The End is nigh!

Forget ISIS, forget Malaria, forget global warming, forget Cancer, forget everything you think you know about threats to the world.

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In my defence (with the spelling mistakes taken out, well most)

In My defence


I was with my mate who pulled two girls last night.

“They’re like buses,” I said.

“What?” he said. “Because you wait for ages then two come at once?”

“No,” I replied. “They are like buses.”

Well dear readers here I go again. So my last post may of seemed a little bit like it was an attack on the wonderful form of public transport that is buses, and I suppose in a way, it was. I think maybe I was just having a bad day, maybe I was just annoyed at getting constantly raped by Arriva to ride a cattle shed on wheels, with herpes infested seats (if you are lucky to get one that is). Sometimes I feel like I may as well pull my trousers and pants down and just let the driver penetrate me with the thick end of a baseball bat, until he feels as if I have earned my bus fare, then slowly walk back to my seat like John Wayne. Cramped in like sardines, being violated by a big sweaty man stood next to me, every time we turn a corner, like the trains on the way to the concentration camps during the war, safety in numbers, yeah? Try telling that to 6 million Jews!

However, the bus has been a part of my life for more than 15 years, I have been everywhere on the bus, as much as I despise the bus, (I would rather walk to work, dragging my balls through broken glass, while listening to Coldplay) I need it, like the air we breathe, like water, or like seeing an old person fall over in winter, it is just necessary. Even the smell of piss and stale sweat, which first hits you when you climb on board, is starting to smell reassuring and comforting. Like the comforting smell of grandma’s cooking (if that cooking had been eaten by a cat, then vomited back onto a plate). See I can’t swim. I can’t drive, either. I was going to learn to drive but then I thought, well, what if I crash into a lake? Then I’m fucked! So the bus is the only way I can travel around (apart from helicopter, but apparently they are quite expensive to buy, I have checked)

Being a ‘bus wanker’ means that without the buses, I would not have had some of the amazing times, and have some of the great memories I have had over the years, so every cloud and all that. It is fair to say however, that my relationship with the bus is very much a love hate relationship, Ok mainly hate, kind of like seeing your ex girl friend with a new guy, you will automatically think he is a complete fucktard, but you never know why. In fact thinking about it, he is probably a really nice guy, ah I must ask him for a pint sometime (NB invite fucktard for a pint this Saturday). It can be stressful and I see buses as the main reason I am going grey at an alarming rate, also the reason I have more lines on my head than Gordon Ramsey! (I like Gordon Ramsey and I am pleased to hear that he has a new book coming out, ‘Take Two Eggs and Fuck Off!’)

Everyday I get up, get dressed, eat my Frosties (Frosties are just cornflakes for people who can not face reality!) and get on the bus, and the adventure begins for another day, while eating some pork scratchings on the peasant wagon. This year for Christmas I have asked for 400 packets of pork scratchings. When you think about it they are just the skin of the pig. So basically it’s a pig jigsaw.  It would be more exciting than the usual Grey socks my mum gets me each year, its not just Christmas either, oh no birthdays are all about the grey socks too!

Everything I have done has started with climbing aboard a bus, I have been angry, happy, sad, amused, I have been abused on the bus, I have met a future girl friend on the bus, I have been dumped on the bus, I have even been dumped because I ride the bus! Yes that’s right, dumped because I ride the bus! I will go into more detail about that later dear reader.  I have seen all walks of life on the bus. I love people watching so I decided to write about a few things I have seen on the bus, mainly because I am bored, and I have run out of polo mints, and its too cold to go buy some more! (NB buy a new coat)

I have spent my life travelling mainly in my home town of Leeds, too and from work, or to friends’ houses, how ever I did once get on a bus in Scotland, surrounded by people who could not speak a word of English, yes, I was in Glasgow!

So let me introduce myself first of all, well I am the youngest of 3, both my parents are older, I am not as young as I used to be, although I am younger than I will be!

I’m a man, a friend to animals land and sea, a handsome devil, a connoisseur of fine wines, and the classiest collection of antique hippos anywhere in the world. I can throw a boomerang if I have to but I prefer not too. I like to ride my pet giraffe around my home town while playing the flute. I am a world class water ski instructor. I do not care about the fashion world although they seem to care a lot about me. I smoke a pipe on occasions. I don’t give a damn about broccoli and I believe all men have the right to self pleasure. My favourite drink is Hairy gay lord. I can never tell people what happened in Middlesbrough one night in June. Babies, bless their soul give me the creeps, sandals on another man have been know to make me vomit.

If I had a monkey I would teach it to sing Justin Beiber songs. Then if Justin passed out on stage again I would be able to save the day by having the monkey finish the concert for him. The concert promoters would probably give me free tickets and promotional gifts. Justin would be so thankful that he might send me an autographed photo and I could sell it on eBay for fifty pounds. I would buy drugs with the fifty pounds. Not for the monkey, for me.

So that’s me. Or is it?

I may have told a few lies there, I think they refer to it as using artistic license… I do actually  have a twin brother. Which has lead to what I can only describe as ‘awkward’ conversations on the bus. I have had hour long conversations with people, people who I have never seen before, or wish to see again in my life may I add, about how ‘mental’ the weekend was, and about what time I should meet them tomorrow for that 5-a-side tournament. I know what I should of said really was ‘sorry I think you are getting me confused with the wrong person’ but being the overly polite soul that I am, and not really having the heart to tell them that they maybe getting me confused with someone that looks like me, to save their embarrassment as much as my own, I just sit and nod, and try and cobble something together, that vaguely makes me sound as if I know what I am talking about (that’s how I get through work everyday). I think it worked though, and next week I have been invited to a house party with Roo and Finch. I can’t wait; I may have to buy a whole new outfit and everything!

That happens quite regularly, so it is something that I am used to. I also get the regular questions I imagine twins get, such as,

‘if your brother hurts himself do you feel his pain too?’ no.

‘Did you ever swap classes at school?’ no – he was in the thick classes, with the children who bite their own toes and get distracted by shiny things, how would that benefit me?

