they did years ago, (where there was a real sense of being on an even keel)

James May will always be in the slow car, fair enough, but Richard Hammond will ALWAYS crash into him pretending that his “brakes have failed” – yes, it was funny the first time in the classic super cars but since then, it’s like brake failure happens in every single car ever made, it’s not funny now. We now expect it whenever they park up.

The set-up jokes are wearing off. I know they have to be set up because that’s what entertainment is, but a few “none-jokes” wouldn’t go amiss either. I mean, I have cobbles near me, and not once has my door fallen off. (And seriously, I’ve driven across them in some cars where I expected it).

Last nights final episode they took on the Germans, surprise surprise, they won in the final race. Yes, it makes for interesting television, but we really wouldn’t have minded if you hadn’t.

I think the biggest sign that the format has changed is that my girlfriend has stopped watching it as keenly as she did. (Which is a pity because it was pretty much the only thing we could agree to watch that didn’t end in “street” or “ers”)

My biggest worry however, is that I don’t know what to suggest to make things better.. Perhaps apart from dropping the six show format and going for, I dunno, Eight? And spacing out the obviously set up jokes a bit more? (That being said, the trips across Africa, the North Pole and America are certainly the funniest ones ever – and I think that’s because it was genuinely funny, as in, not set up.)

Oh and another thing: If Simon Cowell is reading this, I think Jay Kay cheated to get to the number one spot. Since when have they been allowed 9 laps and then the fastest time picked from it? That’s bollocks, isn’t it supposed to be, 8 Practice laps and then a final hot lap? I only mention this because every time they start their fast lap, people in the past have said stuff like “come on, this is it” and “here we go”.

Here’s a WikiPedia article to reinforce my shit.

So it took me seven weeks to make, but I thought I’d post some pictures here of me wearing my custom made L.E.D pimp outfit.

The lengths I go to for fancy dress nights…. *sigh*

Oh yeah, if anyone wants to see more pictures, feel free to add me on facebook

Also, This is for Google in case anyone tries to search for a few things looking for pictures (I’d love to hear of any sightings of me, I had so many million photo’s taken but yet didn’t take many of myself!)

19/06/08
20/06/08
21/06/08
22/06/08

And so it begins, the most action packed 8 weeks of my life, and what a furious start it has been….

I went to Ibiza town on Thursday for a long (read, very, exceptionally long) weekend. I really didn’t know what to expect, I sort of guessed it’d kind of like a bad night in Warrington mixed with a fight in Leeds, and possibly a kebab and taxi home in Chester…

I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised. Ibiza really wasn’t what I expected one bit… Sure, it may have been like that in San Antonio (which was akinned by one of my friends as ‘hell on earth’) – but where we were was absolutely, 100% quality.

I didn’t see one fight, I didn’t see a single arsehole, not a single chav (who I assume cannot fight the gravitational pull of San Antonio) – it really really wasn’t what I was expecting.

Just like I wasn’t expecting to see Richard Branson dining on his Yacht in the harbour…

In just four days, we managed to drink our ways though more beer than I thought humanly possible. This is why my friends are so great (I know I’ve said it before – but hey) – they can have fun just about anywhere. Elevators, baggage collection areas, in the middle of a packed nightclub. It doesn’t bother them one bit.

The fact that we are all more than happy to go out and just act like we are on our own is so great and so relaxing. I have to say that the people of Ibiza (the brits aboard and indeed every other nationality that I came across) actually gave me hope for this planet. Maybe it’s just the ecstasy floating around peoples veins, (not mine I might add, I really don’t need drugs to have a good time, but if that’s your bag baby then fine) – but I really did get a great feeling that everyone was cool.

Maybe it was the music too, maybe the type of music I like listening too is what promotes the friendly vibes, I dunno..

Suffice to say our last night, I went dressed as a pimp to a major club in Ibiza, thinking we’d face some sorts of trouble, my friends were dressed as either women or pimps (the Stag for example, made a very attractive girl) – and we didn’t get a single bad reaction in the place. Literally hundreds of people took photo’s of us, we made appearances on Fashion Tv, various websites around the place and a few music magazines showed an interest in our outfits.

I’ll upload some photo’s once I have them, I’m quite proud of my friends, they are so great, the reaction they got off everyone there made it a great night, and everyone there who reacted so well to us, I really do appreciate as it’s easy to see the shitty things in the world (and that especially goes to the Brits abroad) – People kept on coming over to us saying “just gotta say, you guys are great, can I take a photo?” – Literally all night, just so brilliant.

And that’s why I’m a bit depressed at the moment, I know post-holiday blues well, and I’m suffering a big bolt of them to be honest, I just wish your eyes could have a video embedded in them so I could play back our last night. Lots of people truly made us feel like superstars.

And so the football season comes to a close and all is happy in the world again. The birds, tweeting their way to work this morning reminded me that there is sunshine outside.
My Xbox Red-Ringged of Death (RROD’d for the l33t) last night, preventing me from playing Gta IV – meaning I have to spend more time in beer gardens,

Everything, every single thing I can think of is pointing me towards alcoholism in a beer garden at the moment.

Even England not qualifying for the European 2008 championships is a sure sign that my kidneys are in for some serious vodka-bashing. – You see, I normally watch a few games in the comfort of my own home, when all the silly flag-painted girls of the world have gone home and given up trying to understand what the offside rule is.

For laughs nowadays, I now say things like “You’re offside when you’re in the final third of the pitch without the ball” – it’s funny watching them shout “offside” when someones about to take a penalty or something…

But because England aren’t there, I have no vested interest in the tournament, therefore, I don’t care where I watch it, which means my probability of public house presence is increased during match time between two sparring nations.

