Does Jesus love teenagers?

I like Sunday mornings, it's the only morning that the Alarm clock isn't in use. Now I'm not really a morning person, but as long as I get a bit of time to wake up I'm fine. Seven year olds doing cannonballs are definitely a no no. During the week I'm all right as long as no one messes with my 14 minute routine. I'm up and out the door and awake somewhere up the A13. So why is it that every radio alarm clock has 2 alarm settings, but only one uses the radio? The other is that phenomenally annoying high pitched buzzer thing. Why can't we have two alarms BOTH using the radio? It's not too much to ask for? We put a man on the moon 41 years ago, come on fellas pull your finger out. The wife has the buzzer thank god, I have to go down stairs to confront burglars and any other noises in the night. It's a fair trade.

This was the best Sunday of the year, the clocks went back and we had an extra hours lay in plus our youngest son (the one who gets up at 6:30 every morning) was at a sleep over party at his friends. I will never have one of those things, 6 under 8's all up until 2:00am and back up at again at 6:00am, over my cold dead body. So the day started well and peaked at some fine bacon sandwiches. After that it was a spot of washing up, a bit of a tidy up around the house and then fixing the bathroom shelves.

At noon it was half marathon training pre-training part 2. This time, distances were set, routes agreed and clearly communicated. This meticulous planning meant we stayed on course. 41 minutes and 4 miles later we were home, dishevelled but still able to evade the proverbial axe murderer. I think from now on I'm going to use that as my measurement of tiredness. So today we were a level 4, that's able to evade, but only if the axeman was overweight and a smoker.

So Sunday is god's day, the day of rest and prayer or some shit like that (guess my feelings on this from just those16 words), but I can't see how this Christianity thing ever took off, I mean look at the 10 commandments, 8 things you're not allowed to do, not very positive and for teenagers that's just red rag to a bull. Be nice to your mum and dad, again that's out for anyone under 20 and finally remember the sabbath, get real it's on the calender and it comes round every week, we're hardly going to forget it in that time. It's just a rubbish users handbook to a chancer's religion, anyway men don't read manuals everyone knows that. Perhaps all priests should be women they do detail so much better than us mouth breathing males. Women don't do interpretation there is only one way, THEIR WAY.
In the evening we went to the Harvester, the restaurant chain with the all you can eat salad trolley, good food, but offering as much salad as you like doesn't seem right, I can't quite put my finger on why though. It was my Nan's birthday and everyone had had their fill by the end the main course, but we all had a desert, obviously. Contented we all waddled home and I'm sure that's just about it for the rest of the night all round.

Where’s my seven shot six shooter?

The ten of clubs, now this is going to get real dangerous real quick. Wyatt’s luck was running hot, real hot, but sometimes being this lucky got a man a stomach full of lead. No one was going to believe him and it would take just one accusation of cheating and this was all going to hell. Wyatt looked up from his cards and slowly took in his surroundings, paying special interest to any potential exits. A slow blink and a check of his cards showed the royal flush sitting prettily in his grubby little fingers. It was unbeatable, the best possible hand, but that might not be enough for this game, the six shooter on his right hip may be his best next play. Where was the trouble coming from? Just about any bloody where he’d bled all 3 of the other players dry and any one of them was a possible killer.

Across the table sat the local thug Charles Craddock, a brute of a man. Well over six feet tall and built like a bison his physical stature was far scarier than his poker skills. Well over half the stack of money that sat before Wyatt came into the saloon in Charlie’s wallet, but a fool and his money were easily parted. The thing you notice about Charlie wasn’t his size or even the strange mismatch of Indian and prospector clothes he wore, it was the smell. The stench defied belief, it smelt like the coyote skins he was wearing had been ripped from a rotting carcass sometime last summer, dipped in horses piss and then been hung from his shoulders ever since. No one said anything because his temper was shorter than a rattle snakes left leg and he seemed to resolve every argument he ever had with one of the two pearl handed pistols that hung either side of his fat gut.

On my right was Seymour Close the local undertaker, tall, thin with a pasty complexion, if anyone looked like an undertaker it was Seymour. Dressed all in black Seymour didn’t have any obvious signs of a weapon, but early in the evening Wyatt had caught a glimpse of what looked like a pin fire pistol in his jacket pocket. His coat had flapped open as he groped one of the bars' working girls. The grope had earned him a slap as even working girls had standards. Seymour was a slimy, cretinous letch who had a reputation of sexual depravity. He was also rumoured to sometimes personally drum up trade when times were hard. His poker was decidedly average.

