Musings of a Madman

Going out on a limb

2011-01-30T04:44:00.000-08:00

Alex and the one armed girl...

It was my very first experience of the wonderful world of online dating. The big city hitter that I am, I opted for a free dating website on which to pop my online cherry.

I setup my profile, with a write up befitting of the major player that I am and carefully uploaded a series of hand selected photos of me from days when I was thinner in waistline and less thin in hair follicles.

A cautious start as it was my first foray into the world of virtual love, I had at this point viewed a few lady profiles, but had yet to take the next step of initiating communication. On these sites you can view who has looked at your profile and one of the maidens I had perused, clearly enamoured by my general handsomeness, sent me a message.

An attractive looking girl with a good write up, I got in touch and we exchanged a few messages via the site. We went on to swap msn details and a delightful chat ensued. She lived in London, worked for a company my previous company had done some business with, everything checked out. A bank holiday was coming up, so I asked what her plans were and whether she would be free to grab a bite to eat and a few drinks on the Monday. We agreed a time and place to meet and swapped numbers. She had but one request, that we have a chat on the phone before we met. An online dating novice, this didn't seem an unreasonable request to me. Maybe she wanted to make sure that I didn't have a voice like David Beckham? Maybe she wanted to make sure it was a man's voice? So I agreed to give her a call the following evening after work.

That evening was a Friday night, so I gave her a call and got her voicemail. I left a message explaining that I was now out with friends, but would try and reach her the next day. The following morning, horribly hung over after indulging in a few too many glasses of vino maison blanco, I was recovering on the settee in the living room. After a while I realised I had left my phone in my bedroom and when I went to get it I had two missed calls from my online suitor and a text message. The text message read,

'That it was not a problem for her or any of her friends, but that she only had one arm and wanted to make sure I was okay with that'.

Panic set in. The first thing I thought was how the hell did I not notice this is any of her photos! I logged into the dating site with immense speed and viewed her profile. Four photos, a head shot, right hand profile and two with friends standing over the missing limb...bollocks. My mind was going into overdrive and I was wrestling with my conscience on what to do. Had she deceived me? Should I be dating someone who is dishonest? To an extent she had certainly told a few fibs, but nothing to the degree where I could actually justify calling off the date. So fearing I would go straight to hell otherwise, I texted back that of course it wasn't a problem at all and that I looked forward to meeting.

Countdown. The next day, one day before the date, I was having a few drinks with a friend. I told him that something bad had happened and revelling in the consistency of my life tragedy he was eager to know more. I explained what had happened and foolishly leaned on him for advice. Prior to receiving the informative text, I had agreed to go for pizza with the fair lady, what the flip was I meant to do? If I offer to cut it up for her is that patronising? If I don't offer is it rude? My social consciousness is in hyperdrive at the best of times and I was metaphorically soiling myself at the prospect of how badly I would get this wrong.

Luckily my friend demonstrated class and remarkable insight when explaining that she would have lived with one arm for a number of years, so would have Darwinially adapted to the predicament. He hypothesised that she may have some kind of hat with a fork attached to it, so that she could hold the pizza in place with a mere nod of the head whilst cutting with the remaining limb, or maybe she would just drag the pizza over the side of the table and just lower down and munch straight into it.

It is people like my friend which is the exact reason I had to go on this date.

So the big day came. I was so worried that I was going to put my foot in it by saying something like 'do you want a hand with that', or 'I've got to hand it to you', 'you and what army', 'no strong arm tactics', 'pull the other one', 'is your favourite Star Wars character Hans Solo?', 'you seem armless enough' (I have more).

I waited at the station and fairly promptly she arrived. Luckily she was easy to recognise. When telling this story people often ask about the missing limb. For the purpose of visualisation there was no prosthetics and it was the the entire limb that was missing.

The date was actually okay and generally without incident. I decided the best thing to do would be to just act as normal as possible and I think that was the right thing to do. There were a could of awkward moments though, the first came when walking through Covent Garden in central London. There was a street artist that she recognised and wanted to watch. After the performance everyone clapped and I didn't know if clapping would be an arrogant display of my dual limbed state, or whether I should offer up one of my hands to create a co clapping scenario. In the end I just clapped. There was also a moment when she went to get some drinks in. I offered to go with her, but she said she would be fine. Logistically baffled about how two drinks could be carried sans hand I didn't want to make an issue out of it so just sat down. Turns out she just did two trips from the bar, simple really.

If I'm honest, I went into the date thinking about how I would legitimately not go on a second date. Luckily, she gave me a pretty good get out. Having just split up with a long term live in boyfriend that she was planning to marry and have kids with, she was dead set on finding someone to help fast track her back to marriage and kids. At the tender age of 22 and being a male, that kind of commitment request is petrifying at the best of times so I explained that I thought we were looking for different things on different timescales and she agreed and understood.

My very first Internet date, it is still the most memorable, but unfortunately it was by no means the worst.

Wish you were her(e) - haha, timeless‏

2010-08-08T05:17:00.000-07:00

My dad's bigger than your dad...

I imagine it all started with an aggressive (possibly drunken) game of dares or oneupmanship between two Arabian Sheiks;

'Do you know what Terry, i'm going to build the worlds largest shopping mall'

'Yeah so what, I'm going to build the worlds tallest building'

'Yeah well that's nothing I'm going to build the worlds largest aquarium and do you know what, fcuk it I'm going to throw a few actual penguins in for good measure'

'Yeah well...um...I'm going to build an indoor skiing slope'

'What's so impressive about that'

'It's going to have real snow...'

'Ok Terry I think that's quite enough Shesha and Moonshine for you young man'.

I have heard people describe it as Disney land for adults, or even Miami on speed. I am here referring to Dubai, a country I recently visited on holiday.

An incredibly ambitious country, I have been told their aim was to essentially make the Guinness book of records some kind of tour guide for the country. This in itself may have caused some issues, as I can't see a muslim state happy to be sponsored by an Irish stout. In the same way that a man of diminutive genital growth may acquire a Ferrari, maybe Dubai is the biggest worldwide example of compensating. For them it's not enough just to have shops in a shopping mall, they need to have Egyptian style pyramids, the worlds largest aquarium, or a ski slope avec actual snow. By way of comparison all Bluewater offers is a Burton's and knob sockets from Essex.

A country of contradictions, where you can't hold your wife's hand in public (unhappily married men take note, if you want a country where it is actually illegal to show her indoors public affection outdoors then book those tickets now), and yet prostitutes and even worse Emirates air stewardesses commonly frequent public house establishments.

God knows how Brits abroad romance ladies in Dubai. As a common frequenter of public house drinking refineries, I know first hand and through observation that no one in England would be married/pregnant if it was not for the drunken confidence to make that post 11pm 'winning time' drunken lunge in a Yates wine bar.

What do you do in Dubai? What replaces the drunken lunge? What goes in place of the tried and true dance floor grapple and grind (tm)? Don't tell me people are just sharing their feelings, that would never work.

Now don't get me wrong, making lady romance on a public beach is silly and easily avoidable, but when an inebriated pass in a club towards a member of the lady folk lands you in jail, how is it that every expat is not in prison?

I only had one 'big' night out in which I let my drunken auto pilot take the wheel, but I still managed to find time to lose the people I was with, spend 40 Euros (not an accepted currency in Dubai) and if receipts are correct somehow frequented the VIP area of the club we were in (those of you that know me will verify that I really am not a very important person). I woke up miraculously in my hotel the next day, to eventually find my phone in a cupboard and my wallet under my bed.

Now, luckily my general levels of attractiveness meant that there was no fear of night club courtship occurring, but for handsome ladies and gentlemen who are used to winning the dance floor battle of the peacocks surely the laws present some problems.

I was actually concerned that greeting my friend with a customary peck on the cheek (after all I am a continental new man) may lead to a spot of porridge. I had a plan B of kicking it old school with a 'greeting bow' or a businessmanlike firm handshake just in case.

In Dubai to even run a bar, you need to be able to offer accommodation for the night, so all bars are joined to hotels (don't worry these are fancy joints, they're not just strapping on a Wetherspoons to a Travel Lodge foyer). As an Englishman who could sleep in an iron maiden after enough sherry spritzers I can't really understand the logic of this and surely everyone knows no matter how drunk you get humans are designed with an inherent GPS system that somehow gets you home.

Dubai has a population of 1.8 million, only 100,000 are actually originally from Dubai. The country is built for tourism and foreign business investment, the retailers are all UK and US high street names, they have all your usual UK/US fast food restaurants, there are office buildings that are modelled on Canary Wharfs Gherkin and even some of the bars are named replicas of famous west end establishments.

Essentially if you would like to live in Britain with a bit more sunshine and a bit less knifing and don't quite fancy Benidorm then Dubai should be your cup of hummus.

When they first built the worlds largest aquarium it sprung a leak. They have thousands and I mean thousands of fish in this thing, including sting rays and sharks. Can you imagine being the guy working the day shift when the leak struck, trying to keep a shark alive by stuffing its head into one of a thousand emergency gold fish bowls.

When they first opened the worlds largest building the lifts broke. This building is over a kilometre high, if you were the OAP that was half way up to your roof top pent house suite, you would be pretty upset when your stannah stair lift packed in.

A kilometre high...you would have to suck a sweet just to stop your ears from bleeding when using the lift. Imagine leaving the building only to realise you left your car keys upstairs, you would have to call your work to let them know you were going to be late. For someone in my physical condition I would have to hire a sherper just to ensure safe route of passage to my front door. Imagine being the delivery man having to lug the corner suite faux leather sofa up to floor 117, that would be a bad day.

Despite all this however Dubai is in recession, even more so than the rest of the world. Apparently they don't know the meaning of the word recession, that's okay there are a lot of words I don't know the meaning of too.