And this brings me to my dilemma, – Whom should I support?

Lets eliminate the obvious ones right from the start:-

France I couldn’t possibly support the French because I happen to think they are cunts. I’m yet to find a single example of a person who is French (or even displays French characteristics) that I’ve even remotely liked. They are, and always will be cheese eating surrender monkeys.

Germany – Now, let me be clear about this, I actually like Germans, I really do, I have absolutely nothing against them. However, in the footballing sphere, I hate them approximately 95% as much as the French. It’s the kind of hate that I feel for, oh I dunno, Italy, undeniably they are a great and successful footballing nation, but there’s just something I can’t like about them because they bombed our chippy. It’s true.

Okay, so that’s them out…

Now time for the not so obvious ones I can’t support:-

Romania – In the 1998 world cup, the Romanian team dyed their hair yellow/white because they beat England – Even though it was only in the group stage and meant next to nothing – they still felt it necessary to celebrate in a really cocky manner that should prevent Dan fucking Petrescu from entering this country on fear of stoning to death by white elephant poo. In fact, I’m sorely tempted to find the phone book, find the only Petrescu in there and ring it shouting “CUNT” at volume 11.

Holland – I can’t support Holland either, much though I admire a nation that can be famous for Pornography, drug use and prostitution, I just can’t get myself to forget the Koeman free kick goal – where, yes, he was going to fucking flick one, ALRIGHT, we’ve got it. (R.i.p Brian Moore – thanks for breaking the commentators rules of not predicting something before it happens and getting it right and for all eternity making me dislike the Dutch)

Italy – Again, I have nothing against the Italians, they are a plucky good bunch who I don’t really mind (to be all that honest) – They’ve always been super talented, and have previously been “the team I support” – (especially in World Cup 1994) – however, and this is the but, they are world champions. And therefore, I cannot support them because it would be tantamount to being a glory fan. (For all you Manchester utd fans out there, that means, supporting a team when they are winning, and then slagging them when they aren’t – I’m sure you know about that)

Greece – See above really. Only they are European champions, (and have absolutely bob hope of winning it – not that this particularly bothers me, but hey…)

Sweden – Kind of similar to Romania / Holland – I can’t forgive Thomas Fucking Brolin – and therefore, Cannot support the Swedish. For they are ego-manical cunts who have an awfully high opinion of themselves in football tournaments just because one or two of their fucking players play in Italy.

Turkey – Just can’t support these cunts because they’ve repeatedly stabbed Leeds fans.. Normally, I wouldn’t object, but to not get kicked out of Europe (like we bloody did) is a piss-take, plus they have long hair and I’m only jealous.

Austria – A couple of months ago, Austria would have been fair game, but now, what with the whole “kiddie in a basement” thing – I can’t really support them either. Sure, I appreciate I’m tarring an entire nation on the acts of one, but till I see proof otherwise, I’m from now on going to consider all Austrians Paedos.

Portugal – *sigh* – I’d love to support Portugal, but they have one distinct problem. He’s called Ronaldo, and whilst he is a very good footballer, he’s also the most arrogant prick on the planet – I cannot support such an arrogant prick, throw in the fact he’s a Man United player, and then throw in the fact that he got Rooney sent of (but for some reason everyone forgave him – Oh that’s right, it’s turncoat bloody manc’s again) – and there we have it. Sorry Deco and the others, etc etc…

The Swiss – Joint hosts. I’m not going to support them because they support Paedo’s.

So that leaves me with these choices…

Czech Republic, Croatia, Poland, Russia and Spain

For completely silly reasons, I can’t support the Czech Republic because I don’t care who you are, it shouldn’t be spelled “Czech” it should be spelled Cheque

Croatia – I don’t mind the Croatians, and to be honest there’s been very little footballing reason to dislike them either. Davor Sukur is a name that reminds me how it used to be fun to have a pointy chin. How I miss those days. – Although there’s little reason to dislike them, there’s not particularly much reason to like them either…

Poland – See above. (except the bit about Davor Sukur)

So that brings me down to Russia and Spain

Well, Although my heart says I should support Russia as a whole “thanks for supporting us in the war thing” – I can’t bring myself to support a team as boring as Russia inevitably will be in the tournament.

And so, I have decided to plump for Spain and my reasons are this:-

1.) They’ve never won a tournament – despite being bloody good in qualifying.
2.) They don’t particularly offend me, don’t strike me as particularly arrogant and I cannot recall meeting a Spanard I took an instant frenchmans dislike to.
3.) There’s very little (if any) footballing reason not to. The only result that comes to mind is that Semi-Final vs England in 1996, which we won, because they are as bad at penalties as we are.
4.) They have a few Liverpool players. (see five)
5.) They have Fernando Torres – Who’s a bit of a dream boat.

So there we go, Spain it is…

88%DRUNKARD

That’s more bloody like it….

Heartless Bitches International – Why “Nice Guys” are often such LOSERS

There’s often little that fucking annoy’s me more than than articles like the one I just linked to above. What’s more, it’s made it into the top twenty del.icio.us bookmarks this morning which means it is being read by thousands of people.

Pop fucking psychology shouldn’t ever use words like “Deal with it” and “Loser” – Nor should it ever, ever use Bold.