 And that left Clifton Boodabaker, the local business big cheese. Now Clifton would definitely do what ever it took to win and the talk on the street was that he often did. By far the richest man in town, Clifton's sharp city suit, silver topped cane and bowler hat were testament to that fact. Clifton enjoyed the finer things in life, but today luck was something he hadn’t enjoyed, his had been retched. Wyatt had quite quickly put a sizable dent in his cash flow projections. Rich people liked losing money even less than those that couldn’t afford to lose it. His mood was vile; the size of the veins on his neck gave that away, even more than the way he always coughed when he was bluffing. The worst tell Wyatt had ever seen.

So what to do, how to get out of this alive, there was no way he was throwing this hand away. Okay something blatant and obvious seemed in order, an error that everyone would spot. Everyone would fold their hands, he could muck his cards and everyone would walk away alive. A short pause for dramatic effect, “$500” Wyatt declared. Seymour whistled, nothing from the other two. He felt that would be too rich, no one would go for that and he didn’t have to die in this flea bitten frontier saloon bar. It was a dump and not worth a dime all except for Mary Lou, she was always worth a visit. Worth every penny. Two folds then nothing, come on Seymour he thought, don’t be a pratt. The silence seemed to drag on for ever and just as Wyatt thought he was scot free it came “Call”.

 Shit.

Anyway back to reality, Friday was rubbish, seemed like someone had injected concrete into my thighs and I was walking like I’d broken my arse. The roads were crap, work was a pain, we won at cricket which was good, but I only got 1 run which was bad. Saturday my legs were worse, seven miles seems even more stupid now. Plus I couldn’t walk down the stairs. I got wet watching football, my back door cracked (not a euphemism), I’ve got to pay the Barclaycard and West Ham conceded the winning goal in the 88^th minute. All in all a decidedly average kind of start to the weekend, but then I do average pretty well so that’s life I suppose. I hope I win the lottery tonight, maybe I’ll remember to buy a ticket this week.

How old is your dog?

Thursday saw a bit of a change when it came to work. Out on the road with one of my team, which was cool. So a chance to see what it’s like, as they say down at the coal face and from the looks of Surrey, Sussex and Kent it aint too bad. Beats mining silver and cooper in Chile. Daylight is always a bonus and the thought of spending 3 months in a deep hole with 32 other men just doesn’t do it for me. I wonder if they used paper scissors stone to resolve difficult em passes? Now most of you have thought it, but haven’t said it out loud, but we all know the saying “what goes on tour stays on tour.”  Long lonely days with nothing to do but amuse yourself and nothing to occupy idle hands. Plenty of dark corners, no chance of the wife coming home early unexpectedly. Now I understand why toilet paper was the first thing they asked for. And just how close did their bonds of friendship become. If on the first night with their wives they asked if they could do it with the lights off you would understand, but what if they asked to do it doggy style while both wearing a miners helmet? You would definitely start to worry. Now imagine the first flight to Mars with a round trip of 5 years, that’s going to be a challenge, have the scientist allowed enough weight for tissues and lotions, 5 years is a long long time.

The day went well, a sneaky bacon burger at a roadside café was a treat and apparently if you eat alfresco and in a different county then the calories and fat content don’t count either, double bonus. My chauffer for the day dropped me back to my car at the Bluewater pantheon to consumer excess at a very reasonable time, but I resisted the urge to spend. The Apple shop is a complete credit card magnet. Apparently if you go in the store twice in the same week and don’t buy something then your knob goes black and drops off. It’s true!! I must say though from what I did see the economic recovery is in good hands, I reckon this part of Kent is single handily spending our way out of these troubled times, either that or no one is watching any TV or reading the papers. Silly me I was forgetting X Factor doesn’t have a money matters section. Spend on you crazy fools spend on. 