I was once out in town, having a few drinks quietly minding my own business (I was not on my own may I add, no one wants to be that guy) and a girl approached me, you know that phrase body of Baywatch, face of crime watch… well this girl had a face of crime watch and a body of Baywatch, if that bay was Skegness in the winter…after a nuclear war, and just said ‘you are a cunt’ (apologies for the language dear reader). I was pretty shell shocked and asked her what in hells bells she was talking about. She basically informed me that she had me confused with my brother, who had apparently ‘humped her and dumped her’ a few weeks previously, such is love. To prove she had the wrong person I had to show her some form of ID, even then I still do not think she was fully convinced of who I was. Such is life. I had to treat myself to a polo and a shot of Tequila!

Of course when you get on the peasant wagon as much as I do, and often on the same route, you do get to know the people you are travelling with whether you like it or not. Not through conversation mind you, because the general etiquette of the bus means, headphones in, if there is a free seat you sit on that, and if you have to sit next to someone, you perch on the edge of your seat, do not make eye contact and never, and I mean NEVER try strike up a conversation, if you do you will get looked at like you have just kicked a kitten in the face. Most of the time I talk to myself, and when I do, I find I almost never disagree with what I am saying! Communication is strictly restricted to quick nods and forced smiles.

That said, I did break those rules once, and made a sort of friend. That morning I had just used a new toothpaste, I can not remember the name, however, it was so minty it gave me an invincibility feeling that lasted till precisely 11.33am. Oh how I wish dear blog I could have given it to my new hobo friend, People with bad breath are disgusting. Fortunately I don’t need to worry about that since discovering free chewing gum under desks.


He must have been in his 40’s and was ever so grubby, poor wretch, he had the  kindest eyes I think I had ever seen in my life  so I gave him 50p, he thanked me, took another swig of his special brew (a very cheap beer) and a bite out of an onion. We are now on ‘hello’ terms when ever we are on the same bus, which just so happens to be all the time, as he mumbled to me how he buys a day ticket, loads up with cheap ‘beer’ that smells of paint stripper, and cheap paint stripper at that, and rides the bus all day.

Whilst I am sure that he is very pleasant, he is not the sort of person I would usually choose as my friend, he does have a tendency to be miserable and gloomy, and he seems to be permanently drowsy. My guess is drugs, ones that you can not just buy over the counter.  I don’t bother with drugs myself because I’m at that age now; I don’t need to. If I want a rush, I just get out of a chair when I don’t expect it. Forget to give yourself a couple of days notice before you tie your shoes. Whoosh! What a rush!

It reminded me of a headline on the Jeremy Kyle show I had seen a couple of days earlier

Jeremy Kyle headline: “Did my mum try to drown me as a baby?”

No – you might not be used to it, but it’s called a bath.

Some facts about my new HOBO friend:

He always has a runny nose

He has a slight smell of TCP, if some had taken a piss in the bottle.

He has surprisingly nice hair (not a grey insight)

Never wears socks (NB buy some new socks)

We have cooled our relationship some what since I saw him masturbating on the back of the bus, to some picture on his iphone (how did he get an iphone??, I miss the days of pay as you go phones, my Nokia 3210 was still the best phone I ever had, indestructible, and snake was the best game ever, I think I scored 910 once!). Speaking of wanking dear readers, I had a friend who got caught by his mum having a little ‘me’ time once, he had his head phones in (no idea what he was listening to, hope it wasn’t S club juniors) and did not hear her enter his room. Jesus H Christ, imagine that, being caught by your parents masturbating…However, the other way round is worse!

On that lovely theme, I was the victim once of a prank while going for my usual early morning bus, I was running very late, so I had to run for the bus and their was a group of children who thought it would be funny to run 2m ahead of me screaming as though being chased…making me appear, to passers-by like some sort of sweaty paedophile, and prompting an elderly man to yell ‘leave the kids alone’. Well played children, well played.

Recently I was watching the news and a news report said that paedophiles are to be educated to control their urges. What a brilliant idea, send Paedophiles to school.

Speaking of bus pranks never start coughing on the bus and make an Ebola joke, it never goes down well, and I guarantee that somewhere on a bus, is a pregnant teenager who thinks that ‘Ebola’ would be a good name for a child.

Seeing some of the rather large people on the bus everyday (when I say large, I mean people who are large for a human, for what is essentially a land mammal, I am talking documentary fat) prompted me to start going to a gym, I hate the gym, we have always been enemies. I used to Whenever I felt like exercise, lie down until the feeling passed, but now, purely down to peer pressure, I get the bus to the gym – I assume the low qualification requirements of fitness trainers means that there is an over supply of these buffed but essentially otherwise purposeless professionals.
I knew a guy in school who couldn’t talk very well and collected sticks, he used to call the teacher ‘mum’ and during break we would give him money to dance. Then sell him sticks to get our money back.
He went on to become a fitness instructor so I view gyms as kind of like those factories that provide a community service by employing people with Down syndrome to lick stamps and pack boxes. Except with more Spandex, obviously.

I myself am fairly fit due to regularly thinking about jogging and other forms of movement, and I once performed a jumping jack. It was unintentional and involved a spider and a bath mat, but still counts.  Apparently the advantage of exercising every day is that you die healthier, I am not so sure that matters.

The gym I go is only a low rent kind of place, but charges about half my monthly wage just to attend. In fact I have just come back from their and there’s a great new machine.
I only used it for about an hour, as I started to feel sick, but it’s great: it’s got KitKats, Mars bars, crisps and everything in it.

The gym is not too dissimilar from the bus as it happens. You walk in, it’s crowded, expensive, and full of fat people who do not know what a bath or shower looks like. You can witness all sorts of people there, from all walks of life. Within the gym is a corner where all the fake tanned, tattoo riddled ‘people’ congregate to lift weights all day, people who I presume do not have a job. People who walk around in vests so tight it must make it difficult to breathe, people who are so far in the closet they are having adventures in Narnia. Then at the opposite end of the scale are the weekly women’s fat club, which is like weight watchers, but only a few pounds cheaper. Middle aged women in full make-up who come for a ‘natter’ with fellow obesesians (my new word for a group of obese people, I think it may catch on!). I tend to find they always go for the exercise bike, mainly because they can sit down, which makes it easier to talk to Rita about the menopause and how they are now sagging in places they did not know could sag. The last group I saw, were all in a row, fully dressed in jeans (rather tight fitting jeans) all doing their make up, because they were going out afterwards. What is the point?? You can guarantee come the end of the week, they will be shocked that they have gained weight.