Anyway – The “nice guy” myth is quite simple to counteract, for any “nice guys” out there. The rules are really simple:-

1. Stop saying the word “nice”
Nice is a bad word to use, See rule number three and then substitute the word “nice” with words such as “Fucking ace”, “the best”, “big cock”

2. Pretend you have a big chin, girls like guys with big chins.
It’s true, I dunno why, but pulling a Jimmy Hill is always a good move (he must have been a day predator)

3. Be an absolutely arrogant arsehole, trust me, they fucking love it.
Countless times now I’ve told a girl to “fucking get out of my way” when walking back to my friends with drinks, and that’s it, they are completely under my spell. It’s very unreasonably hard for a good looking woman to understand why a man isn’t powerless in her gaze and can, in fact, treat her like shit. And so, wondergirl is then suddenly presented with a challenge, you simply have to make a choice, (and I’d always usually err towards choice a) which is, “Fuck off you overblown wench” which has the lovely add-on effect of a bigger challenge – or b) go out with the girl, eat her parents with a spoon, bury her under the patio

The end

Ahh it was a beautiful moment – One that reminded me of better days when the sky was filled with rainbows and little children fell over. Yes gentleman and bastards, its time for the return of the DRINKING STORY! *Cue drum roll*

Standing next to bar, baying for attention off anyone on the other side of it willing (or unwilling) to serve me a selection of beverages, and this little elf like woman skirts her way around me and stands to my right.

Me: “Oh yeah? I see how it goes, little ones always think they can push in”
Her: “Yeah, that’s because I have a better smile…” *fake smile*
Me: “That sounds like a bet to me… ” *intimidating flash of dimples – I.e. don’t fuck with the dimples*
Her: “We’ll see”

Time passes…

Predictably, she gets served first. Somehow her gobby friend stood over the other side of the bar jumps in and gets served. I’m being wing-manned, bitch.

I realise; I look, feel and sound a bit of a cock and so it comes to me… No more fucking esprit d’escalier for me mother fuckers…

Her: “See? I told you i’d get served first”
Me: “Yeah….Aren’t you supposed to be looking after snow white someplace?”

Game, Set, Match – fuck you Rudolf, I win. There is no comeback to that, I just pwned your night stalking shit into oblivion.

(Hours pass)

I’m stood with one of my better looking friends, a collection of randoms and I just so happen to be stood in a spot I’d lovingly call Home (I used to live there, but not any more)

Dwarf girl walks in… Stands at bar, makes eye contact with me, smiles, waves, flaps her hair, whatever.

*boom* four dimple flash, raise of the already filled glass, Ka-Boomly – you lose…

Chris, apparently, is back.

Chaka Khan.

Damn you idiot, you think you’re clever because sometimes you can get a few quid out of “deal or no deal” when Noel isn’t looking. Damn you to hell.

Apparently I’m not an expert on trees. I’ve learned this now because apparently, Tuesdays are fucking hard pub quiz night.

“I know, I’ve got a pretty good collection of random knowledge in my brain up there, I have like” and then decide that entering a pub quiz would be a good idea… Trying to impress a lady friend on a Tuesday night. What a terribly bad idea….

Let me now list a few of the questions (and considering you have Google and the power of Wikipedia at your finger tips) – may I remind you that I didn’t.

Answers in the comments:- No, I won’t be thinking you didn’t cheat.

1. Name the type of tree that originated in the lebonon?
2. Name the last English male tennis player to reach a tennis final BEFORE Greg Rusedski
3. When England goes to battle, who’s drum is sounded?
4. Prince Charles is the heir to the kingdom and earl of which English city?
5. Warrington was named what by the Romans?
6. What does OPEC stand for? (and it had to be fucking exact)

And I can’t remember the bloody rest, suffice to say, I was proud to get about 4 (out of 40) right…

I spent most of the night looking across at a table full of teachers shake their head at each other saying “I don’t know that one”, and then maybe “wait a minute? isn’t sport your specialist subject?” and then being repeatedly pummeled by a cane*

I guess I’ll go back to deal or no deal then..

*I made that bit up to add spice to the bloody proceedings. You massive set of bastards ya.

Yay!, it’s the return of the “drinking story” category – Small things amuse me.

It appears my mastery of bullshit has acquired a new level. I sat on a mat on Sunday drinking away with my chums in a drinking establishment, when the conversation turned to philosophy. (Ironically, the person I was talking to was called Phil too. Now theres a thought…)

Either way, the concept of which I do not know the name of (I lovingly refer to it as the “bender possibility”) whereby an individual claims they are the only person to actually exist and everyone else is a figment of their imagination. For an example, from a purely selfish point of view that means you don’t exist. Sorry about that, but you just don’t. Or maybe, you do, and I don’t. You’re just imagining my existance and therefore imagining my personality response upon the arrival of myself not existing unless it is solely in your imagination. Which rather predictably is a knee-jerk “no, I really exist, sorry about that”

Of course, I have to say that because thats what your imagination thinks I’d say, and therefore my consequences, actions and thoughts are all derived by your own thoughts of me, which are creating my very being.

Well done you.

Clearly this theory is Bollocks.

Sadly, when the topic came up, my alcohol addled mind incorrectly directed me to my tit-bit of miss-information regarding Schrodingers cat. All this bloody time I’ve been thinking that Schrodingers cat was an example of the imagination theory (my “bender possibility”) – when it’s not. It’s an example of the problem of perception having an involvement in any experiment. (A dead cat in a box is unknown to be dead or alive without the person viewing it interferring with the experiment, and therefore, if the person does not directly witness said dead or alive cat, then the experiment is in a state of constant flux) – least, that’s how I get it so far…

So, basically – I happily recited this bullshit on Sunday and then woke up with a philosophers hang over thinking “Shit, I didn’t really say “the bender possibility out loud did I?”

No, bender isn’t some german philosopher of the late 1950’s. He is, infact, the guy out of Futurama. (And I quoth from episode “Obsoletely Fabulous”)

Bender:“But if that was just an hallucination, how can I be sure that this real? Is it not possible, nay, probable that my whole life is simply a product of my own or someone else’s imagination?”
Technician:“No, go away”.