As I mentioned before I’ve hit that landmark in life that usually precipitates spending to excess and wanton acts of stupidity that hark back to an earlier hormone driven, care free, invincible time in your life. Then everything was possible and mortality was left to those fools who chose to live life in the slow lane. Now I’m at the stage where beige chinos are very dangerous and it’s not so much where the next pub is, but where the next toilet is. Anyway rather than buying a sports car I’ve decided to run a half marathon. I’m being joined in this escapade by two willing accomplices. My brother who last ran any kind of distance in the last millennium and a good friend of mine that has just passed 30 and is staring down the rest of his life. I think it stared back at him and he blinked first.

Thursday night was the big kick off, a short run to get the ball rolling, nothing too strenuous, just something that would just break a sweat and get us in the swing of things. 3 miles was agreed, a fair start I thought and off we went full of beans. Then something stupid happened. 3 attacks of stubbornness, 4 moments of macho bravado and hay presto 7 miles in the bag. As we reached home 80 minutes later we were a complete mess, Steve was so tired he couldn’t a) get the key out of his pocket b) put the key in the lock or c) even see the door. But that didn’t matter I was sitting on the doorstep and with no intentions of moving.

 As we slumped near deaths door (like complete drama queens) we both agreed that if an axe wielding manic burst from the trees across the road neither of us had the energy to run one more step. Our only defence would be telling him we were way too tired and we wouldn’t even scream as he hacked insanely at our decrepit bodies. So he was just wasting 37 good swings, 9 glancing blows, 5 air swings and £4 to have the axe sharpened next week. So why bother at all. Frankly it was a crap idea but at the time it was all we had. An hour later I had summoned up enough energy to walk the 13 yards to my car and managed to drive home, shower (proper stinky) and go to bed.

Now that got me to thinking, dogs really stink and so does cat breathe. What is it with this stupid dog years thing? I hear people saying it all the time “Marmaduke here is actually 108 years old this year, in dog years obviously.” Rubbish he’s 14 just because dogs only live for about 12 years they don’t need their own time measurement system. A year is the time it takes the earth to travel once around the sun. Its roughly 365 days long (stop it with the old leap year shit, this is just basic science I’m not trying to pass an A level here) it has 12 months and 4 seasons. Winter for sleeping, spring for shagging, summer for families and autumn for getting fat. It’s a constant and it’s the same for everyone, cats, dogs, fish, birds the lot. If dogs had 28 seasons a year (7 dogs year x 4 seasons, keep up) then we’d be up to our eye balls in puppies and they would definitely lose the cute and cuddly status and become a cheap turkey substitute at Christmas. Dog years, it’s pointless, it’s stupid and just plain wrong, so stop it now or I’ll send Wayne Rooney round to meet your Nan.

Shaving Ryan’s Privates

The smell of diesel, sea water and vomit was almost too much to bear. My stomach was doing cartwheels, but I couldn’t spew my guts up in front of the men, my men, 24 young men going to war for the first time. The landing craft engine chugged along, beating a relentless march to the shore. The sound was a welcome relief from the insipid silence that had come over the craft since it was clear their mission was a go. No one spoke, there was nothing left to say, every man had his own demons to face. It was a close knit unit, the men worked in unison in true military style. Look after you buddy and your buddy will look after you they said, but now fear weighed mercilessly heavy on them all. It was every man for himself. I knew they would fight, the training would see to that, but the fear of the unknowing, the gut wrenching terror of what lay beyond the metal front ramp was beyond reason and the fight for control took every inch of their concentration.

 The near silence was periodically broken by a large wave breaking the side rail or by a young stomach letting go. No one complained, no one belittled, no one joked not even Private Kiplowski, the platoon joker, he too it seemed had no one liner for this turn of affairs. My holster at my side was empty my sidearm gripping tightly in my hand. I flipped the catch and out slipped the clip, I checked my revolvers magazine one more time, just in case I’d missed something on the other 17 checks this morning.  I needed something to keep mind and body in check, my hands were shaking like a wino before breakfast, I had to control myself for the men’s sake.

“Two minutes” came the call from the landing craft pilot, “holy fucking shit here we go”. I don’t often swear, especially in front of the men, but if there was a time that ‘fuck’ was designed for then this was it. “Check your equipment” my voice held and a wave of relief passed through me, 22 years old and these 24 souls were relying on me to get them through this shit. I’d passed the first test, another deep breath, “you know the drill ladies, remember your training and keep moving up the beach.” The response was unacceptable for the parade ground, but this was about to get ugly and I let it slide.