‘I just don’t understand I have been really good this week, I even went to the gym, these scales must be wrong, I demand a recount’

‘ I had a diet Coke with my Pizza hut yesterday, it had salad on it too, I am so confused’

Nothing to do with the fact you love cake then? No the scales must be wrong.

Sometimes you just want to shake them and say ‘Do you know how fat you are, do you? No, you don’t, ‘CAUSE YOUR FACE IS AN ISLAND TRAPPED IN A SEA OF FLAB! I would stab you to death… but I can’t afford to take the two weeks off work!

FATTIES. Take a tip from smokers and stop your cravings for chips by Cellotaping a crisp to the top of your arm each morning.

I have also read a news article that stated childhood obesity is on the increase and Paedophilia is on the increase, which to me just proves fatties are easier to catch.

Why do we applaud people for losing weight? For only eating as much as they need? They got fat for being lazy greedy bastards, I have never been given a round of applause for never being fat, or running out of breath and being all sweaty just for standing up at my desk. Do they honestly need waiters to come over and say ‘fuck off you have had enough’ when ordering 10 large big mac meals? No one got fat by surprise, no one has broken into there house in the middle of the night and injected their lettuce with a million calories.

I do not make other assumptions about fat people though; I do not judge any other aspects of their life. For example, I do not presume that just because they are fat, that they are jolly….a lot of them are miserable. If I see a fat girl, I don’t say ‘she would be pretty if she lost weight’ that is very rarely the case… a lot of them started eating because they had fuck all to lose in the first place.

Having said that it is true that being fat is mainly a female issue, in terms of, if a man is fat it doesn’t matter, we just think ‘fuck it, all bought and paid for’. So I do feel sorry for fat women, however they do always make and effort, a lot of them have lovely hair…anything but jogging.

I did meet my ex-girlfriend down at the gym. We didn’t workout. (Sorry, must try harder)

I have sat next to many ‘large’ people in my time simply grazing on the bus. This morning their seemed to be many people eating on the bus. A middle aged woman was chomping on a tuna sandwich, my homeless friend was chomping into his daily onion like it was an apple (why an onion? If you can afford and onion, surely you can afford an apple, unless someone is giving him onions, but who would give someone an onion?), and a rotund man, who smelt ‘athletic’ was eating a plastic bag full of Cadburys roses, I wondered what had happened to the original box? (Maybe he had eaten that as well), so I popped a polo mint in my mouth and tried to catch a few Zzzz’s. Cadbury man is one of the regulars I was talking about. For some reason he seems strangely attracted to me. Every time I have to stand up, he seems to stand next to me, maybe he loves me, maybe he wants to eat me, and honestly I am not sure which is worse. I have been lodged up his arm pit many times, almost being violated at every aggressive turn of the wheel from the bus driver. I am starting to think that I deserve a prize for being on this bus; oh I would kill for a noble peace prize!

Now having mocked the slightly larger frame, I may sound very hypocritical here, but the bus has served me well as a late night canteen over the years. Often after a few drinks after work, a few turning into several pints (Timothy Taylors Landlord, possible the greatest beer ever invented!) the natural reaction after drinking is to get food! Beer must be made by food companies. It makes you wander the streets at 3 am looking for things to eat. “What’s that, is it moving, get it!! It’s a nun! FRY HER!! FRY HER! Usually this means popping (staggering) into the train station before my last bus and getting a bargain bucket all to myself, with added gravy (KFC gravy is the best) and some how smuggling  it onto the bus, while slightly worse for wear, ready to eat on the back seat of the night bus. The problem is however, I get tend to get eyed up by people envious of my bargain bucket, I presume most of the people who eye my bucket up, are on weight watchers. The last time I did this, I ended up sharing it with a 16 year old girl who had just had a massive argument with her boyfriend. So obviously, beer and deep fried chicken brings out my sensitive side! Who knew that chicken could have such an effect?

That is not the first time I have had to play councillor to a stranger on a bus (but hopefully it will be the last).

I sat on the bus for a good hour next to a woman in her twenties, who all the way home seemed to cry uncontrollably, I am not the most sympathetic of characters (you may of already noticed that dear friends), so I told her that her hair looked nice, just in case she had it done, (she hadn’t but it always works) and offered her a polo mint that had been in my pocket for a good few weeks, and had a slight smell of washing powder, but at least it was clean! I know lying is wrong, but if the elephant man came in now in a blouse with some make up on, and said “how do I look?” Would you say — bearing in mind he’s depressed and has respiratory problems — would you say “go and take that blusher off you misshapen headed elephant tranny”? No. You’d say “You look nice… John””

She seemed to be talking (through a mountain of snot bubbles) about how her boyfriend has not text her back for about 3 hours  (it could have been 3 weeks, but I did not care enough to pay full attention, I was playing flappy birds on my phone, possibly the most frustrating game of all time, and it requires maximum concentration)… I offered her another lavender scented polo mint, and discreetly put my head phones back in (I felt guilty lying to her about her hair now). If this is how she acted then I am not all that surprised he was ignoring her (and I was thinking he probably does have someone more emotionally stable), I felt embarrassed just in case someone thought I was with her.  Women eh, you cant live with them…cant kill them either, such is life. She seemed to cheer up after that polo mint anyway…Hoorah for polo’s! Another good deed done for the day dear friends.

Later in the journey I realised she must of been a vegetarian, by having a look what she bought from her shopping trip to Morisson’s, you can tell a lot about a person from what they have bought, and I noticed that she had in her possession a bag of Quorn Mince, Hence a vegetarian. I hate Quorn mince, why would I want to eat anything that looks like cat litter? I wouldn’t. She must be crazy, all vegetarians are, it’s just a fact of life, like death and taxes. It must be the lack of nutrients from eating grass all day. And it suddenly explained an awful lot. If animals were not to be eaten, then why the hell are they so tasty?? After that, plus the snot bubbles and the slightly unstable emotional state, I tended to avoid sitting near her from that moment on.