The irony, of course, is that Bender is the product of someone’s imagination…

And that, my dear readers, is why I do actually exist. Because only I could be that fucking thick.

Shave… Right… Off…

I hate horse racing. I hate it because I kinda like it, I hate it because I love it. I hate it because my sensibilities that prevent me from gambling (unreasonable amounts of money) disappear whenever I get near two things.

A) Lager (or any alcohol based substance, Whiskey, Ouzo, Meths, Petrol)
B) Horses

Why o’ why don’t I ever take a win and run? Ohhh No, I always have to think I can be the big man and double my winnings by backing an outside bet. Why do I always pick the one with the funny name and then wonder why it’s just been pulled over and shot?

It was the like the form guide was taunting me with favourite movie names (I swear, there was a horse called Blazing Saddles, Where did that end up? In a track side burger stand probably) – Or maybe names that meant something to me and noone else. (I mean, who else is going to back a horse called “Pissed off my snout on booze”)

Either way, I love horse racing, bet you didn’t know that about me. – There’s nothing like winning £2.50 and then putting it all back on a donkey.

Oh, and I also love this bastard heatwave too. Rock on. Summer… *sigh*

Hello,

I bumped my head on Sunday and now I’m not sure I have any motorneuron functions. I have to keep telling myself to breath in and out, Everything is tinted purple (I’m pretty sure that’s not right) and I can only hear the sound of squirrels wanking.

It’s very disconcerting. On the other hand, I now like sprouts and can remember a 32 digit number easily. So it’s not all bad..

Except for the damn squirrel wanking.

Happy Easter

Signed

Mr Bump

Slightly green looking dude wearing a vest and Y-fronts.

Still he looks happy. Which is a lot more than I can say about myself. Why on earth did I end up in Warrington last night? (I would just say the colloquialism “Town” but that could mean bloody anywhere) – Utterly shave off. My eyeballs feel like they are going to pop out. And it’s a school night.

Never mind.. Onward. (To tonight where I’ll no doubt do exactly the same all over again)

I spoke to a friend once who was a ladies man, and one of his quotes was “Yeah, I used to always struggle with women and then I hit 27 and BAM – everyone wanted to know me”

About two months ago I wrote a post about my “Girl Alphabet” that I’ve seemed to acquired over the year… Boy do I have an update. I have, (and I’m almost sickened by saying this) five additions to make. On the horizon I have the potential for…

C2, C3 (Although it could be K), N2, A and J

For the first time in my life, I’m actually having to check my plans before agreeing to go out with a girl… I think Davidoff Echo is bad for me (I’ve recently switched to something else which shall remain secret) as whenever I wear Echo nothing happens when I go out.

One thing I would like to point out right now to all my devoted and loyal fans (That’ll be you then Chris) – the key word I would like to stress is “Potential” – I’m not dating all these girls yet… So don’t go branding me a slut. (I prefer the term whore for rent myself) And invariably, my imagination is making up my potential with them anyway. Quite why I’m explaining myself to a website is beyond me. Kinda like talking to a car.

I saw a friend I’d not seen in months today and he told me I looked underweight, he said I had become worryingly skinny – funny. Judging by recent events, I’d say it’s a good thing.

Imagine the scene. I’m absent mindedly minding my own business in a pub with a distinct olde worlde tourist attraction side to things, The number of nationalities in the said pub was equalled only by the number of people in it.

Four fat Americans (although they could quite frankly have been New Zealanders) – were stood taking photo’s of each other with “real pints of English bitter” in their hands. How cute,

Except that the photographer decided to barge into me so that he could get a distance shot. I – being English and always well mannered – accept his apology and continue on my merry way of doing very little.

Apparently the photo is bad, the woman in it complains that her eyes are shut. Everyones a fucking critic.

And so, curtious Chris decides to offer his exceptional[ly bad] photography talents and says “how about a group photo?” – to which, I get this response.

“No thanks, I’ve seen European Vacation”

my retort…

“You weren’t paying attention though, that guy was French”

Now theres an interesting place, I went with the impression (probably completely wrongly) that it was teh gay capital of England. Whilst I do agree that there were a few swirvers knocking around, I’d say that there was less than, say, Manchesters Canal Street. I was given the impression that the whole city was like that.

What I found was what my mate accurately called “The Souths Warrington” – which is probably not unfair. Knowing someone from Brighton (who I inciedentally met on Friday and shall remain nameless – you know who you are, “hello”).

Our only problem was that we didn’t know where to go, and if someone was to go to Warrington and “not know where to go” they’d end up in all the wrong places. We kinda did that, all eleven of us, in the wrong place.

So, let me reiterate the situation.

11, drunk, Northern lads, who aren’t short in size or stature (except me), in the wrong place of town, in a town like Warrington, only filled with Southern lads (and some suspiciously good looking girls)

Yes, I think it’s fair to say that we were heading for trouble right from the off and really, It didn’t find us to any great degree. The closest we actually came to being in trouble was when a guy said

<them>”you guys from Warrington are all inbred”
<us>”Where are you from then?”
<them>”Runcorn”

I’m pretty sure the laughter could be heard in London.

All in all, we had a good time and I think the Stag enjoyed it quite a bit.

The only problem is that I have a limp because some bastard shot me at point blank with a paintball. I wouldn’t mind but I’d already shot them at least four times and then shouted “oi dickhead, you’re dead, shave off”

Oh, and today I’ve possibly been in the foulest mood I’ve been in all year. Reasons why, will for now, stay secret.

Forza Motorsport
I’ve not laughed so much while playing a game as I have with this one.. It’s just so fucking ace… Highly recommended.