They built a slick modern rail system because traffic congestion was so bad, by the time they built it recession had kicked in and traffic had eased significantly, isn't it always the way. Plans to build a Disney World and a Jurassic Park style dinosaur world (Terry, you crazy rascal) are now on hold. A lot of the buildings that were partly built are also on hold. On the plus side however this is making holidays there cheaper, so hey, silver linings and all that.

And if you like fantastic food and swanky bars then I can definitely recommend Dubai as a great eating/drinking holiday.

I hope that they do come out of recession and that long term tourism does drive their economy, ambition such as there's deserves to be rewarded.

Every time I go on holiday (apart from that Easter trip to Lanzarote) I imagine what it would be like living in these countries long term, the different lives I could and in some cases maybe should have led. What might have been if I just had a slightly larger pair of testicals and just took more risks in life.

Looking through my rose tinted glasses (back of Spec Savers) I had that same feeling when leaving Dubai. I can definitely see why people would want to live out there for a few years, the weather, friendly people, tax free riches and great night life, but on reflection I guess long term I would compare Dubai to a fake pair of breasts. Sure, great to look at, great fun too, but after a while you would long for something a bit more real.

A Modern Christmas Tale

2009-12-21T03:06:00.000-08:00

Christmas, a time when mistletoe replaces rohypnol...

It's that time of year where Noddy Holder can eat again thanks to Royalties and everyone puts aside the fact that their Bernard Matthews turkey most probably contains bird flu.

A time when all that is left of Brazilian rain forests is a small strip down the middle, as everyone simultaneously feels the need to express their 'genuine' desire that friends and family have a 'merry' Christmas via the medium of a card (apparently a text message or fax lack sentiment).

This year parents everywhere will be explaining to their kids that Santa has been hit hard by the recession, so has had to lay off a few elves and use an energy saving light bulb for Rudolph's nose. Subsequently, there may be a Tesco's basics satsuma in the stocking and you're buggered if you think your getting a Nintendo Wii this year sonny boy, my lad, my son.

The RSPCA are campaigning that it's cruel to make reindeer's fly round the world in one night and unfortunately British Airways which was plan B has gone tits up thanks to the Unions.

Don't worry though Santa, you can blame any delays on the weather conditions which are probably worse than the North Pole at the moment, or perhaps put it down to the extra safety measures that are in place due to the continued threat of terrorism (stop funding them with those pirate DVD's).

The kids were going to find out sooner or later that it was all a facade and that Santa is as real as Jordan and Peter's divorce (topical). Perhaps they wouldn't feel so stupid for believing in him in the first place if Santa wasn't depicted as some fat bloke with magical flying reindeer. If Santa was built like Usain Bolt and flew the Bat Plane then maybe it would be more plausible.

Remember that moment when you found out that Santa wasn't real and you thought to yourself, yes with the power of hindsight it does seem a trifle odd that this rotund fellow can cram both his massive arse as well as every kid in the worlds gifts into a sleigh and manage to circumnavigate the globe in a handful of hours, but who am I to call my parents a liar and it's nothing as ridiculous as that God lad.

Maybe subconsciously we just go along with it as it's much easier to say Santa has sh*t taste in jumpers than to relay this same accusation directly to ma or pa. To be honest I was part glad to find out that Santa was make believe, even as an innocent child growing up prior to the era when Glitter really hit his stride, I was still not keen on the idea of this old bearded bloke sneaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night (don't make me place an injunction on you Santa).

Perhaps the real tragedy is that some parents who, whilst not wanting to be labelled liars by their first born but hard up from the recession, will tell their kids that unfortunately NHS waiting queues were so long that Santa couldn't get the gastric band operation needed in time and died of clogged arteries caused by the consumption of too many mince pies.

But anyway we persevere, we put a synthetic plastic tree in our living room and dress it up with figurines of Santa (the fat jolly one, not the Usain Bolt Bat Plane one) and glitter and gold. We praise Jesus by competing with our neighbours for who can have the highest wattage of fluorescent lighting adorned around our humble abode.

Random pensioners knock on your door demanding money for charity in exchange for raping your ears with a medley of Christmas Carols (this does not count as contributing to society, you still serve no purpose). 'Do they know it's Christmas time at all' they sing, in reference to all those impoverished in Africa. No they don't is the answer, they don't have a bloody clue. Firstly they are predominantly Muslim countries that don't celebrate Christmas and secondly don't go telling them it's Christmas as that's one more thing they are going to get upset about missing out on.

Meanwhile the rising number of vegetarians means that nutmeg is now becoming a popular alternative to turkey (can't catch bird flu from a nut Mr. B Matthews). The package now legally having to explain that nutmeg contains nut. Now I'm a big believer in the motto better safe than sorry, but if you have a nut allergy and eat a type of food that has the word nut in it's name then both Darwin and I think you should die. Unfortunately medical professionals funded by my taxes will probably keep you alive.

Young couples, not yet burdened by the financial ball and chain that is children, will exchange gifts of equal value. The girlfriend or wife, will compare their gifts with those received by their friends and sisters after which their significant other will either receive a tirade of abuse or adulation (money can't buy you love, but it can save a lot of aggro). The man may contest that his gift came from the heart, alas the girlfriend would prefer it came from Tiffany's.

For families it is a reason to get back together...and then quickly realise why you left it so long in the first place. Mothers and Grandmothers will insist upon watching hours of soaps, with their festive themes of betrayal, brutality, loss and dogging (sorry that last one was Steve 'Phil Mitchell' McFadden in real life, I get confused). Will someone die in this year's extended finale? No, just my soul. We will further smite the allegedly Jewish Jesus with the mass consumption of pigs in a blanket, (pork wrapped in pork) and then to add insult to injury Cliff Richard will dance and sing on his grave and grow rich off a lazy remix of the Lord's prayer (I bet Jesus didn't even see any royalties).

The Queen will have to put in a shift, give a speech, wear a hat, the whole shebang, she's got the rest of the year to relax so for this one day she can dance to our merry tune. Alternatively maybe they can give Prince Phillip a turn this year?

Back to TV and Macauley Culkin's family will leave him again (and eventually so will Michael Jackson). Adverts will tell you that there is literally nothing more important than buying a new sofa (even though they won't actually have the one you want in stock until 2011). 'Buy now' they say, 'pay 54 years later in 1,179 easy month instalments', it's good to know we have learned from the recession.

But for everything, we must be grateful for the get out of jail free card that is the Christmas period. Turn up drunk to work on a Tuesday, hey it's Christmas. Didn't get that proposal over in time, no problem it's Christmas. Just recreated a Nazi style underground bondage orgy with the help of 15 prostitutes, come on it's...no Max Moseley, not even at Christmas.

Twit for Twats

2009-12-21T00:57:00.000-08:00

Alex Cornford is currently doing...nothing of interest.

So Twitter...really do we have to do this now too? A social phenomenon, a revolution of the blog format, or a condensed version of Heat magazine for those that found Heat a bit of a heavy read. I'll admit I'm weak I signed up, curiosity got the better of me and I needed to find out what all the fuss is about. Imagine my delight to find out it is basically just an elaborate version of Facebook's status update. I now have 15 people following me, despite the fact that I have never actually written a post. More frighteningly I don't even know who most of them are. My guess is that a lot of people like the strong and silent type, or that society is full of numerous clinically bored individuals who literally have nothing better to do than to follow blank pages (was this really part of the grand design God?).

Living your life vicariously through George Clooney is one thing, but when you are moist in anticipation awaiting my latest update it's time to jump. I can't condone, but can understand why gossip hungry over oestrogened lady folk may want to follow Jude Law, after all he is quite dreamy and it is of course imperative to conclude that he is also a great and deep guy before buying the topless poster for the bedroom wall. Hey you may even be able to find out what makes him tick so that when you do meet you can be his ideal girl (and you will meet as he 'tweets' abouts his favourite coffee shop regularly, so by pitching a tent and keeping vigil outside said coffee shop you're bound to bump into him eventually...before the men in white coats carry you away). After all he doesn't care about looks, you just need to have a great personality and a kind hearted disposition (or do a stint as his nanny). And yes I'm sure the life of a celebrity is pretty good (unless you're currently Tiger Woods, don't see him tweeting too much of late - naughty boy) so maybe they do lead such an exciting life that they have interesting daily updates worthy of regaling to Jo and Josephine public, but why would anyone want to follow my daily life? I could tell you what I watched on TV last night and give my opinions, but then so can the TV Guide. I could let you know that I have eaten chicken nuggets and chips for the third day running as there was an offer on a Tesco basics 60 piece bag, would that entertain you? Would you like to hear about my train being delayed due to signal failure, or that I ran out of toilet roll so had to get creative and use a Flash wipe and now have a rash that I don't feel like going to the doctor with? No of course you don't, it's all mundane tedious tosh.

What perhaps makes the whole thing even more incomprehendable is that within the confined bubble of this site Ashton Kutcher is king. Yes this is the same Ashton Kutcher that was the star turn in such cinematic masterpieces as Just Married and of course the unforgettable Dude Wheres my Car. The very same Ashton Kutcher who rose to fame in stellar comedy That 70's Show and the man that brought you the ground breaking Punk'd. Apparently there are more people 'following' Ashton Kutcher than CNN. Of all the people to stalk, why him?

Because that is essentially what Twitter boils down to, it like Facebook is the acceptable face of stalking. As I have always said why follow someone online, when you can follow them to their home... I guess in a society where you can actually ask a qualified doctor to staple your stomach, even the stalkers are becoming more and more lazy. In the dizzy hey day of stalking, real effort would have been put in, rubbish riled through, binoculars purchased (I'm a keen bird watcher, honest, yeah whatever Bill Oddie we know the sordid truth) but no more. Shares in infra red goggles have declined while mouse wrist supports have gone through the roof. The phenomenon of Twitter hasn't gone unnoticed by the big fromages at Google and Microsoft and such is the impact it has made that 'tweets' are now listed in their respective search engines so that people can search for the very latest social commentary in the same way you would search for the nearest cinema, or adult jazz.