You see a lot of love on the bus if you look closely, I say love because when I see a couple on the bus all I see is the woman disgusted that her ‘man’ has made her get on the cesspit with wheels and has not chauffeur driven her round, like the queen (I saw the queen once) while she shops for shoes and hand bags for hours and hours on end. I once had the great pleasure of being sat in front of a couple who, I could tell had an argument because she ended every (short sentence) to him with ‘pig’, rather aggressively may I add. Such is love. Maybe she did not find the right shoes; I know I would be pretty upset too.

I told you i saw the Queen once!

I find the secret of a good relationship is spontaneity – you’ve got to be ready to leave at any moment! There are also two ways to go about arguing with a woman and by far the best way is by text while at the pub

I asked a woman I was with once, simple question; I asked her ‘Have you ever eaten pheasant?’ See, it’s direct, isn’t it?! It’s enclosed; it contains everything that needs to be said! And she said a wonderful thing. She said “Erm…” – she thought about it – and she said “Er, not really.” What does that mean? On any level? I mean did you suck it and throw it away? Did someone drop it in your drink? What happened? Was it a speeding car – one lick? WHAT, WHAT?!?!

Or when people break up, they always use a bunch of lines on each other, you know, terrible rubbish lies, like “It’s not you, it’s me, it’s me.” It’s NEVER you, it’s always them! You should level with these people! Tell them! “You know that strange sound you used to hear when you were going to sleep? That was me CHEWING the bed, out of sheer boredom! OOOOHH, how I HATE you, I hate you so much it gives me energy! I have to get up early in the morning to hate you because there isn’t time enough in the day. Please, GO AWAY!” Or that other BULLSHIT: “I need more space!” People never quantify exactly how much space they really need… do they? But strangely enough, it always seems to be the exact same height, depth and breadth as you.

I have both been dumped on a bus, I have also been asked out on a bus. My last girlfriend dumped me because I used the bus… she also once tricked me into watching the film the Notebook which was about geese. Lots of geese. It also had something to do with an old lady who conveniently lost her memory so she could not remember being a whore through out the entire film.

I got chucked once for not having a car and always having to take the bus everywhere, By a girl called Hannah, We lived in domestic bliss and perfect harmony for …13 days, was it her fault we split? Of course it was, she’s a girl.

Women, you can’t even conceive of the notion, that if we have nothing to say we don’t talk, it’s always ‘you must be thinking something’ nope. Or if we are thinking things it’s usually… I wonder if I strap to fireworks to a tortoise it would fly? That is just unimaginable to women isn’t it?

Women have a different system, a thought occurs, and shit shoots out of their front, literally just spunked out of their face. We are men, we don’t need to talk about our emotions, we don’t care. If we get ill, we just take a couple of paracetemol and get on with it, ok we may mention it once, and then we got on with our day. I mean you never hear men whinge about their periods do you? We just don’t go on about it that’s all, I bet you women never realised we had them did you?

Oh look there is a conversation going on in Ghana…let me get involved, always trying to help…more like interfere.

Hannah was a solicitor, so she was naturally slightly up her own arse anyway, you would be hard pressed to find a Solicitor that was not so far up their arse they have started shitting out of their own mouths. 99% of solicitors give the rest a bad name. What’s the best way to stop a solicitor from drowning? Shoot them before they hit the water! We had been seeing each other roughly 6 weeks, but ‘officially’ going out round about 2 weeks. However, I was never her type dear reader. She was a solicitor who drove a new Audi, who hung around with blokes who had traded their personality for fake tan, fake tans – Because there’s no sunlight in the closet! and a Toni and Guy hair cut, along with a very tight suit, and that’s the type of guy she wanted, and that is never going to be me (I cant afford a Toni and Guy hair cut!)

But slightly perversely, she was not the brightest bulb in the box, she didn’t know Scotland had a capital city and she often watched TOWIE and Made in Chelsea (There are some people in this world who deserve to be shot. Apparently E4 have found some of these people, rounded them up in one place, filmed them for research purposes and called it Made In Chelsea). I am convinced watching these shows reduces your mental capacity to that of a cabbage, which would explain a lot about her! Oh she also used the phrase “mega LOLz” yeah I know, I should have ended it right there… I have never been the quickest. So next time you find yourself in court, remember, the only person standing between you and being Tony the stranglers bitch, is someone who doesn’t know Scotland is it’s own country!

These days I tend to try a different approach when it comes to dating and all that Jazz, no longer dear readers am I such a soft touch when it comes to relationships, and its all thanks to buses! Treat them mean keep them keen, isn’t that the phrase? But surely if that were the case, wouldn’t the Jews adore the Germans? Anyway let’s see how it works out for me.

A couple of weeks ago, I accidentally sat next to her on the bus, I say accidentally, because I was sticking to the world renowned rules of the bus…head down, no eye contact etc. I only noticed it was her half way through the journey when I looked up briefly to see who I was sat next to. So I did what all good men would do out of shear panic when they realise they have made a grave error, I pretended to play with my phone, until I got off two stops early! But life being life, as soon as I got off that peasant wagon, I thought of some really witty things to say, something about being as shallow as a puddle I think. I will save them for next time, such wit can not go to waste!

On an unrelated note, did you know that 99% of women kiss with their eyes closed? That is why it makes it so difficult to identify a rapist.