Misc…
I went to a comedy club last night, for a change it wasn’t just about drinking, we actually listened to people try and be funny. I’m being harsh, out of the four comedians we saw, one was brilliant, another was good and the other two were.. well.. I maybe giggled.

The biggest laugh of the night however came from one of my friends (something that I’m endlessly proud of)

Half way through the second (reasonably unfunny) comedian’s act, my friend stands up and goes to the toliet, naturally, we’re sat at the front (I mean, heckling distance right at the front) and so the “comic” spots my friend making for the toliet and says
“Oh, Don’t mind me, where are you going?”

To which, my friend replies

“Just going for a piss before the comedian comes on…”

And that just about sums it up. Much merriment was made, I felt like the carer at a desperate housewives convention and by repeatedly saying “Go Away” it eventually sinks in.

note: yes I do consider myself to be on the market, however, if that market is actually a meat market, I’m a hat.

Girl approaches me in a bar and says…
“Where the fuck are you from to be so white?”
I reply…
“Where the fuck are you from to have an ego that big?”

Girl asks me for the time from my watch for the third time in a row…
“What time is it?”
I reply
“Time you bought a fucking watch”

Czech Republic waitress in a bar explains to me how rich her Boyfriend is.
“Yeah he’s a member of the richest family in Prague”
I reply
“How much does he earn then? Twelve grand?”

I think I’m talking to an Irish girl…
“Do me a favour and say ‘thirty three and a third’”
She replies
“I’m Scottish dickhead”

After talking to a girl for a while she says…
“Wow, you’re like the third funniest person I’ve ever met”
I reply,
“Wow, you’re like the 7000th funniest person I’ve ever met”

Waitress explains how if we were to leave a bar, her manager will inisist she walks around the bar in circles even though there are no customers…
I reply
“You should walk anti-clockwise. It’s something a bit different I suppose”

Talking to a girl who is with my mate..
“So where are you from?” I ask
“Shropshire” she replies
“Oh so this holiday will be the first time you’ve experienced running water then?”

Random lines said by my friends..

Upon not getting any woman talking to him for an entire holiday.
“I see less action than the Icelandic military…”

Same person discussing his suspicious lack of female attraction…
“I finish less than Minardi”

“At least I can go home with a clear conscience, I only slept next to my mate shagging… I just need therapy now…”

“My best sex ever was when she woke up next to me and didn’t say ‘Boy did I have a lot to drink last night’”

“I want one of those Mp3 players, but I don’t know what the fuck an Mp3 is”…
“You just need a PC”
“I want one of those too, but I don’t know what the fuck a PC is”…

“Saying you’re ugly enough to be on crimewatch is an insult to chavs everywhere”

Girl asks my friend where he is from, (he says “mate” a lot)
“So where are you from? Australia?”
“Close enough”

Too many others to remember…

Ahoy there ship mates. Captain Chris here telling you to avert ya vast and blacken ya blaggards. I be back I be.

I’ve been sicker than a parrot with bulimia lately. However, what really was weird was the fact that I wasn’t particularly icky feeling, I just had a head that felt like it wanted to go in separate directions and had taken it’s argument from a polite “can I go this way” to a full on chainsaw rampage between left and right hemisphere.

So I looked it up in the hypochondriac symptoms encyclopedia (children’s edition) and it said I had three days to live. Personally, I’d be a bit more arsed about the news if it *wasn’t* a bank holiday.

Like the fool and the fool who follows him, I decided to take my 90% healed body out on the tiles last night, yes nothing quite like drinking several varieties of beer that could, (for all you’d notice) be a mix of coconut and petrol. My previous inactivity the three (or was it four?) days before hand meant that my taste buds are somewhere in Benidorm having a vacation. Due to this, beer tasted like water, in fact, beer tasted more like water than water did. Vodka, predictably, tasted like water and redbull, as per usual tasted like shite.

Being “Good Friday” and all, the pubs were working to different licensing laws… Of course they have to… *ahem* – and so they were probably going to shut at 1am.. or was it going to be 2? or maybe not shut at all! yay!.

Either way, it makes no difference because I left at 12:34 pm precisely.

Note my Miss Marplesque way of saying the time? Yes, that’s because, ladies and germs. I was sober. Fuuuucking sober. I now know it’s those last few beers that push me over the edge. So when you wake up in the morning and say “I really shouldn’t have drank that pina colada with the cheery on top” and some smart arsed mother fucker says “It was nothing to do with those 14 beers you drank was it?” you can confidently reply. “Fuck off cat, and I’ve told you, stop talking”

The problem of soberness

I think, in that strange, white blood cell overload kinda way, that I was immune to alcohol last night, my body had just been fighting for three days with some super bug, it sure as hell wasn’t gonna get knocked about by the beer bug. So while I happily drank my coconut flavoured water, everyone else was busily killing their kidneys.

Note to self: Never ever try and do a “so which one of you two girls is driving” joke when you’re sober because a) one of them is so drunk that the words “I SPEAK ENGLISH” don’t make any sense to her and b) the sober one can’t hear you because you’re still speaking at sober levels.

Would it be wrong of me to tell some girls to fuck off? The response I got was like telling an OAP joke at a morgue, jesus christ. It was like someone had farted in an elevator. I’m so not pleased when my friends watch me crash and most successfully burn in a smouldering ruin that was my ego. Oh look, there it goes… “Self worth gone but not forgotten”

The Hello Game

I don’t do falseness and my mother always brought me up (like a fur ball) to be polite to strangers and say hello to people you know. I simply cannot stand comfortably near someone if I haven’t said hello, it goes against my programming.

I’m currently embroiled in this huge game of “hello first” – I shall explain the rules to this game. It really is a game of fun for all the family. Oh joy.

You walk into a bar with a member of the opposite sex over the other side of the bar that you know because she used to date your friend.