For those of you less nerdy than me, what this actually means is that if you are the very first person to comment on a unique subject that people are searching for they will invariably read your 'tweet'. No longer is the word of Google confined to coding monkeys, you my friend can potentially have your voice heard by the world. It's almost like Google (one of the most largest, most powerful, most most companies in the world) is endorsing you! If you were the guy who first found out that the worlds most famous golfer had almost certainly at one point put 'the tiger in you' (not such a clever strap line now is it Frosties) and 'tweeted' about it then once the story broke, you would be one of the most influential people out there.

Now chances are that you are not going to break a big story, but think of the personal misery you can inflict upon your not so loved ones. If you think that Susan in accounts is a slag, then by gum 'tweet' my good man and tell the world! Before long both Google and you will think Susan is a slag and that's got to count for something.

So knock yourself out, slander your ex, tell your computer illiterate mother in law exactly what you think...just don't follow me you massive weirdo.

p.s. in a recent poll Peter Andre was voted the tenth most influential person on twitter, I hope you are proud of yourselves.

Sounds Impressive.

2009-02-22T05:51:00.000-08:00

I'd Guava use Papaya...

If I was to ask you what is Bifidus ActiRegularis, would you know? No of course you wouldn't, you wouldn't have a clue, no one would. And yet if I was to give you the choice of two generic brand yoghurt's of the same flavour and then added that one contained Bifidus ActiRegularis, without a moments hesitation you would opt for the one with Bifidus ActiRegularis.

And why do we act this way, the reasons my friends is simply because it sounds fancy. It sounds bloody impressive and as ridiculous as it sounds people don't like to admit that they have no idea what Bifidus ActiRegularis is in case they sound stupid, as if you would become the point of ridicule for not knowing. So rather than take the very reasonable course of action of questioning it's merits further, you keep quiet and assume that it must be good for you.

The clever people at Danone cottoned onto this and launched a whole advertising campaign around their Activia range of yoghurt, they even stuck in the term 'digestive transit' for good measure, the shrewd swines. And the end result? The weak willed, easily convinced, sheep like fools like me went out and bought some. For all I know Bifidus ActiRegularis could be latin for knob rot, but subliminally I guess my mindset was that a company like Danone wouldn't have spent so much money on a national advertising campaign and 'celebrity' spokeswoman Nell McAndrew if it wasn't something revolutionary to the world of yogurt. As soon as she uttered the words 'stops you feeling so blurted after a big meal' in her dulcet northern tones I was convinced.

But what would of happened if I had delved deeper? What if I hadn't been concerned that drinking buddy Dave thought I was a 'plank' for not knowing my ancient greek for yogurt related terminology, what would I have found? According to the official website http://www.danoneactivia.co.uk/,

"Activia contains probiotics - live microorganisms which, when eaten live and in sufficient quantities, have a beneficial effect on our health – so it is classed as a probiotic product".

So to clarify, the yogurt contains little, living animals...ok not too sure about that, I don't even like to eat sushi in case it makes a late comeback, let alone something that is still alive. And actually thinking about it, if this yogurt helps with my 'digestive transit', surely that's just science talk for its going to make me poo more? Don't laxatives have the same effect and as far as I know doctors aren't advocating laxatives as the answer to fatties prayers. The more you think about it, the more it sounds less appealing, but it's too late now I have already bought the required quota from them, making their Activia range a massive success.

And it's not just yogurt that warrants additional consideration, shampoo companies have been peddling the same rubbish for years. Who cares that a conditioner contains guava extract. If I gave you a banana, would it ever cross your mind to start mashing it into your head the next time you took a shower. No of course it wouldn't, only the mentally deranged would think to do that, if anything you would need to spend a considerable amount of time washing the fruit OUT of your hair, so why should it be any different for papaya, or apricots 'extract'?

For the sake of argument, let's give these companies the benefit of the doubt and say that coconut was good for a glossy mane like finish, how the hell do they find this out? Can you imagine being the first guy to 'research' washing your hair with and avocado? Even if you found out that it was good for you how do you tell someone without them thinking you're an idiot? If someone told me that they had tried washing their hair with fruit, my first and very reasonable question would be to ask what had compelled them to do so? You would have to make something up, lie that you were out of shampoo and that the only thing you had in the house was an avocado multi pack. Even then you would have to manifest some sort of hair related emergency (should such a thing exist) that prompted you to entertain this bizarre act.

And its not just fruit that is allegedly good for your mullet. People would have you believe that a winning mixture of eggs, vinegar and mayonnaise will give your barnett the matt finish you have always wanted. Even if this was true, what would the point be? Sure you may look attractive from a distance, but as soon as people were close enough to realise you smelt like a fry up any initial interest would diminish pretty rapidly. Still credit to the marketing manager for thinking outside of the egg box, with sales dwindling because our nation refuse to eat anything outside of cheese and pork, they obviously realised that eggs needed to serve an additional purpose in society to ensure share prices remained buoyant, so why not spread some rumours that it works wonders as an alternative to L' Oreal. Slogans change from 'Eggs, fast food and good for you' to 'Eggs, vinegar and mayonaise, because your worth it'.

I understand the need to make a living, but why don't they try going for something that's more plausible? '5 a day' was always an ambitious sales target for fruit and veg companies to meet, but rather than trying to supplement takings through ridiculous measures like 'carrot cake' (as if your going to try and slip a vegetable into one of my dessert dishes) why not go for something more believable? Fruits generally smell nice, so why not try telling the credit crunch nation that rather than paying fifty quid a pop on eau de toilette, than an equally good measure would be to crush a punnet of strawberry's under each armpit? Hell you could even spin some nonsense that the strawberry absorbs through your pores and contributes to the consumption of your '5 a day'. Sales increase, government health targets get hit (sort of) and you never know, some people having filled their fruit bowl to the brim may actually take the extreme and more traditional measure of eating some of it.

Fruit eaten in large consumptions notoriously gives you the runs, therefore assisting no end with the 'digestive transit' meaning that you don't have to buy litres of yogurt in the first place...or do you?

Just as you think you have relinquished the grip of the yogurt barons, Danone, aware of the threat strike a deal with fruit companies to include fruit in the base of all their Activia yogurts. Capitalising on the fruit based addition, they then go aggressively after the shampoo market, as of course, obviously, yogurt makes hair softer. So in full yogurt will give you shiny soft hair, helps with the old digestive transit, smells nice and can be used to moisturise skin (why not), is there anything this miracle in a pot can't do? Danone, I'm back in, sorry for every doubting you.

Now if you will excuse me ladies and gentlemen, I need to go buy a tub of Bifidus ActiRegularis and see if applied correctly it can cure erectile dysfunction.

God created the world in seven days...what a cowboy.

2009-01-27T10:21:00.000-08:00

Apparently God is Omnipotent, but being God he should be able to find a cure for that...

So God created the world in seven days eh? The only way that is feasible is if he built Poland first and got the Polish builders to muck in for the remaining days. Even then, seven days is a bit of a push, I mean Rome alone took more than a day to build so inevitably corners had to be cut.

Subsequently for every Sistene Chapel, Mona Lisa and Venice we have a Bluewater, a London Olympics logo and a Croydon. All in all planet earth is a bit like a B&Q kitchen, at first glance it looks great, but on closer inspection every things not quite as it should be.

Yes the big man created The Northern Lights, but he also created personalised mobile ring tones. If ye be faithful, then the genius that cooked up the 'crazy frog' was indeed the big cheese himself. What was wrong with 'ring ring', it did the job required? Now days if your phone goes 'ring ring' people think you are trying to be retro or ironic. You have to wear garments from Top Man just to pull off the overall look.

Why is it that people feel the need to express themselves through every facet of their being. Clothes I can accept as a form of expression, but a ring tone? Are these people thinking, 'if I have a hilarious ring tone, then people will in turn think I'm hilarious', no they won't they will think you're a twat. It's the modern day equivalent of the guy in the office who chose to demonstrate just how 'crazy' he was via an outlandish tie. Society is mocking you and you deserve it.

Perhaps the king of the ring tones is rap 'superstar' Akon with one of his biggest selling downloads being the appropriately titled 'Lonely'. Appropriate, as anyone who downloaded it deserves to be shunned and subsequently very bloody lonely for a long, long time. Almost as criminal a use of the mobile phone is text voting. I am of course talking about the type of vote systems commonly associated with 'prime time' Saturday night entertainment programming, the X Factors and Britain's got talents of this world.

The British public bleeding their bank accounts dry at £1 a pop so that fat bird Michelle McManus can claim her 'rightful' place as winner. Truly it was considered to be a victory for the morals of society... but was it really? On the crest of a media wave, people may have cared enough to vote for her and buy the first single, but pretty soon they stopped caring and stopped buying. Much like any realm in society, you can love a fat bird for a night, but not much more than that.

Perhaps even more worrying are the people who like all the contestants equally, so not wanting to see any of them lose, vote for them all? Were walking head first smack bang into a global recession and yet Jo public are squandering half their gyro just because they are torn between their love for pug faced Eoghan Quigg and boy bland JLS. It's scant consolation, but if God is Omnipotent then he has to sit through all of this, that's karma for you (apparently he was partial to the musical stylings of Bad Lashes but ran out of credit shortly after the quarter finals).

We all have bad days in the office, so mistakes can be forgiven and God advocates forgiveness (convenient that) so we can forgive him the odd X Factor and the occasional Frenchman, in fact it will probably be great bargaining power for all of us when arriving at the pearly gates. When having a chin wag with that Peter bloke, he will probably ask a few difficult questions before allowing entry, such as 'Could you not have afforded just three pounds a month for that charity?', or 'could you not have paid an extra twenty pence to get the fair trade bananas?', to which you can then retort, 'Fair enough, but let's get some perspective. What about that Hitler bloke, or even worse Kerry Katona? I mean bloody hell she won mother of the year. Twice!' Adopt that line of argument and there's no way you won't get in, in fact they will probably give you a twenty pound voucher to spend at HMV just to keep stum.