At the same time as I just met Hannah, it was Sport Relief, a big charity event which is televised on TV, showing “celebrities” doing sporty challenges to raise money for some cause or other, I think they raise money for donkeys or children or even orphaned snails, I can not be so sure, I really was not paying attention. I’ve done very little to help charities…i’ve done nothing to help, but I look at charity like this…it’s a pain isn’t it? All the effort, all the making yourself look silly in the aid of raising £13.67 pence, here have £15 just to shut up.  It’s true that when it comes to charity many people stop at nothing…. And I am certainly one of these. But while at work someone suggested me and a fellow colleague dye our hair red for charity. I wasn’t really listening and just agreed to it, not knowing what I agreed to (I thought someone was offering me a cup of tea). However panic set in as soon as the Dye was on my head, it was permanent! (I had been assured that it would wash out in 8 washes, it didn’t, and it took 3 months to get rid of) How in gods name have I let this happen? Anyway it was too late, it was done, and by the end I looked like someone who was ready to go out raving at the local gay discothèque, I was not happy and needless to say I got a lot of abuse, especially about my hair looking ginger (I just saw that Harry Potter film. A bit unrealistic if you ask me. I mean, a ginger kid with two friends?)

NB: Did you know that gingers are a dying breed? True, in 20 years time no gingers will be born, I suppose it is for the best really. And did you also know there is a national bully a ginger day? When it is acceptable to pick on all gingers? I don’t know when it is, I could have looked it up but I can’t be bothered, I will up date it later. I have no problem with gingers, (the only ginger that I ever really liked was my first pet Zippy, a big fat ginger cat, and he lived till 22! And at least he could go out in the sun!) Some girls can look quite attractive as natural Red heads. I have noticed that there is no middle ground when you are ginger, you are either horrible or attractive, you never walk passed a ginger and just say ‘they look OK’, nope, it is all or nothing if you are ginger!

As it happens earlier on this week There was a ginger guy using the self-checkout in Tesco and the machine said “unexpected item in the bagging area” and I was thinking ‘Condoms’.
We do a lot of fund raising for charity at work…too much if anything, with the amount of money that I give, I will be in need of that charity money soon. I can see myself on the Comic Relief promotional videos now “this is Ben, and last year the bank refused to extend his over draft, meaning he has to live with using an Iphone 5 on O2, the reception is awful, and can no longer write offensive Twitter statuses as quick as he would like…please donate now, Ben really needs your help, thank you” ill be famous woooo! That plan deserves another polo.
Personally, I think Comic Relief is a big swindle. Some of those kids are fatter than I am!

I do not remember getting any help from children in need either, when I was younger I wanted a snooker table, did children in need get me one? No! It’s all a big con! I personally think Lenny Henry keeps all the money for himself, and pays the BBC to get on television, I can not think of any other way he is still employed!

What bounces and makes kids cry?

My donation cheque to Children in Need

The charity of choice at work at the moment is Alzheimer’s, but apparently my idea of telling them we have already given them money and that they must of forgotten, was not funny (I thought it was, I chuckled to myself anyway)

Because of my red hair, I was often the prime target for abuse from the local scrotes on the bus, the phrase ‘look at you you ginger prick’ was often used, and to be honest it got quite tiresome, I did take offense… I was certainly not ginger, a prick however… yes I suppose that is true.
However it is still not the worst chat up line I have ever heard, that award still goes to the Irish gypsy who said he wanted to “kick my cunt in”, oh such is love.
Here is a little game that I have devised for you all just in case you get bored while reading this (I wouldn’t blame you, there is so many better things to do, why don’t you go watch TV? There are some great programmes on at the moment, have you watched Gogglebox? No… Go watch it, its amazing! There are two posh people on there who are permanently drunk!)

So my game goes like this….

Call the ChildLine number and say ‘I’ve just dialled 1471 and this number came up, who is this?’

2. Operator replies ‘you’re through to ChildLine.’

3. You shout ‘TERRY YOU LITTLE CUNT, NOT AGAIN….COME HERE YOU LITTLE BASTARD”. Before hanging up the phone. And let the fun begin!

There are so many charities these days to choose from (including sufferers of obesity, I kid you not ladies and gentlemen) how do you know who is more deserving of your hard earned money? It’s impossible; do you give it to disabled geese or mentally challenged swans? Who knows? My colleagues are currently trying to talk me into doing a skydive for charity, to send children off to America to swim with dolphins; I am not a fan of heights so it will be a big challenge. It’s the same with flying; I am not a fan at all. It is not the flying that I am scared of, it is the crashing in a big ball of flames that terrifies me; the flying is the good bit!

People say that dolphins are intelligent, and that’s true, but only compared to the retarded kids we have them swimming with… so I will keep you posted on the sky dive (I wont).

Having red hair is not the only time I have been abused on the bus however, insults fly around on the bus all the time. Whether it is Chantelle shouting down the phone at Jayden for fingering Chelsea when they were supposed to be ‘Baes’ (what the hell does Bae mean? As far as I can work out it is the most fucking annoying way to say girlfriend, boyfriend, crush, or any other sort of significant other. Commonly used by ghetto folks, swagfags, and annoying fucktards ) calling him a skank, it happens all over the place. The last time it happened to myself I was being called a stuck up t**t on the peasant wagon for reading (yes reading). Slightly unfair to over look my other achievements, such as breathing, sneezing, blinking and waking up every morning. Fucktard is a word that is under used… in this case it is very apt.

I had a mini debate on the bus once with a toothless man probably about a year ago now, he was the was the type of guy you would see on a crimewatch reconstruction, scary looking, someone you would not want to bump into during the day, never mind a dark alley. I knew he was going to be someone that was argumentative, and someone I did not want sitting near me in case he tried to strike up a conversation of some kind. So I did the usual, what any sane person would do in these situation, I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible and stared out of the window, hoping that he would not come talk to me. However what I failed to realise was that the only free seat on the bus was right next to me, brilliant. He sat down next to me in a rather aggressive manor, everything he did was aggressive. I looked at my phone, messing around on twitter as you do, (In light of recent controversies involving Twitter, it’s best to assume that anything written on the Internet can be used as evidence in court. Piers Morgan fucks children.) Then he started speaking, quizzing me about how Twitter makes its money, and I cobbled something together about advertising, although I don’t think he liked that answer. Aggressively he replied ‘if it was up to me I would charge 10p per tweet, that way they would make a shit load of money’. Great advice there, I am sure the inventors of twitter would love the advice of a slightly mentally unhinged man, that is just what they need! Needless to say, yet again, I got of the bus a few stops early.