 The chances of us all getting through today alive was almost none, we were the first ashore, the forlorn hope they used to call it and come tomorrow I knew I’d be writing to a mum or a sister or a widow about how their boy Johnny fought for their country and died bravely. Hopefully I’d be around to write that letter.

And then it started. The terrible rattle of heavy machine gun rounds pinging off the front and side of the craft mingled with the crash of mortar rounds in the sea all around us. Each explosion causing huge fountains of water that crashed down on our heads. So the sneaking up on the enemy when they weren’t looking didn’t work, but I suppose it’s hard to hide 200 ships in the English Channel without someone noticing. Fucking efficient Germans, fucking wankers why couldn’t you have slept in this morning. The seconds passed, long agonising seconds and still we moved relentlessly on. Ever onwards towards..., towards what - oblivion or glorious victory?

 The intensity increased and the crescendo grew, the gunners had their range, now we are fucked. And still the noise grew; the rattle of enemy fire on the boat was constant. My mind wanted to explode, to scream out the pressure that was building. I was desperate to run to get away from this madness. More noise, so much noise, then realisation dawned on me, that’s our boys firing back. Our cruisers and battleships had opened fire, hurling their one ton shells at the enemy positions. Up yours you Nazi scum bags I silently screamed to myself. The cacophony grew even more intense with the smaller ships now adding their fire power to the cause, perhaps we would prevail, we can survive, we can win. Come on Adolf bring it on.

 The noise was now almost unbearable I could feel it in my chest more than hear it in my ears, so loud I could barely hear the call to ready up. 10 seconds more, the time had come, the weeks of drill and repetition, of running and shooting and practicing and shooting and running over and over and over. I took in the mother of all breathes, “Ready” I screamed as the adrenaline reached berserker proportions, a momentary pause and then the landing ramp crashed into the sea. Behold Armageddon, no time to think, time to die. 

My journey to work was slightly less intense; roads were clear, no rain, no problems, easy day, job done. Time to go home. I’m in a good mood so my thoughts on Religion, the Americans and stuck up knobs can wait for another day. They make me mad.

Where’s my compassion gland?

Tuesday has got to be the least important day of the week, it’s just a nothing kind of a day, it’s the magnolia day of the week. It’s a filler in day and yes it is better than Monday, but at least we hate Mondays, it elicits an emotion. Wednesday is the middle of the week, you know that when you hit Wednesday the weekend is in sight, lunch time means you are over half way through the week. Now Thursday basks in the glory of Friday, reaching Thursday means there is just one day left of the week. As you feast on your 4 hot wings from the hot deli counter Thursday lunch time you realise that you have less than one days work left that week (no one actually does anything constructive Friday afternoon and so it is discounted from the calculations). Everyone likes Friday, it’s Euro millions roll over day,  Friday night is the boy’s night, it’s the let my hair down night because you know you’ve got a lie in on Saturday.

 I’m not going into massive detail as we all look forward to the weekend. Friday night is for your mates, Saturday is out with the better half (movies or dinner) and Sunday is for recovery and family stuff. It’s a plan, it works, its not broke so don’t try and fix it. The weekend plan is like your wife/partner/other half plans if you deviate from the plan you are in big trouble. A man is a simple creature and can not do all the important stuff in life and manage to recalculate a woman’s plan in the same decade the algorithm is just impossible to compute. Leave it. Anyway today was a particularly magnolia day with just a hint of beige.

Here’s a thing, why is it when I listen to the radio and they have nurses or teachers or dustman or fireman on they talk as if they only do their jobs to help people. As if they don’t actual get paid at all. And when they go on strike it always to protect the service or ensure they can do right by the public. They are all part of a union and the union is there to do one thing and one thing only, to protect its members. It’s as if these people are plucked from the real world at a young age, identified as one of god’s creatures, soft fluffy and so cute and cuddly, because they are so so special. And they grow up in a scrummy place and all they want is for you to be happy. What complete rubbish. They are human beings like the rest of us, they eat and drink like the rest of us, they don’t survive on sun shine and happy thoughts. They cut me up on the motorway like everyone else; they push into queues like mere mortals, they get hammered down the pub at the weekends and use bad language like the rest of us. And god forbid they even fart in bed like the supposed baby eating, bile spitting, granny selling, knuckle dragging (not sure about truck drivers) satanic half breeds they presume work in the private sector.