Those are the rules – simple eh? – What do ya do? Do you walk over the entire length of the bar to go say “hi” and then fuck off, or do you just not bother and wait for the opportunity later in the night.

Yes, Mr(s) sane person, you wait.

And then, later on in the nightclub you bump into said person once more and say hello in your own way. Because it’s the nice thing to do… and then you get little more than a “eh? do I know you” – and then a ten minute moan about how you didn’t say hello in the previous bar. (Purely because a) they looked about as approachable as two grizzle bears and b) you were with ya mates at the opposite end of the bar and c) it says nowhere in the “howtobemale” handbook that males HAVE TO SAY HELLO FIRST)

And so, there are the rules to the Hello game. I hope you have has much fun playing as I don’t.

Ebay

I hate people that say “Ebay is great, it lets me buy and sell things to all over the world!” – I hate people who treat it like some little secret that only they know about – and in general, I think Ebay sucks cock and vowed I would never ever submit my credit card details to such a risky pursuit. (and I’m not a ebuyophobe or whatever jingoistic bullshit you want to paperclip onto me)

However, like a dyslexic Noel Coward, I have a caveat – and that is…

Resident Evil 4

I bought a Gamecube, with memory card on Ebay purely so I could play this game. THAT’S how good I think it is.

How much did I pay for the console and memory card?

I am so proud, the princely sum of £34.50 pounds for the whole lot. That’s almost as much as the game cost me and more importantly it’s a whole six quid cheaper than Argos were selling them (when they were selling them)

Sure sure ToysRus might be selling them at £60 with two games. But either way, I care not as these games simply aren’t Resident Evil 4.

Thank you, goodnight.

It wasn’t the usual Saturday last night, sure it might have involved music and alcohol, but still, it wasn’t the usual.

Occasionally, every so often, I do something that I am so proud of that can’t resist grinning like a Cheshire cat. (Where the heck are all those cheshire cats anyway? I’ve never seen one in Cheshire) – anyway…

Last night Mr Chris you went to a party that you probably didn’t want to go to if you were being perfectly honest with yourself. Instead of just doing what you always do and making up some excuse, you went that extra little step and actually went.

You faced up to your reasons for not going, you smiled even though you wanted to frown, you didn’t hide out in the kitchen preciously guarding the primary source of alcohol. More importantly, you didn’t get so drunk as to embarress yourself any further than normal.

Then… Much more importantly, you were blanked. Yes, completely and utterly blanked by the person you were consciously avoiding. Seems that she was consciously avoiding you too.

All night, not a single word was passed between two people that actually do know each other. Rather a bit too well, if you get my drift

Yes, you were blanked and it suited you fine. You smiled and carried on with your mission to portray the niceguy image you so crave.

And then the master stroke.., just before walking out of the door… You grasped a digital camera, took photo’s of approximately everyone at the party, and made sure you were in every single one.

The genius was in who’s digital camera it was….

A pyrrhic victory, but a victory nonetheless

Something strange is in the air. Perhaps it was my performance a couple of weekends ago, but something is definitely in the air.

For the past four Saturdays in a row – I have seen the same girl in the same bar. Now this wouldn’t be particularly exciting news, and yet it gets a whole lot more complicated. I guess I should explain.

I have only spoken to this girl once, who asked me for a light (which I didn’t have) – however, I might have said something like “Do you smoke” – “Only when I run fast” – That was four weeks ago. I swear that’s the only thing I’ve ever said to her…

Yet…

There is a song called “Testo Holyghost – Superman” which basically revolves around generic house dance music and the line “Here comes a superman….”

Every week for the past four weeks, whenever this song has come on, she’s been looking at me. And every time, I take the piss and do my army salute.

Why do I take the piss?

Well, she’s stood next to her boyfriend. Her considerably bigger (at least in width) than me boyfriend. Her very very hard looking, probably could snap me in two boyfriend. I find her attention slightly awkward because her boyfriend has seen my fake salute (of that I’m sure) and has probably etched me on some sort of “murder list” in the near future.

Being the pathetic puny bitch that I am (Who prefers to hide behind the colloquialism of “pacifist”) I’d prefer my face to remain the right way up.

And so, my piss take salute is getting more and more piss-takery. I’m not the kind of guy to completely blank someone, (have never been, never will be) even at the risk of my own nose. So now my salute is turning slowly into the complete “double rimmer”. (I won’t explain a Double rimmer if you don’t understand then don’t worry about it)

Anyway, that’s a completely useless little bit of a quip from my life…

Advice please. (Even though I’m not gonna take it)

Being sober on a Saturday night was a new experience for me. Everything seemed much more straight forward, plus, people I deemed to have a “calm” exterior really don’t. It’s just I’m too drunk to notice it.

It was random girl night last night apparently. All of a sudden everyone seems to know my name, (much like the Cheers bar) .

What was really the oddest part of the night (if we discount my sudden rise in popularity) was a complete stranger throwing a bottle of water over me while I was waiting for a taxi.

Strange but true. I called him a dickhead (twitch response i’m afraid) and then he was like “are you calling me a dickhead?”

hmm, let me see, you assault random strangers with water bottles as they are minding their own business waiting for a taxi… In reputidely one of the roughest places in the UK

“Yes, I called you a dickhead, dickhead.” I thought as my soberness made me shut up and I just laughed it off and watched as the meathead decided to merge back into the crowd.

Moments later, a *massive* fight broke out further down the street. I couldn’t see anything because of the crowd between me and the trouble. Fists in the air, the sound of breaking glass. Again I did wonder why I bother.

Naturally the police were on site literally hours after the problem, and in their heavy handed nature (gotta love it) decided to arrest completely the wrong people.