I had travelled to many interviews via bus, always making sure I was an hour early. Often without success. When I left University, finding employment was difficult, when I first started looking for employment, I aimed high, I was fresh out of university, ready to take on the world and show potential employers just what they were missing, unfortunately that enthusiasm lasted maybe a couple of weeks, after two weeks of getting the bus into town everyday for pointless meetings with recruitment agencies who had seen a million people like me in the past, from handing out my CV to anyone that would take it, even to people who just wanted something to blow their nose on, trekking round in one of my dads old suits, looking like I was trying to dress older so I could buy alcohol underage, I started to get demoralised. I did get one job a couple of months after leaving university… I lasted till 9.30 am, on my first day, I went to the toilet and never came back. I think it was some kind of marketing firm, who basically sold any old shit they were given from little stalls in the local shopping centre, like those orange women in Boots, telling other people how best to apply their make up.

I should have realised what I let myself in for, when at the interview one of the tasks was to draw a dolphin on a piece of paper.

  1. I did have a temporary job for round about 2 weeks, that seemed to be filing pieces of paper in alphabetical order and the occasional photo copying, before I was politely asked to leave, for answering the telephone in a high pitched female voice and telling the person calling that the boss was taking a nap in her office and changing her email signature so that it said horse whisperer instead of HR manager.

So instead of earning a living I was sitting in my shed searching the job papers, there did not seem to me many positions for a budding lottery winner. I bet David Cameron has never experienced unemployment, he’s never woken up at 3pm and had a packet of flaming hot monster munch for his breakfast. My mum did tear out a ad in the paper for a cleaner in a psychiatric prison, I politely declined. I started to feel positively negative about everything. I had let myself down, worse still I have let my parents down. In fact I would even go as far to say I have besmirched the Cooper name itself. I have become a besmircher, and no one likes a besmircher. I went through a large amount of Polo mints in those two weeks!

Fortunately it all worked out well and now I am the highest earner in my office, Except on Mondays when I am the drunkest. Although I spend most of the day playing a game called ‘staring at the wall wondering what happy are doing’ and answering calls by either ending each sentence with ‘over’ like I am talking on a walkie talkie then making the ‘kchssssch’ noise or pretending to be a confused Chinese woman. Once, I locked my office door and spent the day nude. To be honest I am not exactly sure what it is a do, I turn up, day dream about having my own private island, and then when it hits 5 I run out of the door and head for the bus stop. Speaking of jobs My cousin’s a lazy bastard – sits around all day doing fuck all, drinking, surfing the internet for porn. Jeez, I wish I had an office job too!

As I was getting off the bus on my first day of my new job, I saw what appeared to be a homeless man shouting and waving his arms, he had in his possession a sandwich, I am not sure what type, I didn’t stop to ask. He was being harassed by a pigeon that was trying to steal his unidentifiable sandwich. As the pigeon flew towards it, the homeless man, through his drunken haze, proceeded to land a punch right between the eyes of the pigeon. The pigeon was spark out on the grass, like he had gone a few rounds with Muhammed Ali, after a few minutes and what must of seemed like a life time to poor beaky (I have named the pigeon Beaky, because he had a beak) I am happy to report, Beaky rather unsteadily got to its feet and flew off, and the homeless man ate his sandwich. Alls well that ends well as they say. From then on I knew it was going to be a good day. To this day it has to be up there with one of the funniest things I have ever seen!

On the bus you always get a free paper in the morning (if they have any left), its not a very good paper, and rather like this blog it is very poorly written by someone who obviously doesn’t like what he is doing and could not give ten shiny shites what people think. Bless their hearts though, they do try and write serious articles about war and famine etc but to be honest it’s mainly about gossip and non-celebrities having their dogs hair done, and if they have a new line on their face or some other utter crap. This morning I noticed that there was an article about Justin Bieber spitting of a balcony. I can’t believe all this fuss about Justin Bieber spitting off the balcony. It fucking shocked me. I was sure he was a swallower.

On that very same journey dear friends two ‘girls’ (use that term very loosly) on the bus seem to be giving blokes marks out of ten for looks. I get a 2. Which according to them means I’m not quite in the same league as the elephant man, but I’m still ugly. So that’s some positive news! Hoorah! Every cloud and all that, Although, they do look like two failed abortion attempts after their mum found out Steve was not their dad after doing a DNA test on Jeremy Kyle. Excuse me while I go cry. You no you have hit rock bottom, when a fat chavy bint asks if you have a girlfriend, and when you say “no” she tells you to take more pride in your appearance! Such is love. It is true what they say Women are like fair ground rides, fucking mental. For now I am more than happy living by myself with my single freedoms. I have learnt some of lives most valuable lessons living alone, when you live on your own you learn Lurpack spreadable, is unspreadable.

The next week I was sat on the bus going to Bradford for some god knows reason, maybe it was some sort of charity mission, we have seen the lengths I will go to for charity…have you ever been to Bradford? If you want to see what down town Baghdad looks like, go visit Bradford, but please, please, please what ever you do, go to the doctors and get all your injections first! The Government have gone way over the top with job cuts, Bradford has been especially hard hit, I’ve just heard three prostitutes have been axed in Bradford already!
sat on the bus, while I was on my way to Basra, sorry I mean Bradford, was a middle aged man sat right in front of me who was obviously watching a porn film on his mobile, it probably would of helped him if had turned the sound off, or at least used head phones, right in front of the whole bus. He was holding his phone with one hand, I could not see what he was doing with the other. It was a pretty grim sight I tell you. Anyway I have noticed that Pornhub titles always seem to lack depth and imagination, yes we know college girl is trying anal for the first time, but what’s her degree in? Her dreams? Her ambitions?

He was sweating like…

a dyslexic on Countdown
a paedo in a playground
a fat man at a buffet
a nun at a cucumber stall
Gary Glitter in Mothercare
a fat bird at a disco
Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah
Vanessa Feltz on a treadmill
Michael Barrymore at a pool party
a Scouser in Dixons
a Geordie in a job centre
a dog outside a Chinese restaurant
a priest at a boy-scout meeting
Fred West’s babysitter
Michael Jackson on a bouncy castle
Hitler at a Bar Mitzvah
a Scotsman at a charity fund raiser
Joseph Fritzl at a family reunion
like a Jimmy Savile in a morgue
you get the idea.