 The public sector has strong unions, lucky them and up until last week a job working for the government was really secure, plus the pension was nice with the odd knighthood thrown in for good measure, but that doesn’t make them all nice people. Some are good and some are rubbish at their job. So you’re a cleaner in a factory one week and the next you’re a porter in a hospital. What happens to you? Is there a procedure to increase your compassion gland or is there a course of pills to reduce your private sector hump and club foot. Overnight you’re a better person all round, someone who combs his hair and helps elderly ladies across the road. That’s a serious induction day. Some people care and some only care about themselves, but please don’t try to say they aren’t looking out for number one like the rest of us. Let’s face it you’ve got a nice shift pattern, someone’s trying to change it to make you work a bit harder and you don’t like it. Fine that’s okay but don’t lie to me, I’m not six years old, it’s my money that goes in your pocket every month and you can damn well earn it. Rant over.

Philip Marlowe you're my hero

 It was a morning like any other morning, but his latest case weighed heavy on his mind. The dame had breezed into his office that day every inch a movie star and that sweet perfume had made him weak at the knees. A simple case or so he had thought, easy money, just a snoop job what could be simpler. Take a couple of snaps and cash my cheque. Since that day nothing had gone right, something was amiss, but he just couldn’t put his finger on what. It was cold and he flipped up the collars of his long rain coat against the chill. He cast his eyes to the heaven and shrugged his shoulders deeper into his clothes.

 The morning was cold he thought, but the sky was clear, which was more than his head, perhaps today would be a good day, who knows. He dipped both hands into his coat pockets, in his left were the keys to his beat up station wagon in the other his packet of smokes. He pulled out his morning pick me ups and searched for the lighter with the other hand. His fingers wrapped around his Zippo, the cool metal under his fingers marked his success, the first success of the day, a portent of what was to come he hoped.

He tapped the Marlboros onto his hand and out popped one white stick, deftly slipping the stick into his mouth, he flipped open the top of the lighter, stuck the flint in one fluid motion cupping the lighter against the breeze. The flame appeared and he drew in his first lung full of forbidden pleasure. He knew it was wrong, but that first hit was so sweet. The smoke mingled with cold air as he exhaled, he took a second or two to savour the moment. Now he was ready, let the game begin.

Okay my morning was nothing like that and I don’t even smoke, I just let the moment get away from me. So Monday morning usually a time of great pessimism (thank god for spell check), but after 2 days at home over the weekend I’m feeling pretty good about things. I know the M25 awaits, but its half term and that usually means at least some of the driving Nazi’s will be off work or even better out of the country altogether. I know that whole Icelandic dust cloud thing was bad for the economy but it did mean an easier life for me and a few less smug bastards telling me about their fabulous short break in the sun. How I wept when I heard of their tales of 56 hour squalid coach journeys from the arse end of nowhere to just outside civilisation. Tears of sweet joy, there is a god and you know what, I think I like him this week.

 As expected the Dartford crossing is pretty clear, but a Peugeot 20 something or other still feels the need to gain that all important extra spot in my lane. Queue the string of red brake rights. Cock. It’s okay though when we get to the tolls he chooses checkout number two, school boy error; I sail into trap 1 resisting the urge to give him the bird as I pass by, now all I have to do is contend with the pocket full of shrapnel the booth bloke just dumped in my hand. Job done and off we go.

The morning passed without interest, the usual mix of spreadsheets, conference calls, emails and disasters pending from the weekend. The toughest point came when I had to decide about food, unlike one of my colleagues who seems to live on fresh air and Granny Smith apples I need food and as usual i need it to contained all 3 major food group Meat, Bread and Chocolate. I know Gillian Mckeith is an expert, but she will die a sad and lonely woman, no one wants to live with someone who survives (that’s all it is) on whole grain anything, pine nuts and spends her time looking at other peoples poo. Live a little love; if I wanted to live forever I’d have married that Elf woman out of Lord of the Rings. And yes you are normal if you softly whispered her name to yourself so no one could hear. The little Tesco’s around the corner doesn’t provide a wide range of food, but being just outside what seems to be down town Compton, the local hood usually provides some entertainment while I peruse the shelves. Today is no exception as someone’s parked in the loading area, in broad daylight, in their big BMW, bling wheels, with the Clamping van parked on the other side of the car park. Morons and for their stupidity their prize is, wait for it (dramatic TV style pause)a fine of £120!! Yes, justice, if you would have spent more time at school reading or maybe learnt the language before coming to England, the clue was in those large yellow letters on the floor.
The main downside to the Tesco’s is they don’t do Morrison’s strawberry jam doughnuts, yes I know that’s obvious, but the brand name is important as you will see in times to come, anyway back to work and those lovely spreadsheets.