So maybe that's it, everything in life is intentially not perfect just so we can all feel ok the next time we tell a homeles couple kissing to 'get a room', or tell our neice that there is no Santa just because we are a bit strapped for cash around Xmas. If the big guy can drop a few clangers, then justifiably so can we. Ultimately no matter how terrible a human being I am, I will be able to sleep at night knowing that no matter what happens nothing I can do will be worse than giving Celine Dion a record contract and for that, God, I am eternally greatful.

Credit Crunch - What a load of bankers.

2009-01-26T09:58:00.000-08:00

Never a lender nor a borrower be...

The current economic climate eh? The old 'credit crunch' if you will (don't worry, no jokes here about it being the worst kind of cereal - although I did think about it). Now I'm not going to take a pop at the banks and their employees, if you want that sort of thing then buy a copy of The Guardian or The Daily Mail (if you can still afford to). But I will say one thing, it is all a bit silly really isn't it?

I may have never written a faeces on the infrastructure of our economy and I do not for one second claim to be an economic guru, far from it. But I do know that its a bad idea to continually loan money to people that don't have a great history of being able to pay it back. Lets look at it in common sense terms, you lend your mate Dave £20 in good faith and months later you are still dropping subtle hints (give me my F*&CK!NG money back you B$%TARD) to no avail. Eventually you reside yourself to never seeing the money again, your out of pocket, a trifle miffed and adamant that Dave will never see another penny of your, well not hard earned, but earned money.

Despite his £20 windfall Dave is a bit of a rascal, a card if you will, and sure enough in no time at all he has frittered it all away on fancy hats and jelatine and needs another loan of monetary funds to get him out of his man made financial pickle. Knowing that the odds against him milking any more money out of you are shorter than Pizza Hut successfully relaunching as Pasta Hut, he turns to his other mate Steve. Steve, despite swearing by the Pasta Hut linguine and owning Craig David - the best of on CD, is no fool. He confers with you prior to considering the transaction at which point you explain that Dave is somewhat unreliable on the 'giving money back' front (in real adult life banks call this a credit check). Steve absorbs this information and is appropriately wary, but Steve is a businessman you see so doesn't give up on the idea altogether. Instead, he agrees to lend Dave the money, only if he promises to not only be his best friend, but also pay it back at an increased sum of £30 (a £1o profit for the slower of you out there). Again, in the real world this is called interest rates.

Dave, he's a madman, before too long he's spent the £20 Steve gave him and is once again potless. Worried that Steve is a bit of a smack head and can turn at any time, he turns to Barry who lends him the £30 to give to Steve. Great, Steve is happy, but Barry that shrewd entrepreneur wants £40 back. Before long Steve has outstanding debts with Barry, Kev, Gav, Keith, Fred, Sam and Jonesy.

At his wits end, having been ostracized by the Croydon massive and not even able to show his face down Tiger Tiger on a Saturday night, Dave is desperate and turns to the one person he knows will still lend him money, Mr. Danny "Ocean" Finance. Danny has a bit of a reputation for taking either your knees, or your home (still, nice to have a choice) but offers to lend Dave the money he needs so that he can consolidate it all into 'one easy to pay monthly loan'. Desperate, Dave accepts and is now able to pay back all his mates, including you.

Relief, he's now able to meet up with the lads again down Tiger Tiger on a Saturday, but wait a minute no he can't, he can't afford to. In fact, backed into a financial corner Dave can't do any of the things he wants. He can't buy that top hat he had his eye on, upgrade to Sky plus, get a star named after his girlfriend Sheryl, or even order a Dominoes pizza (what no pasta choice!).

And it's not just Dave that is affected, Tiger Tiger's takings are down, Rupert Murdoch has to sell one belt whilst tightening his spare one and Dominoes have to shelve their plans to introduce a pasta range. And this ladies and gentle men is where we are today. Just think if only you (Lloyd, Barclays, HSBC, that Howard bloke from the Halifax ads) didn't loan Dave that £20 in the first place, he would have reeled himself in and learned to live more frugally on his income.

Still it's done now, so theres no point crying about it (you big baby). It's time for some good old fashioned British resolve, the kind shown during the Blitz. I myself am as much to blame and have suffered as much as anyone at the hands of the credit crunch (stupid karma) being both £4,ooo+ in debt (and no that doesn't include student loans, as far as I'm concerned thats my money) and having recently got laid off at work (the worst kind of laid). So how do you survive in a downturned economy. My advice is to look at the winners and losers at these times and try and associate, or attach a vice like grip to the winners, similar to trying to break in with the cool kids in high school.

Supermarkets are littered with winners and losers. Budget (gypo) stores like Morrissons and Lidl are the big winners taking a load of business from the ASDA's and Tesco's of this world. Sainsbury's is another winner, with former Marks & Spencer and Waitrose customers turning to them whilst treading that fine line between wanting cheaper goods, but not wanting to be seen by neighbour Lady Patricia Pennyfarthing trudging up the drive with ASDA shopping bags in hand.

Sex toys are another big winner, with sales going through roof . The spokespeople for these companies (I can hear their mothers now, 'why couldn't you have been a doctor') claiming it is because people are going out less, giving them more time in doors with their significant other. Now if that is true, it means that men have historically chosen pub quizzes, 5 a side football and unpaid overtime over a bit of the old sexual intercourse with the little lady (actually that all sounds quite reasonable). Be careful though, more sex means more mistakes, which means more kids, which don't come cheap (unless you adopt them from Africa, Madonna, talk about economising, I know you are a few quid down from the divorce but show some decorum).

Primark and Peacocks are other big winners, with noone willing to spend the big bucks in the Burtons and New Looks of this world budget clothing is now the in thing (take a step back and consider this, in days of yore you would have been teased to the point of self harming for buying cheapo clothing. All those bullys are now completely at a loss, wondering what you should tease people for now days? See everyone is affected by the current climate). My fears go out to the sweat shop workers, having to produce twice the stock to meet the new demands and with twice as many people looking to take their job due to all the job losses that were caused by the downturn in the first place. Talk about a no win situation, still out of sight out of mind.

So where does this leave us. Well for a while, inevitably, we are going to be stuck in our houses, forced to have increasingly bizarre sex with our now intermiably bored wives, only venturing outside of the homes from the necessity to buy Lidl's own tinned tomatoes and Primark irregular fit real denim (not real) jeans for a shilling six pence. But time will pass, we will pay off our debts (except for the student loans) and eventually we will have some disposable income to squander on what we please. Tiger Tiger will cotton onto this, will reopen the Croydon branch, Burton will set up a store next door to supply the collared shirts and loafers required to get in and before you know it the econmy will be thriving again. Dave however will still be a bit behind, but hell why not lend him £20 so he can join you on a night out, the past is the past, let bygones be bygones.

Who's in charge?

2009-01-24T08:09:00.000-08:00

Forget knife crime, sort this lot out first.

I don't rule the world, clearly, if I did you would have heard about it (unless you read The Sun or The Star where you would have been lucky to see it amidst the lighter notes, possibly in the page 3 girl's thought of the day). But if I did, I would ring the changes. I'm an angry man no doubt, but I can't be alone in thinking there is so much wrong in this society in which we live. I am not talking about your Afghanistan's or the economic climate which are clearly 'a bit out of hand', I'm talking about the everyday crimes against humanity, the stuff we have to put up with on a daily basis, repeatedly, constantly, that no one is doing anything about, Gordon.

Commence rant. Like advertising for example, I understand the need for it, I have even made a living in the past selling it (note for all those whining about how Facebook is being ruined by advertising, are you willing to pay a subscription to use it? No, didn't think so, so shut up, ignore the adverts like the rest of us, appreciate that the guys running it need to make a living and just get on with your day 'poking' your 'friends' during the hours of the day that someone is paying you to 'work'. Oh and that's another thing, those people that complain that their employers have banned Facebook during work hours. What's your argument, if you weren't using it at work it doesn't affect you and if you were using it at work then you have just proved your employers point - think about it, you haven't got a leg to stand on Heather, idiot).

Where was I, oh yes advertising. Come on people put some effort in. DFS, I don't need a bloody sofa, I live in rented accommodation which is furnished, so theres no point repeatedly abusing my senses telling me that you have a 50% sale on. Yes my place could do with tarting up and those sofas that have three seprate recliners look just delightful, but I will be buggered if it's coming out of my pocket, tell my landlord about it. And who books these adverts? If I am watching MTV2 then chances are that I am male and aged somewhere between 15 and 30 so why try and promote stair lifts to me, eh? I'm lazy, but I'm in no mood to spend what's left of my limited funds (thank you credit crunch - Gordon) on pimping up my stairs banister and as far as I'm aware the nanny state has not yet made it mandatory that private residential homes should be disability friendly.

Music adverts are some of the biggest offenders. How many times have I heard the voice over on the advert telling me that 'this is one of the most important albums of the year'. Important, give it a rest, what makes it so important? Do the lyrics contain the cure for cancer? If you play track 5 at full volume does it end race hate? No, I didn't think so, get some perspective. Why can't they be a bit more honest, have the voice over say something like 'very catchy and all the words rhyme which is pretty neat'. Or 'a really popular album which if played out loud in public will make people think you have good taste in music'.

This kind of honesty could help the perfume/eu de toilet industry no end. Rather than having some beautiful man or woman filmed in black and white high on top of a building near a clock tower running all over the place even though no one is chasing them, whilst some french bloke spouts out confusing adjectives, why not just show an image of the bottle while your man on the street says something like 'It smells nice which girls will like and the bottle comes in a really manly design too which will look pretty neat on your bedside table'? Makes more sense doesn't it, I'm open to offers if anyone looking for an advertising guru.