I wish I could of changed seats but alas there was no where to go, I was trapped watching a second hand porn film! Talking of not being able to change seats, apparently there are certain rules when you are on the bus that means, if you are a man in his twenties (which I am, just) you have to be the first one to give up your seat, should anyone who is not in that category require it. Apparently this is just fair, in a equal society, us men in our early 20s to 30’s are just expected to give up a seat, no questions asked, seats which we have paid the most for, to anyone else that wants it, no matter what condition. Now being the reasonable and tolerant person that I am, I accept that if I pregnant woman gets on (even though its her fault she is pregnant) or an elderly person gets on, and they are a bit unstable on their feet (kind of like me after a few pints of Landlord) then it is probably right that I give up my seat, however begrudgingly. However, on my bus there is a regular battle axe that gets on only a few stops after me, who for some reason, only known to her, thinks she is the master of all things bus. We all know the type, someone who has a face of a bulldog licking piss of a stinging nettle.

So one evening, happy to be on my way home so that I could finish off watching Breaking Bad (I had been up till 4am the previous morning watching it, I became quite the addict, and it took me two weeks to adjust to normal society again, I did briefly think about going into the meth business, but I decided start up costs maybe a little to high, I may start saving though so watch this space) the bus was full, but I managed to claim a seat! I was rather smug about this fact, however battle axe had other ideas, and seeing a young(ish) man sit down  must of angered this old crow, who preceeded to tap me on the shoulder and ask me to get up, so the woman stood next to her, in her early 30s, not pregnant, no visible sign of disability could sit down, purely I assume just because she was a woman. I don’t understand why women want to be equal when they could be better. That shows a lack of ambition to me. This is why men are better.  (only joking ladies)

So I did what all self respecting people would do in this situation, I said ‘no’, put my head phones back in, and logged on to Facebook! I could see the woman who was going to take my seat was clearly embarrassed that a strange woman was trying to get her a seat. So daily me and this feminist Nazi bulldog have our seat battles. And I am glad to say dear reader I am winning 24-5 wooo, time for another polo!

But I find that happens more with the new mums, ahh new mums. The worst kind of bus passenger, people so dull that when they turn around you forget what they looked like, the ones who will bore you with 20 minutes of bullshit about how difficult it is to get a kid into a school, the ones who feel they have a god given right to do, say and sit where they want, because they have a child, and of course as all childless people will know, if we do not have a child we do not understand! New mums did you know Your house is a medley of disgusting smells, there’s nothing to eat, everybody’s wearing bathrobes, there’s no bar, I can’t fuck anybody. Why would anyone come round?

The most arrogant of the human species, it can turn the friendliest down to earth women into complete and utter arseholes in an instant. Bags and pushchairs taking up 3 seats at rush hour, making everyone play musical chairs because your bag of nappies needs a seat too, constant screaming from your little bundle of joy, that everyone can hear apart from the new mum, because after all, being a parent is the most difficult job in the world apparently, and I just don’t understand. What I do understand however, is that we have been having children for thousands of years, and I am sure there was not this much fuss all that time ago. It seems to be a relatively new thing. I am sure it does hurt, however people keep on having children, I got hit in my balls once, and I never want to do that again, so you tell me which is more painful? I blame the invention of Facebook, where you can tell the whole world that your new ticket to a flat screen TV has had its first shit, or you can tell us all how you love your child. Here’s a radical idea, why not go look after your sprog, instead of telling me all about it? Or those people who put ‘full time mummy’ as their Facebook status, unemployed, you are unemployed! It is your child, and if we are being brutally honest, no one actually cares but you! If I am being polite and ask how old your kid is, I don’t need to know in months. “27 Months.” “He’s two,” will do just fine.

He’s not a piece of fucking cheese. And I didn’t really give 2 fucks in the first place.

I have another game for you all dear readers (I should work for Waddington’s!)

Next time you’re on a beer run to your local supermarket, add nappies and baby food to your trolley. When you get to the till, empty your wallet to reveal only enough cash for the alcohol. The look on the cashiers face as you tearfully ask them to cancel the baby products from your bill is priceless!

Are you having trouble finding your kids’ name’s on bottles of Coca Cola?

Then I bet you wish you’d given them proper names instead of thinking you were clever by calling them Lake and Destiny.

Children are very overprotected now, in lots of ways. We’re very nervous about them. You know, people go, “Don’t go outside! Or inside! Get into the cupboard with some spinach!” When I was a child they’d kick you out and you weren’t expected to come back until there were bats!

You ask women, “You know how painful it is? What are talking about here?” And you don’t get an answer, you get anger…and it always starts with the melon…“IMAGINE A MELON!…COMING THROUGH YOUR FACE!…fuckin’ stay there, I’ll get a melon!”

We are going through a period in our office at the moment where everyone seems to be having a baby, which inevitable means that they are going to bring it into the office, its torture, I can not go near it for fear that I may offend the parent, and no doubt that parent will be my boss, which makes it doubly tricky! I find it hard when someone does bring their sprog into the office to not act like it doesn’t look like a potato.

And remember new parents, it does not take that much effort to be a good mum. Remember Katie Price and Kerry Katona have both won mum of the year! I read in the free news paper once that Apparently Jordan and Peter Andre are fighting over which one of them gets custody of Harvey, although I imagine eventually one of them will lose and have to keep him
I was once on a bus in Newcastle, I do love Newcastle (I once got called a puff for wearing a coat in December while I was there) and that was something else altogether. Just the bus on the way up there had fights, between women (orange women), between women and men, and the women and the bus driver, then people passing out in there own vomit, and the men in tight T-shirts trying to split them up, it was a right laugh, but made acceptable because the Geordie accent some how made it less threatening!