His lunch lay heavy in his gut, he wasn’t really hungry, his half eaten burger and practically untouched fries were testament to that. He sat in his usual chair away from the door. He finished his third coffee. He never sat at the counter, he liked to see who was coming and going, it was a habit that had kept him alive until now. He liked his habits, same suit, same coat, same smokes. It was the only reason he came to Joe's today, habit, same crummy dinner, but he liked things to stay the same especially Dolores’s big tits in that tight uniform. But today wasn’t the same. She had been there when he had arrived at the office. The woman in black, the …..  Sorry I’m off again, just stopped for a drink; my afternoon was some what less interesting. How annoying is it when someone asks you to do something for them and when it’s done you find out they asked someone else to do it as well. Jesus Christ if there is a deadline for this let me know you time wasting sausage jockey. This is why cousins shouldn’t marry.

The journey home was a good one and I'm almost home before I have to queue anywhere. I've never been that good in cars and for some reason I'm feeling a bit queasy. I get the same feeling when I think of the French and one of my other pet hates, mediums and clairvoyants. I mean are they for real, they get up on stage and it's always the same "I'm getting the feeling of a name or maybe a letter, yes I think it's a B, it's Bob or Bill" (that narrows it down to only half the over 50's in the crowd) " It could be a G?" literally no idea, fishing only slightly less than JR Hartley. Then someone shouts out "Is it Brian?" Before you know it the medium, usually at least an extra large, leaps on the poor unsuspecting victim with the classic line "yes it's coming in clearer now." Shock horror coming in clear as a bell, I am surprised. This classic is then proceeded by the usual claptrap such as he says he misses you or he never got the chance to say how much he loved you. Bollocks if he really loved you he would give you all the winners at Kempton on Friday or where he stashed all his lost money. They are a bunch of heartless chancers, if they admit to be being a medium they should be burned at the stake for being a witch, if they can speak to the dead then they can reserve themselves a good spot in the afterlife.

 Home sweet home.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Is Simon Cowell the devil in disguise

So they say that life begins at 40, whoever "they" are. If that's right then I've just finished the longest warm up in history and to be honest I think I've over done it a bit. As I look back at the last 4 decades, resisting the urge to calculate the actual number of days, I see the good, the bad and the particularly gruesome. I see the fat, the thin and the blindingly obvious, but I survived it intact both mentally and physically and yes I see now how average everything has been, but contrary to belief it's been quite a laugh.

As I sweep majestically into year XLI (nope Roman numerals didn't help either) I do see the irony of life and it makes we giggle, but at least my hair doesn't have that hint of ginger any more and the size of my freckles have reduced from phenomenally large to barely noticeable. So there was no drug induced sex romps with 5 blond beauties in chapter 12 and I didn't find spiritual enlightenment with the Tibetan monks on page 126. As I flick through the pages there maybe a few missed opportunities, but there were no visits to the SDT clinic, no transsexuals and as far as I'm aware nothing jammed in orifices that are exit only channels.

So yes I feel pretty average, a few inches short of six foot, size 9 feet (yes that's average as well), not fat or thin, the hair is thinning but I've so far avoided the whole monk look, wife and 2 kids, I know the average is 2.4 but come on give me some slack, Ford Focus (blue obviously), good job but no career and I can't afford to go on holiday every year unless it goes on the Barclaycard. I like my football, I'm not gay, sorry I was brought up in the 80's and just can't help it. Being brought up through the 70's and 80's means I'm steeped in capitalism and so there is no room in my life for either the bible or Mao's little red book thank god. As I remember when it comes to USA v USSR we won and to be Roman Catholic at the moment is like being as popular as the captain of the titanic, when as the water lapped over the main deck, he announced over the tannoy "Has anyone seen my glasses?" I do have the odd beer, but I don't believe what I read on every page in The Sun. So all in all I am quite ordinay.