Then, my mate pointed out someone walking across the street with a very, very very smashed up face. It was the waterboy.

“Awww what a shame, he got glassed”

Fuckin justice rocks sometimes….

Random girl six: “Are you sure you’re male?”
Me: “Why don’t you use your microscope and find out?”
Random girl six: “Ahh small cock?”
Me: “No, small Y chromosomes…”

Unwarranted shitty attitudes fuck me off. Which is ironic because I’m probably the biggest abuser of unwarranted shitty attitudes on the planet. I can’t stand people that just take a dislike to something, or someone, purely because they want to adhere to their shitty attitude badge. The words “not my problem” spring to mind. Cryptic eh?

Last night has to rank as one of the worst of my life. It’s right up there with that night I walked 10 miles in the wrong direction. It’s right up there with that time I got knocked out by a tree. It’s right up there with…

I’ll save the hassle of me re-typing what happened.

Apparently some philosopher dude (or it might just be me) said that loneliness is impossible if you like the company of yourself and that loneliness is actually a facet of a person unable to accept that life is essentially a solo journey. I should read more philosophy some time in the future (makes note and then folds the paper up into a small square and then eats it). Life is essentially a long and arduous journey to grow to like your own company –

I arranged to meet one of my friends in a bar that I usually hang out in last night and he was a little late, so I was in this bar on my own. Alone in a crowded room. I think this was the defining moment of the night, I could lurk, but sadly the music wouldn’t let me. So I decided to mingle.

The events got stranger, I made a new friend (I always seem to), I made another one, my usual sarcastic shit getting me into far too much trouble. Strange, I ended up with some girls insisting that I was in photo’s with them.. I just wait for the “ugly bloke” entry in Loaded or FHM.

I wish that was that. It wasn’t. I eventually got home to where I was staying, only to find a locked door in sub zero temperatures. Plan B is always to check the secret passageway through the connecting garage. No use, that door was locked. So I sat down on the step in the garage and waited.

6 hours and some very curious bird tweeting noises later, I hadn’t slept a wink and probably got pneumonia. The door unclicked and my friend was stood there apologising profusely…

I wonder if I would have got any sleep even if I was in my own bed last night.

Belts.

Completely necessary items to keep ones pants from falling down. Also sometimes a fashion accessory and indeed, sometimes a bottle opener. The best ten quid I ever spent was on my Zoo York belt, Not only has this simple item been mentioned on SYH a fair few times (usually involving random women pulling on it).

However, the best ever incident last night. I was busy minding my own business dancing away (I’ll come to that bit in a minute) and then all of a sudden I felt this yank in a sideways direction.. When I got my bearings I looked down and saw that my belt had snagged into a girls handbag as she walked past me, and so I was dragged along with her.

I laughed and slapped my belt down as if it was an alive creature and then went back on my way…

Annnnddddd Cuuueeeee Bunny Boiler.

“Oh my god, that is fate” she exclaims at me. I go “eh?” – “I mean that’s fate that the belt and the bag got caught up like that”.. I looked down at her puzzled a little and then said “Fair enough, would you like a drink?”

We stood at the bar for a while talking, and basically I skipped the basics and just got to the point. “So, do ya have a boyfriend?” to which she replies “No, I have a husband”..

“Now THAT’s fate” I say as I walked off.

Then I realised that I was lost at sea, I couldn’t see my mates any more and I guessed they had wandered off to the next bar (presuming that I had.. erm.. “pulled” and therefore had done one) – so there I was, stood in my own looking for my friends. My phone battery dead.

“Last drink” then I thought as I looked around the place. It’s funny, I probably go there once a week and yet I’ve never actually looked. I think eyes are so under used sometimes. Shit really does pass you by when you focus on specifics. A sudden moment of clarity hit me as I raised the glass back up to my mouth. Everything was in focus, I could see everything. If I was so inclined I’d probably say “it was a bit weird” but it wasn’t. It was just like I was seeing the full picture for the first time.

I could see everyone dancing in unison. Not something that I’ve ever noticed before in a bar, but stood on the outside looking in, everyone was dancing in unison. It was very very odd, but somehow kind of reassuring. Then I realised that I was drunk, my legs told me so, and so I put my drink down on the bar, shot a pinball smile at the “fate girl” and wandered off into the night air.

I stood by the side of the street waiting for my taxi and praying I can avoid attention when I spectacularly failed to do so. This girl decides to use my as a support as she removes her heels. I didn’t mind at all. I support her a little and I probably said something outstandingly witty and amusing. Then…

“Oi, what are you doin?” shouts this reasonably good looking woman. “What are you doin with my mate?” as I look at her. “Scuse me?” I reply.. She repeats herself. All kinds of uppity shit coming out of her mouth.

I look at the first girl (the one sans-heels now) and say “what’s her fuckin problem?” and she just shakes her head and says “kids and beer”… Ahhhh…

I smile and say “listen, chill, I was helping ya mate out.”. She humpfs and demonstrates her enormous ego as she walks off to get a kebab. The heels girl smiles at me and says “I better go get her, cya” to which I say “Bye, and oh, Your friend isn’t as beautiful as she thinks she is”.

And here ends another extraordinarily boring ScrewYouHippy.com post.

I’m not buying or selling today, I’m just looking around for some decent conversation.

The crack of light slowly blurred and got a little brighter. Like a slow garage door with some 80’s rock pyrotechnics going on inside, the light was like an atomic blast as I opened my eyes. My head spins as I realise I’m still seventeen times more likely to say “I’m not drunk” than if I was, actually, not drunk. The room I was in had an enormous Christmas tree in it, it’s little lights twinkling away. I wonder how many kidneys that type of tree is responsible for destroying in alcohol related illness.