That was a pretty eventful weekend it itself, we went camping somewhere outside Newcastle, there were four of us in this tent, in the arse end of nowhere, one friend had drunk three litres of cider (only cost £2.85 though, what a bargain) and he proceeded to throw up inside the tent, and I am talking serious projectile vomiting! So the other three of us had to sleep outside with just one sleeping bag between us (not in a broke back mountain kind of way though, it was freezing). Needless to say we were not happy, so I proceeded to let the tent down and let my sick smeared friend role about in his own vomit all night. The next morning we woke up and had to crawl back onto the bus, freezing cold, but still not quite as bad as our friend, who got on the bus covered in dry vomit. The next Monday at school he still had some of his sick on his back. We have not spoken since!

Other things I have witnessed on the bus that I can not think of anything to write about, or cant be bothered to right about because The Apprentice is about to come on.

  • A religious god botherer trying to recruit me to her church while on my way to work – Christianity: One woman’s lie about having an affair that got seriously out of hand.
  • Seeing just how far old people can travel on 30p (not worked it out yet, but it seems a long way)
  • A woman with a ferret.
  • The same woman with a parrot
  • A clown with a broken leg
  • My next door neighbour kissing a man that’s not her husband
  • My old boss dressed as a very convincing woman (I promised not to say anything and so far I haven’t!)
  • Man with 2 guide dogs, not really sure why
  • Woman having a panic attack
  • Man or woman dressed as a Teletubby
  • Woman going into labour
  • A girl and her dad going shopping too Ann summers, very sinister

Arguing is healthy in a relationship 



So I was thinking about past relationships, and in general how societies nutters tend to gravitate towards me. As my mum says I “just have one of those faces”, when I remembered a few arguments I had while In the doomed relationships. 



My ex girlfriend Rebecca could not, and will never be able to cook. She was capable of the process of cooking (sort of) but cannot cook in the same way that an octopus cannot ride a bike; it has enough arms to reach the pedals and handlebars but the result will rarely be a successful journey from A to B. She was also a vegetarian. You have to be careful what you say these days, apparently you’re not allowed to call a certain group of people queers anymore. You have to call them Vegetarians. I don’t have anything against Vegetarians, but the way I see it, our food shits and pisses on there’s. 

I once looked over Rebeccas shoulder to discover her crumbling Alka-Seltzer tablets, or the cheaper supermarket alternative, into a meal she was preparing because “they are salty and we ran out of salt.”

 One Friday night, Rebecca stated that she was making nachos for dinner so I was surprised to say the least when she placed a bowl and spoon an hour later. “What’s this? I asked.

“The nachos were a bit runny so I added a few cups of water. It’s nacho soup,”

“Is there even such a thing?” I asked. “And what are these bits in it?”

“They’re the crisps,” Rebecca replied defensively as she sipped a spoon of Nachos and made a long “mmmmmm” noise. “I put it all in the blender so there shouldn’t be any big bits.”

“I’m ringing for pizza,” I said.

 “Typical,” replied Rebecca, “you never appreciate anything I do.”

“That’s not true” I responded, “I appreciate everything you do but if I ordered a hamburger at McDonald’s and they handed it to me in a cup with a straw saying ‘Sorry, it was a bit runny so we threw it in the blender and added two cups of water, it’s Big Mac soup’, I would assume the restaurant was entirely staffed through some kind of special needs employment initiative. If they asked me, “Do you want fries with that?” I sure as fuck wouldn’t reply, ‘Yes, mix them in.'”

“It would probably be quite good,”  “but you would never know because you are too much of an asshole to taste it. Even if the guy at McDonalds spent an hour in the kitchen making it for you and burnt his thumb on a saucepan.”


While I was on the phone to my mother, as it was Mother’s Day, my mum jokingly, knowing full well what I am like asked if Rebecca  found me annoying or amusing. Of course I said she found me a total hoot, Rebecca yelled from the kitchen clearly audible to my mum and no doubt half the street, “Don’t fucking lie.” My mum asked me “Was that Rebecca?” to which I replied, “No, it was the television” and Rebecca yelled out again “No it wasn’t.” On one occasion, I decided we should call in sick, so that we could spend the whole day in bed together, On Monday morning, as I was about to call my boss, using my best sick voice to explain how I could possible of attracted Ebola, Rebecca was watching a program called Breaking Bad in bed while I was making the call in the next room. Not realising I was on the phone to my hard asse boss, she yelled “We should build a Meth-lab in the garage.”


I came over to visit Rebecca after work one Tuesday, to discover a framed photo of our dog on our living room wall. I like our dog but when I am home, so is the dog. I don’t need to see photos of it. Especially if the photo shows the dog sitting on the couch that is immediately below the framed photo and the dog is actually sitting on that couch at the time.

Sitting down next to the dog, I grabbed a magazine from the table and flicked through until I came to an interview with tom cruise. The facing page featured a photo of Tom  in a suit, sitting on a chair with one leg crossed over the other, holding a glass of red wine. Ripping out the page, I replaced the photo of the dog in the frame with it.

When I met Tom cruise in a bar in Los Angeles, I asked him what annoyed him most about being famous.

“That’s easy,” he replied, “It’s all the libellous things that people write about me.”

And then he got down on his knees and sucked my cock. 

Arriving home a short time later, it took Rebecca less than fifteen seconds to storm into the kitchen brandishing the frame and demanding, “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s Golden Globe award winning actor Tom cruise” I replied.

“Yes, I know who Tom cruise is, Where’s the dog?”

“It’s sitting on the couch,” I replied, “It’s always sitting on the couch. And having a photo above the couch of it doing so is weird. We may as well put a photo on the wall of all three of us sitting on the couch and then sit on the couch and look at it. Or put up a mirror.”

As she stormed back out in search of the missing photo, Rebecca said over her shoulder, “It’s not as weird as having a photo of Tom cruise  on the wall.”

“I like Tom cruise,” I replied.

“Well I like the fucking dog,” Rebecca yelled back, “If you love Mr cruise so much why don’t you marry him instead. Then you can put up hundreds of photos of him.”

Which is a ridiculous statement because if I was married to Tom cruise and saw him everyday, I obviously wouldn’t need photos of him on the wall to look at. Also, if I was married to Tom cruise and we had a bare wall, we could probably afford a professional interior designer who knew what they were doing.