 So all in all, I'm average, mode, mean, medium, run of the mill, Joe public, the man on the street, somewhere between salt of the earth and middle glass, dependable, stiff upper lip, loves a queue, hates to moan, likes the sun, but not too hot, eats curry, but doesn't exfoliate, doesn't believe in Feng Shui, hates the French, been to Disney World at least once, likes playing computer games but only when the wife is in bed, still looks at the sports pages first, then page 3, then the real news and yes after all that, after the scare stories, the studies and the tree huggers I still eat red meat and enjoy it.
 Some come with me, it will be a journey, maybe not on the shuttle and into out of space, but that didn't alays turn out too well. Come see how the world seems through the eyes of Mr Average, let me share with you my trials and tribulations, my thoughts and perspective, maybe just maybe together we can right the worlds wrongs, sort out this mess we are in and when we have the answers bottle it just in case someone laughs at us or calls us horrible names.

So Simon I want to rule the world Cowell, how the hell did he get to where he is today. He practically runs light entertainment in the UK and how did he do it? He found a way to make Karaoke popular, the past time of the drunk, the hen party and airbrush in the mirror brigade. He gave desperate wannabes a whiff of stardom and makes them dance to any tune he fancies and there isn't a Jager Bomb in sight. He is the new pied piper of Hamlin and we dance to his merry tune while he leads us round and round in circles, oblivious we gladly text in at £1.50 a time, plus your providers charge. I reckon he was sent by the devil (if I believed in that kind of thing, but that will be discussed again later) to capture our souls. That's why he wears his trousers up so high. Everyone knows that the devil's minions have no belly buttons. I don't know why, but thems the rules. Maybe I just don't get the whole reality show thing and yes I do cringe when I see my dad dance, but surely we've seen it done once or twice, that's enough, think of up something I want to be entertained. Do we really need series six or seven soon to be followed by Britain's got talent. How does a convince us to watch the same crap over and over again.

 Come on it's like Big Brother, first one was good, second one was a bit different then after that it was just a bunch of freaks and show offs. A couple of lookers put in the show just in case we got to see their tits (I still have the email re the model from the Mexican version, email me), at least one blatantly gay person, one dirt bag, one flirt, one male looker, Mr wacky, a racist and someone for him to abuse, one from the streets and someone who was far to clever to be in the house but wanted the life experience, fuck off. By series three it was all about people who wanted to be famous for being thick or wanted to get their weddings paid for and on the cover of Hello. More voting, more texts more revenue, what a cash cow.

Any way I digress, back to Mr high jack every Christmas number 1 Cowell. Now the whole Christmas thing really annoys me and it made me smile that last year he was toppled by the possibly the worst song I have ever heard, which was just once thank god. And yes I bought it and I joined the facebook page and when I saw the charts for Christmas I actual punched the air in joy. Unfortunately my eldest son saw this unusual outward display of emotion which is generally frowned upon in the UK. Now he is only 9 so there will be very little mental scarring, but I'm sure my street cred dipped to an all time low. Mr Cowell has taken the cult of celebrity to an all time high, it's not important why you are famous, just that you are.

It just seems strange that everyone can tell you who won X factor along with the other finalists and the judges but most people don't know the name of the chancellor of the exchequer, the man who just chopped £81 billion from the governments spending over the next 5 year. How can that be right, is the press so powerful that the latest David Beckham tattoo is more important than... well just anything else other than Simon Cowells latest gimmick to get you to tune in next week. Although if Miss Tweedy was doing next weeks show in nothing but a pink thong I would definately be watching. I know it's base and sexist, but come on that is a fine woman and her ex husband, well no one deserved that. Ashley Cole is not only the most hated footballer in the country but he is definately the stupidist. I mean, you are one of the most famous footballers in the country do you really think that pictures of you in your pants on some "Random" phone in't going to make it into the papers? Cock.

I know Simon isn't wholly responsible for our celebrity culture but he has milked it for all it's worth and surely the preferbial cow will run out of milk and sooner or later, preferably sooner. When it does his empire will fall and as it crashes around his ears so Lucifer himself will rise from the pit of hell itself and drag his sorry empty rotting souless carcass back to the depths from whence it spawned.