Another reason to wish my eyes hadn’t opened yet (or indeed, ever again) is the battering daylight coming from the curtained windows. What is the point of having curtains that are as about as useful in blocking out light as a tea bag is in blocking out water? – Slowly focus takes me back to reality where I am; who I am; what happened. Now begins the slow process of recovery that God actually designed for the seventh day. Or was it the first? I can never remember.

Binge drinking isn’t a new thing. It’s not a new fad of popular trendy “bright young things” to go out drinking. My Grandfather used to binge drink on Sundays in two short hours. Lunch, pub, home, collapse. Same thing, just the time has changed.

The glass of water next to the sofa where I’m sleeping indicates that I either had the foresight of realising that I’d be dehydrated in the morning. Or that I was in a desperate and probably futile attempt to put some liquid in my system that doesn’t have a fancy name before I went to sleep.

My hand feels cold as I place it on my temple and wonder why on Earth I find a reason every weekend to put myself through this. “Perhaps I’ll have a great time and laugh with my mates, who knows, I might meet Angelina Jolie and someone might decide to give me millions of pounds”.

Like a tramp going through garbage, I dismantle my pockets contents and wonder if I can piece together any clues of the events of the night before. A Taxi number, some small change… But this isn’t a case for Sherlock and co, it’s what isn’t there that is significant. What isn’t there is the purple note that brings relief and many-a-smile to my face whenever I discover one in my pocket. Strangely, nore are there any Brown notes that bring the same sort of euphoria, but with precisely 50% less effectiveness. And no, no little blue ones that are invariably more crinkled and considered much less worthy.

I decide that my current lack of funds is a lesser concern as to finding my truely valuable items. My watch, and my phone. My watch, as per-roll call is residing right next to my phone. Which, now I think about it, was responsible for my waking moments.

It beeped.

“Wait a minute, my phone never beeps. It only ever beeps when there is a low battery, it can’t have a low battery because I charged it fully before I went out last night” thinks the little man that resides in the back of my brain. He sometimes answers to the name “sense”, (not a very common name I might add)

Then the slow, aching realisation hits me like yet another hangover. I pick up my phone, stare down at the “dialled phone calls” list and hold my head in my hands.

I phoned my friend, while he was on a date with his (probably) soon to be wife. If I remember correctly I phoned him because I met his brother in some bar and it reminded me that I needed to phone him. (For what purpose I still don’t know). Apparently I shouted down the phone in the deafening cacophony the name of the bar I was in, twelve times. Then I shouted “okay, Speak to you later” and then hung up. After four minutes of dance music had passed.

What amused the reciever most is that I was having a fully blown conversation with his answer machine.

I press down and stare in horror at the next number. Yes, I may have phoned San Francisco last night too. The reason I phoned so far away? Well, I won’t discuss that now because it’s not for public consumption. (No, I’m not gay) – Suffice to say, it resulted in my foot being promptly placed in my mouth. Sideways.

The phone beeps it’s low battery warning one final time and then goes black. I close my eyes to summon a similar view from my eyelids and try to get a few more hours sleep.

“Oh look another drink related post on ScrewYouHippy”

Tonight will be the first night I have spent in my own bed for four days now. December truely is party season – Probably the only reason to be jolly is the tequila flowing and the stinking aftertaste.

Friday and Saturday nights saw the complete contrasts in my personality come through. Friday night I was the smart alec obnoxious brat that I can sometimes be. (I probably wasn’t that bad, but then, I do remember shouting random obscenities at a bloke driving a Ford Fussion)

What is it about cars and crowds anyway? A crowd of people standing in the street freezing their bits off waiting for a taxi and eating Pizza. And then rolls past the mind numbingly dull car, sporting factory alloys and four pricks sitting in the car.. Lap after lap they do past the taxi cue, bouncing along as they dribble past.

Maybe the intention is to “pick up chicks” with this method. Erm.. Hang on. Firstly, I highly doubt any woman worth even looking at is going to be impressed by a Ford Fussion. I’m fairly sure even my mother wouldn’t be impressed by one of those. It’s *exactly* like me driving past in my Ford Focus and shouting out of the window as I drive past. “Look!, I drive a decidely average car”…

And secondly, it’s a four seater car? Maybe Dido decides that she’s gonna hop in the Ford Fussion, Which of the pricks A) is going to get her? (presumably the driver gets all shagging rights) and B) which chav is going to give up their seat for the singer/songwriter?

I’d love to hear from anyone that met their present, past or even future partner in this fashion. (Purely so I can shout random obscenities at you too)

So, Friday night I was probably a little leery and a little obnoxious. (Hey, Aren’t I always like that anyway?) – And then last night, total opposite of the scale.

Yep, Dr Charming was in town last night. I spent the entire night fending off women, (I really am not joking – Can I just say I love my new Diesel top? Although it does make people think I’m gay) – At one point I had three women “encircling me” shall we say. Cripes, it was in the air. I had to fend one off me with a stick… I swear, it was a good job that I’d seen Shaun of the dead the afternoon before… (Top film by the way)

Thennnnn I find out that one is married, the other is recently divorced and the last one, is possibly male. – But hey, Who cares right? I was being the charming smeg. Chheeeeeeeeeeseeeeeeeeee.

God damn.. Anyway, I got back to my friends house and we started to drink Brandy and abuse a singing snowman called Smokey. (He now has this nickname because he has the perchant for Cigerettes)

standing in the pizza place waiting for my second pizza of the weekend – Small girl with her big boyfriend comes in and stands behind me and then says this

“Excuse me? Are you gay?”
To which I reply. “No, it’s not my fault your boyfriend doesn’t have any dress sense”

How my nose is still straight is beyond me…