And what about those perfumes 'made' by celebrities? I don't know who I hate more the celebrities fronting them, or the idiots that buy the stuff? What is your mindset when you buy a celebrity endorsed perfume? I bet you there are loads of people (mostly women) that buy it without even smelling it, or even worse who having smelt it and found it offensive to their nostrils still go on to spend their hard earned/stolen cash on it. Are these people thinking, well Jennifer Lopez is a millionaire, is a film and music star and is going out with Ben Affleck (I know they have split up now, stop nit picking) so maybe if I use her perfume the same will happen for me. No it won't love, save your £20 and get back to work, they need you to cover a lunch break on checkout five. As for people who bought Jade Goody's perfume.....

Why do we call it 'Eu de toilet' anyway? What's the matter did we run out of English words and have to start nicking lingo from the French? Or is this Britain's international olive branch, our way of saying we can't be arsed to learn your language even when we are holidaying in your country, but what we will do is bung a few French words into the English vocabulary to give you a helping hand on becoming fluent in English. Come on now Gordon, keep strong, we have given back the empire the least we ask in return is that the world speaks our language. I mean, it can't be too hard if the Americans can grasp it.

It's not just the adoption of foreign words that gets my goat, terminology in general is all a bit misguided. Music again is a culprit here, lets start with the term 'pop' music. Now you might think that makes sense, because you want to have a pop at the cretins that are responsible for raping your ears, but that's not the intended meaning of 'pop'. 'Pop' is in fact short for 'popular'. Popular. Come on now, who's in charge of this? You can't have a genre or classify a music vertical as 'popular', that could refer to anything you lazy beggars. By that definition, anything that gets to number one in the charts these days is making 'pop' music, regardless of if you are Steps, King of Leon or 50 Cent. Linkin Park get to number one all the time, but ask them what type of music they make and amidst a shouty intro and rap chorus they will tell you that their particular brand of music is 'alternative'. Alternative to what, popular music I would imagine and therein lies the problem. Sell too many records and all of a sudden you are making pop songs, but don't sell enough records and you have to supplement your 'alternative' rock career with a day job as a bank clerk, not very rock and roll is it Chester, sell out.

And try telling some spotty 15 year old Emo kid that he is listening to pop music, perhaps your comments could be the catalyst for their final and fatal last act of self harming. God I hate Emos, if only there was some way of tricking them into an all or nothing fight to the death with Chavs, kill two birds with one stone. Imagine it, the Chavs with their knives and the Emos with their razor blades, what a spectacle it would be. Of course knives are more deadly, they have longer reach for starters, but the Emos are used to being cut so it would be a pretty even fight. William Hill would make a killing on taking bets, the population crisis would be eased and unemployment figures with it, I can't see a downside so pull your finger out and make it happen, Gordon.

The alternative would to round up the crowd from the next 'Funeral for a Friend' concert and ship them off to the army. Think about it, Emos would make a seamless transition into the army, especially as most soldiers are now situated in Muslim countries. Lets examine our bog standard Emo, they like to cover up their body (preferrably in black clothing), they are all Vegans so pork is off the menu and they are used to loud noises and explosions having spent years moshing next to the loud speaker at Slip Knot gigs. The image of Western society in Afghanistan and Iraq would be improved no end if our representatives were predominantly of the Emo persuasion and the only compromise would be that the sales for black finger nail paint in the UK would plummet. But fear not make up companies theres always the export market (which has apparently also been hit by the credit crunch, thanks Gordon) and by opening trade with Afghanistan and Iraq to export black finger nail paint international relations could be helped no end. Problem solved, put me in power now.

The Human Conditioner

2008-03-29T08:26:00.000-07:00

Hair today gone tomorrow

I am 25 and I am going bald. In fact I have been going bald from about the age of 21. I walked past a hair salon the other week and a woman was handing out promotional leaflets for discounted hair styling. She asked if I would like one, I thought she was taking the piss but luckily I deduced from her blank expression that she was not and was simply stupid and so refrained from punching her.

Going bald is not the end of the world for everyone, head butting football hairo Zinidine Zidane seems content with his millions of pounds and model girlfriend and there is no need for action 'star' Jason Statham to feel insecure about his diminishing barnet as Kelly Brook left him for another baldy in Billy Zane. Perhaps if he just stopped making those bloody awful Transporter films they would still be together, then again Zane's main claim to fame is Titanic so he can probably feel a bit hard done by. Despite these shining examples of men baldly going forth and prospering, life is not quite so easy for your average man on the street.

People can be so helpful. Someone kindly pointed out to me the other day that I was going grey. Why do people do this? I wouldn't alert someone to the fact that they were getting fat. I just fixed my eyes on them with a looked of complete disdain. As any follicley challenged man will tell you when you have accepted that you are going bald you couldn't give a flying flip that you are going grey! I'd kill to be a silver fox, but alas I will never know this distinguished joy.

It's a horrible moment when you first realise you are going bald. As a white british man of 21 it is law that you put a ridiculous amount of gel in your hair. One day when applying lacquer and product to my demi moulet I noticed that quite a large amount of scalp was clearly visible. Naturally my first reaction was to go into denial. Maybe it was just the lighting, maybe it was the 50p store own gel? But even if this was the reason for the 'illusion' of baldness what was I going to do, lurk in the shadows to avoid misleading lighting, purchase branded and expensive hair gel? Not bloody likely. So you have to try and accept it, which isn't easy at first.

I wouldn't mind so much but my body, much like my brain seems to be completely clueless. An executive decision, coming straight from the top, seems to have been made to remove the hair from my head, but I am at least being compensated with rapid hair growth on every other part of my body. And I do mean every part.

I am the only person I know that needs to get a quote upfront before the salon can start work on a back, sack and crack. I even have hair growing on the underside of my forearms, the underside for gods sake. Perhaps even more of a worry is that I find myself shaving higher and higher up my face with every week that passes. The all over facial hair look may have got teen wolf laid, but I don't think it's going to improve my chances any.

I get recurring nightmares that my kryptonite, velcro clothing, will come back into fashion.

The continued bodily hair growth would suggest that I am yet to have fully completed puberty, this is backed up by the fact that I still get acne. How the hell can you be going bald whilst still getting spots? At the risk of sounding like a 7 year old, it's just not fair! The only consolation is that if I am not wholly pubic then their is still potential for growth. It would be good to get an extra inch...'taller'.

Then their is the teasing that you have to contend with, the verbal happy slap(head)ing. 'Hey baldy put some chalk on your cue', 'go outside mate, you look like you could do with some fresh hair' and so on and so forth. A girl at my work made a quip about my lack of locks, I swiftly retorted by explaining that it was a well known fact that bald men are more virile. My sense of smugness on the back of having just cunningly combined a comeback with some light flirtation was soon cut short when she explained that the only reason bald men were more virile is because they never got any.

Ultimately baldness is a disability, without the parking privileges. Would you make fun of someone who is blind, or poke fun at the mentally handicapped? Of course you wouldn't, well not to their face anyway. So the next time you see a bald man, just take a moment to think about how brave they are. They could so easily have hidden behind a toupee or a strategic comb over. For my fellow bald men, stay strong and remember, yes you will never be able to style your hair again, but as the 80's demonstrated, in the long run this may ultimately be for the best.

Now if you don't mind I'm going to investigate the legitimacy of a new 'fill in' hair spray I have just seen on the home shopping channel.

This time next year, I will be doing my day job

2008-03-01T17:40:00.000-08:00

Donald Trump, Bill Gates, Richard Branson...Alex Cornford?

I am a failed internet nerd. My profession was previously selling online advertising and now I sell online technology. I am a recent convert, but I love the internet and not just for the freely available 'adult jazz'.

Previously if you were an aspiring musician, writer, film maker or indeed adult entertainer you needed approval from corporate bigwigs or a stint on Big Brother before getting the opportunity to have your work distributed to the masses. Now Google, Myspace and You Tube are giving everyone a chance to have their voice heard or their genitalia seen by millions of people.

Youporn.com is now the most viewed website in the world. The concept is simple, users upload films of either their favourite pornographoire, or a home made film of them and the missus reinstating their maritals. What an age we live in, what a time to be alive.

Deemed too fat, short, hairy or ugly to cut the pornographic mustard by a man in a suit? What does he know, upload your film and let the world be the judge. If people like it they are able to express their approval through 5 star rating systems, or even send it to all their online buddies (probably best not to send it to their work email).

These rating systems and viral marketing are giving the little guy a chance. If he/she can come up with something that captures the worlds imagination then recognition, celebrity or financial wealth can be achieved.

Lily Allen and the Arctic Monkeys are great examples of musicians that received huge notoriety through Myspace and who hasn't laughed at the fat lad giving a whole hearted attempt at being a Star Wars Jedi on Youtube? ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPPj6viIBmU0)

This fat lad is now a celebrity and as you read this is probably snorting coke off a supermodel's implants.

I am an idiot, but amazingly a friend of mine who now works for a publishing house in Dubai forwarded my blog to her manager and my post on Facebook has actually been printed in a magazine. I'm a million miles away from fame, celebrity and fortune and I am still having to date girls with real breasts, but having always wanted to be a writer in some description, it is amazing to have anyone express an interest in reading 'my work'.

The internet also allows anyone with a good idea, or a real understanding of how the internet works to make a lot of money. Because of my line of work I get to meet a lot of these very clever, very rich people and because I'm a fool I try to copy them to further my own financial gain.

One way that a lot of people make money is to do what is called domain parking. Basically this is where you buy popular website names that a lot of people will just naturally type into their browser. For example, someone will buy loans.co.uk and then stick a load of adverts for companies providing loans on the site and then when someone goes to the site and clicks on one of the adverts they will get paid some money. As long as you buy website names that a lot of people type, then you will make a lot of money. This is the part that I am getting wrong.

I have over 40 websites which last month generated a whacking great one a half euros in revenue. This was actually a very strong month for me. I have spent about £150 buying these sites and stand to make about £5 come the end of the first financial year. You do not need to be an accountant to deduct that this is not a money making business.

Why no one visits clownhire.co.uk or bingolessons.co.uk is beyond me, but what is even more concerning is a recent invoice that was sent. As I am currently renting accommodation I still list my mothers address down for bank statements and other billed activities. Not allowing myself to become disheartened that not one person had visited recyclebottles.co.uk I continued to expand my portfolio with the shrewd purchase of shavedpussys.co.uk. Incorrectly spelt but surely porno fiends have poor grammar, this is at least my middle class stereotypical thinking.

Unfortunately I had recently lost my debit card on a night time excursion and had been issued a new card with a different card number. As I had neglected to update my bank details when purchasing the site name, the payment bounced and subsequently an invoice was raised and sent to the address listed.

My mother is not a nosy woman, but clearly seeing that I had bent sent a bill she felt that it was her duty to open said bill and inform her little boy of the potential predicament he was in. So open it she does to read that 'unfortunately there had been a problem with my purchase of shavedpussys.co.uk'. My poor mother then had to call me to relay this information to me.

God knows what she thought, most probably that she had given birth to some sort of porn baron. This was a very awkward phone call for both of us and we both tried to dance around the subject, sticking to the financial aspects as much as possible.

I have had this site now for several months, only two people have visited it and neither of them clicked on any of the adverts. Dam the grammatical skills of the porn community. I wonder if Bill Gates ever had these problems when starting up?

It's been a while

2007-12-23T01:57:00.000-08:00

Thank you. Friends, family, randoms off the street, despite the fact that the blog hasn't been updated for several months now, i'm still getting about two people visit it every day. Where as these figures won't really worry Bill Gates, they are more than sufficient to massage my fragile ego.

Apologies for the delay and rest assured there is plenty for us to catch up on...

She Winked at me!

2007-08-25T14:12:00.000-07:00

So how did you two meet?

Technology is making it easier and easier to meet people, helping to bridge the burgeoning gap created by societies rapidly diminishing social skills.

It's all about supply and demand, identify a problem and come up with a solution, if it works you will make a lot of money, it really is that simple.

Problem: When out socialising with companions, I spot a pretty lady. I want to approach her and express my feelings but I lack the confidence to do so.

Solution: Alcohol

Problem: I meet a pretty lady in a night club establishment, we share conversation and a kiss and kindly she gives me her number. I wish to pursue the matter the following day, but in the cold light of sobriety concerns set in that perhaps she won't feel the same way and a phone call will only end in awkward rejection. What I want is a way to find out how she feels, without leaving myself so exposed.

Solution: Text Messages

But still it's not enough is it. Alcohol can give you unfounded confidence and text messages can distance you from the pain of potential rejection, but still you wish, you hope for an easier way to make that initial approach and cushion the emotional body blow of unrequited affection.

Solution: Online dating

Having previously viewed people that 'resort' to the Internet to find companionship as sad bastards, I finally realised that I am indeed a sad bastard and instantaneously logged in. I have not looked back.

Firstly I can confirm that a lot of what you have heard is true, most of the people on these sites are wack jobs. There are a lot of very young single mothers...a lot. Most of the messages come from women living hundreds of miles away wanting to chat and then you get people like 'randyrose' messaging you.

Aged 57 she lives 86 miles away in Leicestershire, is retired and enjoys sunbathing topless, a nice bathroom and hot young guys with a nice bottom.

Needless to say I have yet to correspond with 'randyrose', or indeed a number of other ladies who have messaged me on the site, some of which became quite hostile because of this.

If your a girl on one of these sites, it's much, much worse. An attractive lady will easily get 40 messages a day, many of which, and I'm being completely honest here, contain proposals of marriage.

If your a guy, this is actually a good thing as although a girl will get 40 messages a day, very few will be from someone in their desired age range and proximity and I guess most importantly from someone that seems normal.

This can make you quite a desirable commodity in the online world, but be careful as everything is not always as it seems...

The Perils of Online Dating

2007-07-15T07:42:00.000-07:00

Sorry I don't do oral on a first date...

In the interests of Science, I thought that I may get some blog worthy material out of trialling a bit of the old online dating malarkey. I mean what have I got to lose, best case scenario I get a date with a lovely young lady, worse case scenario I get an amusing anecdote.

So where to start? As this was my first foray into the wonderful world of online dating, I erred on the side of financial caution and chose a site called Gumtree.com where it is completely free to upload your profile.

For those of you unfamiliar with Gumtree, is was initially set up to provide Antipodeans with free information on rooms to let in London. It soon became hugely popular and extended it's services into other areas such as jobs, stuff for sale and dating.

It really is the cowards dating dream. It costs nothing, you don't have to use your own name, they can hide your e-mail address and most importantly you don't have to go through the probable rejection of approaching a female and getting turned down.

So I uploaded a profile, just giving the basic details such as age, occupation, interests, as well as a bit about the sort of girl I was looking for i.e. preferably still breathing, with a general level of symmetry in bodily features. There was no photo of me attached, as explained I am a coward.

So that was it, very simple, just took a couple of minutes and then it was time to play the waiting game. I had uploaded this in the morning and checked my e-mail box later than day, there were no new mail. So I checked Gumtree, sure enough my profile was up on the site, but such is the popularity I had been pushed down to page five and was now underneath the listings of hundreds of other online predators.

So I refreshed my profile to put me back in the first position. My lack of a social life that weekend was going to give me a real positional edge over these other losers. While they squander their day socialising and living their life, I could refresh like crazy.

And it worked, kind of, as this morning upon opening my inbox there was a fresh e-mail awaiting my perusal. I have literally (bar the name) copied and pasted this below, I promise it is genuine:

HI mate

1stly I hope you wont be offended by this email.I am a 27yo, fit bi lad looking to give bj to str8 guys. I am str8 looking and have a hot mouth and can suck till completion. Just sit back and need not do anything in return.

Genuine offer and if u havent had a guy suck u before , its very horny! Try it guys give better bj than gals! I am in NW central London.Hope to hear from u.

Matt

I mean look at the misuse of grammar, completely unacceptable. In addition to this, he seems to have skimmed over the fact that I was looking for a female, still beggars can't be choosers...no apologies 'Matt' but you are not quite what I am looking for and both our quests for online love/bj's must go on.

Next stop, online dating via a Social Network, ladies of Facebook prepare yourself...

Ignorance is Bliss

2007-07-15T05:03:00.000-07:00

Out of Sight Out of Mind...Until you View the Photos on Facebook.

One Friday night a couple of weekends ago, I was enjoying myself at a friends wedding, merrily working my way through the £1,000 tab that had been put behind the bar, when I received a text from my housemate.

It read, 'where are you, we're having a massive house party?'. My housemate was on a night out with his mates and in addition his brother was staying with us, as he and a load of his friends were in England as part of a round the world trip, the capacity for carnage was rife.

I was momentarily disappointed that two fine social events had collided in my normally sparse calendar, but didn't give it too much thought as I was having a splendid time at the wedding.

Having stayed overnight in a hotel, I returned to my house mid afternoon on the Saturday. The house seemed to be in fine fettle and certainly there was no evidence of the anticipated carnage. All the attendees had already left and my housemates were pretty cagey when I asked how the night was.

The only feedback I got was, 'it was all right, just had a few beers'. I put this lack of enthusiasm down to them being hung over and being pretty jaded myself from my own festivities I didn't spend too much time pursuing my line of questioning.

A few days later, surfing through the pages of the social network site Facebook, I came across these photos on my housemates brother's profile page:

So...a load of men came round my house and for some reason walked around my living room topless.

So many questions, so scared of the answers...in the end I decided it was best to just live in blissful ignorance. Permanently terrified, blissful ignorance.

I have 164 friends...

2007-06-30T07:47:00.000-07:00

Keep your friends close and your enemies on 'Limited Profile'.

Yes I am of course referring to the Social Network 'phenomenon' that is Facebook. For me it started off innocently enough, my friend posted a load of photos on the site of a recent group holiday to Krakow. I wanted to see them and get a copy so I signed up and sure enough it was an excellent way for him to distribute these photos easily to the 11 people that had been on the holiday.

Impressed by the ease of use, other friends soon signed up and we all became 'friends' within the Facebook community. I then noticed someone at work using Facebook and thought it would be just super if they became a 'friend' too. Then I got to thinking, gee I wonder who else I know is using the site?

I have had quite a nomadic life, I was born in Kuwait, lived the first three years in Canterbury, then bar a brief spell in Kensington during the Gulf War, lived Bahrain until the age of 15. On returning to England I located to Surrey, went to University in Nottingham and now live in London. In addition to this I have worked for three companies, all with hundreds of employees.

Not surprisingly I have met and lost contact with a huge number of friends, colleagues and class mates. So I typed in the name of my best friend aged 10 and sure enough he was on the site, so I sent a friend request and we became friends. I looked at the friends he had and there was more people I used to know, so I sent them friend requests too. I soon became addicted and searched for as many names from my past that my memory could remember and sent friend requests to them all. As it stands I have 164 friends...what a load of bollocks.

I hate myself and I am sure I am not alone. Have you found yourself asking someone 'how many friends they have' and then smiled smugly when the total is less than yours? Have you had your ego dented when they reveal they have more friends than you?

Because that is what it all boils down to, ego. What started out as a simple desire to view some holiday photos, has manifested into a quest for cyber social domination and we haven't even begun to mention the stalking!

Yes you start off searching for your current friends and a couple of people who's number you have lost, but how long was it before you typed in the name of an ex girlfriend? Ah there she is, the bitch, looking real smug in her photo. Lets look at a few more of her photos, great she got fat I win, or no she finally shifted those last few pounds God I wish I was still with her. Wait a minute who is this guy she's with in all these photos?

Quickly check the relationship status, she's in a relationship with Steve. God he's a handsome man, like something out of Greek mythology, the bastard. Still what do I care, I'm with someone now and I'm happy...sort of.

Because it does make you think, doesn't it and worse of all it gives you to opportunity to reaffirm those fears. There's a few instances when, praise the lord, she's now a minger and it looks like the relationship ending was the best thing that could have happened to you. But the instances when she looks radiant and stunning and oh so happy with her current squeeze, stir the seeds of jealously inside you and make you think what if?

Still it's may not be that bad, she only looks that good because she has had one of those 'artistic' photos taken. Who are these cretins that get the professional photo's taken for their profile? What are they trying to achieve, yeah the photo may get you a date, but the guys still going to run for the hills when he sees you in the flesh. Maybe they think that once they get the chance to know them looks won't matter, after all personality is what really counts. Idiots.

Because of course you can use the site to get a date if you want. You can do an advanced search for single girls in your area to match whatever criteria you feel is important. You can search for 17 year old girls in London who' favourite film is 'Titanic' if that's what floats your boat (pun intended). 'Looking for' is one of my favourite settings, with 'Friendship' an option commonly chosen. I know your looking for friendship love, you have 325 friends!

And on that note, who amongst us can honestly say they haven't accepted a stranger or possibly worse someone who has actually wronged you at some stage as a friend, just to bump up the numbers. Are you someone that searches for people with the same name as you and invite them to be a friend, wow your crazy kooky, on the one hand I detest you but at the same time I can confirm that there is currently no one else on the site called Alex Cornford. I know because I have checked.

I remember when I first got a mobile phone, I would check the bugger every two minutes to see if someone had texted. If it had been days since the last text, I would actually be depressed. I eventually grew out of this phase, that was until Facebook came along. Now I have to log on whenever possible to see if I have any messages, or more importantly Friend Requests. Oh the dizzy excitement of a friend request, the momentary anticipation of who it may be from. Is it a former girlfriend, maybe a mysterious and gorgeous stranger, nope neither it's Bill from the finance department we spoke once when I needed sign off on a form, still I will accept him none the less, now there's 165 'friends'.

And that's another worrying thing, it's not just your mates that are using the site, everyone is. Your potential employers are using it, just imagine you have sailed through the first two interviews just to have it all scuppered by your boss to be perusing your profile and taking offence to a photo of you with your arse out. As for your current employers, if they are looking at your profile it alerts them if your online, so be careful between 9-5 you workshy bastard.

I guess that's what the privacy settings are for. I have got the proverbial Fort Knox settings for my profile after one particular friend request came through. I work in the online industry and deal with hundreds of people, helping them with their requests. A number of them have gone to the length to look up my name on the site and sent off a request to be my friend, literally after exchanging one business related e-mail dialogue. This scared the hell out of me, I didn't want every weirdo out there having full access to my personal information and most importantly current address. It was at this point I realised just how many people are viewing all my details and potentially how damaging the photos of me having vomited on my jeans could be.

So where do we go from here. No doubt I will continue to use Facebook and continue to check my updates page periodically at morning, noon and night. Hopefully I and the rest of society will soon get bored, I am already hacked off with all the 'fun' new updates such as the 'moods' monitor which very usefully relays details on how your mood has changed over time. If I used the dam thing, it would show that I got pretty pissed off just about the time that they released all this crap. Maybe then I can concentrate more on physical communication with the people who are actually in my life, rather than sending desperate pleas for a signal of acceptance to some bloke I knocked about with at the age of 10 who now lives in Kuala Lumpa.

Fisticuffs, Shaving Foam, Soiled Sheets and a Parrot

2007-06-16T08:34:00.000-07:00

Rome wasn't built in a day, but Croydon on the other hand...

It was a Friday and I had taken the day off work as I was heading down to Brighton to attend my good friend Russel's stag do. We had all paid 220 pounds up front for a 'crazy' weekend package that guaranteed fun, fun, fun.

Money was a bit tight, but luckily my chum Simon was driving down and offered to give me a lift, all I had to do was meet him at Croydon. For those of you that have never been to Croydon, I can confirm that it is the armpit of London. Advertised on the 'Croydon' name boards at the station, is that Croydon is the home of the Nestle factory.

That's their claim to fame, the highlight, that the city boasts a factory. How many Japanese tourists do you think they have stolen from Buckingham palace with that pitch? Still the lift was going to save me about 20 pounds sterling, so I couldn't complain.

I left my house at 14:00 and arrived at Croydon at 15:00. I had been instructed by Simon to meet him at the Blockbusters, which he reliably informed me, was a couple of minutes walk from the station.

15 minutes later I was in the heart of the Croydon beast, with no Blockbusters to be seen.

On the Seventh day God rested, talk about early retirement the lazy bastard, get your arse back in the office on Monday and sort Croydon out. It transpired that I had passed the meeting place 10 minutes ago, the reason for this being that Blockbusters had now closed, no doubt making way for a trendy Yate's wine bar.

Any way I finally found Simon and we set off on our way to Brighton...well for five minutes anyway. As we head down a motorway steam starts to emit from Simon's car.

Simon turns to me, 'that doesn't look good', I agree with him. The hazard lights get switched on and we pull over to the side of the motorway, the lack of a hard shoulder makes this somewhat precarious.

We both stand in front of the bonnet, there is a hell of a lot of smoke coming out of it and privately, as I suggest to Simon that he flicks open the bonnet, I worry that the car is on fire.

As I bravely stand well back, Simon pulls the catch and opens the bonnet. Relief, there is no sign of fire but the smoke is undoubtedly a cause for concern. Neither of us know a thing about cars, but we stare intently trying to ascertain exactly what has gone wrong. Luckily even an automotively challenged individual such as myself could diagnose that the water tank being completely empty may be a contributing factor to our dilemma.

I ask Simon when he last put any water in, 'I don't know' was his reply. Are you a member of the AA or RAC was my next question, 'No' was the answer...bollocks. We were in the middle of nowhere , it was 15:30 in the day and we had broken down on the motorway. Friday rush hour was closing in, but luckily I need not worry as my comrade leapt into action declaring that he would go and fetch us the water the car so desperately needed.

So I sat on the grass verge, confident that with automotive liquid replenishment we would soon be on our way. 45 minutes later Simon returns, a large plastic McDonald's cup in each hand.

'What's that, couldn't you get a bottle of water?'
'It was all they had, dam the government pressure stopping them serving the supersize portions'

So he pours both cups into the tank, the water level is still well below the 'minimum' line. We get back in the car, Simon turns the ignition and now the car won't even start.

It's now about 16:30 and the road is getting pretty busy, it's wide enough for two cars but is still pretty dangerous. Simon doesn't want to call his dad, because he will get told off for automotive neglect. Instead he frantically calls round his friends to see if any of them can give us a tow. Eventually he gets through to one, but he is at work so won't be able to get there until 17:15 at the earliest.

17:45 - several near collisions and a hundred dirty looks from fellow drivers later, our saviour arrives. Despite not thinking to put water in his car, ever, Simon did take the precautionary measure of keeping a tow rope in his boot. Unfortunately it was more of a tow string and it soon became apparent that someone was in danger of losing a bumper. Subsequently we ditched the car in the nearest residential area and ran. Simon's friend kindly gave us a lift and three hours later I was back at Croydon station.

Having purchased the 20 pound ticket, we were on our way. We got to Brighton at about 19:00 and instructed a taxi driver to take us to the Blue Lagoon B&B. He had no idea where it was, this was not a good sign.

The Blue Lagoon was situated on the outskirts of Brighton, no different really to any local dive, except they had a parrot in the corner. I believe the rooms were modelled on a leading Korean sweatshop, with seven of us in each. It was the first time I had slept on a bunk bed since the age of 12.

Still I was just happy to finally be there and quickly unpacked my stuff and shot down to their pub for a pint. Soon after the taxi's arrived to take us into town. Two of Russel's fiances Stevenage born and bred uncles had come down for the weekend and I was to have my first conversation with one of them in the taxi.

The majority of us knew each other from working in sales for a publishing house and as we regaled on the good old times, Uncle Steve chimes in with,

'I work in sales selling time shares. I'm the best salesman in the world, I've never met anyone that is as good as me.'

There was a brief silence, there was no humour in his voice, he clearly thought this. We ignored him and continued to chat amongst ourselves.

'I'm brilliant at sales...'
I couldn't take it any more and retorted with, 'Listen mate, you bored us the first time with that.'

He didn't like that, but at least it shut him up. Uncle knob heads introductory opening aside, the rest of the night went swimmingly with a good time being had by all. We all returned to the Blue Lagoon in small hours, intoxicated to the level one would expect for a stag do. But the fun was not to stop there.

My good friend Ollie thought he would play a humorous jape on Simon and crept into his room in the dark of night. Having rummaged through a bag, he located some shaving foam and proceeded to coat the facial regions of his target.

All of a sudden Simon walks into the room. Ollie does a double take, if Simon was there then who was he spraying with shaving foam? It was Russel's other Uncle 'dangerous' Dave, who he had only met 4 hours ago. Simon, with full knowledge that it was Dave still thought that Ollie was onto a winner and grasped the shaving foam from his hand and went about finishing the job.

Dave's eyes open, he sees Simon standing over him and with both hands goes for his jugular. Everything kicks off and somehow it all bundles out into the corridor. Everyone is trying to calm the Uncles down and explain the 'innocent' mistake that has occurred. Intoxication levels don't help and when Uncle Steve thinks that Russel is siding with his friends over his soon to be extended family, he loses it and swings for Russel. A couple of us pull the Uncle back and he falls to the floor and is swiftly booted to the head by Russel's protective younger brother.

Eventually and amazingly it all calms down and everyone returns to bed, myself and Simon areluckily sharing the same room as the Uncles, thank god I was drunk.

We arise the next morning about 9:00, the same time that uncle Dave in his infinite wisdom had booked the paint balling for. Tensions were still high, Ollie decided that the rest of the weekend would go a lot smoother if he was to leave and jumped on an early train home.

Russel insisted on the Uncle's additionally making an early departure and although they proclaim that there was still unfinished business, they agreed to do so. I was in the room as Uncle Steve was packing his bags. Still incensed that he had been kicked in the head, he explained that he had been bullied until the age of 14. It was then that he decided to take Karate lessons and much like sales, this was an area in which he excelled. This noble vigilante then hunted down anyone that had wronged him and proceeded to gain retribution. He had swore to himself that no one would ever get the better of him ever again, which is why he could not simply forgive Russel's brother.

I was then to learn just how 'dangerous' Uncle Dave was and how close Ollie was to losing his life. Apparently Dave usually sleeps with a knife, well in fact both Uncle's do, dating back to their camping days. Also Dave has a mild sleep walking problem and can sometimes become quite disorientated, something I would imagine can be quite precarious when one sleeps with a blade.

Steve said his goodbyes, the silver lining being that we would now have more time to close a few of his big timeshare deals. I relayed this new information to Russel, both Simon and I thanked him rooming us with the Chuckle Brothers.

He claimed that he had no idea they were like that, something we may have believed if he hadn't been with his wife to be for 7 years. Still the remainder of weekend went off without a hitch, that was until Sunday morning.

Simon, clearly learning from past experiences had rubbed a mars bar into my hair while I was sleeping. It looked like I had soiled my sheets and we were due to check out there and then, this could scupper my chances with the barmaid downstairs. A taxi was booked promptly and we managed to escape with deposit in tact.

The wedding is in two weeks, in Stevenage, should be interesting.

And They Say Chat Up Lines Don't Work...

2007-06-16T07:56:00.000-07:00

Where did I put my medication?

I was out drinking in Ealing one Friday after work with a mate of mine when he explained that his girlfriend was heading down to see him.

I was having a good time and wasn't too happy about being given the choice of either being the third wheel or heading off home early. However, my concerns were premature as this fine fellow had asked his lady to bring along a friend, huzzah!

Cometh the ladies, cometh the conversational opener. My mates girlfriend made an immediate b line for him, leaving her friend and I to make our own introductions.

I was being set up with an attractive young Asian girl and having been isolated from the group the pressure was on to deliver.

Opening dialogue unfolded as follows:

'Hi I'm Alex'
'Hi I'm Farrah'
'Hey Farrah, how's your Sister Nearer?'

Despite being early in the night I was never to recover from this Dating haymaker to her sensitivities and it was to be a very long night.

Remember the Customer is ALWAYS right...

2007-06-10T09:47:00.000-07:00

What would happen if Cornford could 'date' a job?

By now you may have ascertained that in the field of romance I have yet to enjoy great success, but surely the same cannot be true for the other areas of my life?

I will let you form your own opinion, let's start with my current employment situation. The company I work for operate globally, win a number of major deals and are publicly listed on NASDAQ.

All sounds good, but what exactly is my role at this company? In short we provide a service which allows anyone with a website to earn money from displaying our advertisers on their site.

It is designed to be completely automated and can therefore all be done online, but because customer service is paramount we do offer support and this all goes through me.

The online world is a unique place, but it does attract a lot of weirdos and these are the very people that I have to deal with on a daily basis. Here are my three favourite e-mail dialogues to date:

1. Customer -

How can I take advantage of your offer? I dont have a product nor do I have a web site!
regrds

How do you reply to something like this, I know how I would have liked to reply:

Dear Sir,

To summise, you have nothing to offer and nowhere to offer it from. What are you expecting me to do, magic you up a site? Why stop there, what else can I do for you? What about a loan? Maybe a kidney?

You are so far beyond help, but I will however offer the following advice -

1. There is an 'a' in Regards.
2. Do not bother applying for the next series of the Apprentice.
3. Velcro shoes are easier to operate than those tricky laced ones.

With contempt,

Alex

2. Customer -

Hello,

I am very excited about your services. The website is excellent.

I would like to sign up as a customer.

Could I set up a phone call with the appropriate person who could go over everything with me.

When is a good time to call?

Whom should I contact about becoming a customer?

Thank you!

My Reply -

Hi,

Thank you for your e-mail and interest. I work in the Business Development team and would be more than happy to discuss the advertising options that we provide. I am in the office for the majority of the day, so please feel free to call at any time.

If it is more convenient for me to call you, then please let me know what number is best to reach you on.

Many thanks,

Alex

To which he replied -

No one got back to me? What happened? WHen can we talk?

This guy actually returned my e-mail asking why noone had been in touch, god help me.

3. Customer -

hi.

Cloud you please check at my account?I havn't recived the payment of the march.

Me -

Dear Sir,

Some time ago I sent you an e-mail explaining that the traffic detected from your registered site http://www.siteaddress.com/ was almost entirely foreign (non UK/US) and in addition to this automated. Subsequently we cut your advertising feed and explained that because the traffic was invalid for our advertisers we would not be paying you the revenue generated.

In addition to this when you sent the last e-mail requesting payment I called the number you supplied and the colleague I spoke to at the company explained that he did not recognize your name and that he had no knowledge of them trialing our advertising.

In addition to this I checked http://www.siteaddress.com/ due to the high earnings in the limited amount of time and could not find any adverts on the site which was also a cause for concern.

If you can please call or e-mail me further information that may explain why this is I would appreciate it, but regardless because of the nature of the clicks on your site we will not be processing payment.

Kind regards,

Alex

Customer -

FUCK. you.

Beat that for job satisfaction...

Will This Compromise my Place in Heaven?

2007-05-07T04:53:00.000-07:00

Apparently 1 in 10 men have paid for sex, I know I have...

Before you call the the police, or even worse my mother allow me to clarify. We were in Prague for a long weekend and on the Sunday had arranged to play Pub Golf - hence the ridiculous garments.

For those of you unfamiliar with the game taken from the rules of Golf, each drink has a par which you must try to keep under. So for examples a pint of beer is a par 3 and an alcopop is a par 2. The name of the game is to down each drink in as few attempts as possible, with the winner the individual that consumes their sum beverages in the lowest number of swigs.

As you may know the British do not have a great reputation abroad. In days of empire we simply tried to seize foreign land and possessions for our own. Now days we are graceful enough to let them keep their country as long as we can urinate and vomit all over it when we visit.

In light of this it is understandable that the Pragayan locals had some preconceptions when 10 British Gentleman dressed like bastards entered their bar. There is no doubt that my friends and I are idiots, but battling against the stereotype we are actually all pretty decent people. As soon as the locals realised that we had no desire to rape and pillage, them warmed to us, slightly.
A good time was being had by all, aided by the vast alcohol intake demanded by the game. However, as it was a Sunday the bars were to close early. The majority of my friends called it a night, but four of us vowed to persevere and jumped into a taxi in search of pastures new.

The taxi driver didn't speak English and at this point in the night neither did we so communication was a problem. Our attempt to explain that we were in pursuit of an open public house was further impeded my one of my friends who when drunk appears to suffer from some form of tourettes and was shouting out profanities.

Against the odds our heroic driver had seemed to come up trumps as he dropped us off at a bar which still had its light on. We approached the bouncer at the door and informed him of our desire to enter. He ushered us to a colleague issuing tickets who in broken English said, 'Beer & Sex' 50 Krona's'. I thanked him for his kind offer, but explained that we were only interested in the beer. He repeated 'Beer and Sex 50 Krona's'.

Very well I thought, I will just pay the good fellow 50 Krona's for each of us and simply not partake in any of the 'sex' that was inclusive in the package. As chief negotiator my friends behind me were oblivious to what was going on as we walked into the adjoining room.

The room was circular in shape, but was more notable for the many prostitutes that lined it's circumference. All sitting on bar stools there must have been about 15 ladies, all differing in body size and race to cater to the sexual desires of a variety of clientele.

Apart for the barman we were the only other people in there and we were feeling very awkward. We were becoming increasingly aware of how ridiculous we looked and none of us wanted to engage in intercourse with these ladies.

We huddled closely for strength in numbers. 'What do we do' I asked, to which one of my friends replied 'Act natural'. Act natural, we were in a whore house, dressed in 'hilarious' golf gear and this idiot wanted us to act natural.

Still it was the best idea we had, so trying to look cool casual we strolled over to the bar and ordered four beers. We chatted amongst us, football, cars, boobs you know the usual stuff, while the prostitutes looked on in utter bemusement.

They whispered to each other and you could tell they were thinking, who are these morons and why have they just paid their equivalent of a months wages NOT to have sex with us?

The executive decision was to order one more round of beer, as to leave after just one would portray the perception that we were uncomfortable. We drank that, quickly, dothed our caps to the ladies and thanked the barman for his service.

So to surmise, I have never slept with a prostitute, but technically I have paid for sex and should a future wife make me take the Trisha lie detector test I would fail.

Recent Moments of Idiocy

2007-05-05T10:25:00.000-07:00

Some short Snippets for those worried that I might actually have grown up and matured...

Do you believe in Dejavu?

A recent Thursday a workmate and I decided that it was a lovely sunny day and that a quick pint after work would allow us to capitalise on these fine conditions.

Seven hours later I was to end up in the basement of some bar. Memories are vague but I had met a young lady and knowing that time was getting on I asked for her number so that we could meet again. She promptly explained that she had given me her number 5 minutes ago and proceeded to go through my phone book to point this out to me. She was not impressed and based on this reaction I felt that perhaps it was best that I did not get in touch after all.

London Can be Expensive

It was Friday night but I had planned to head straight to my parents home for the weekend after work. A colleague suggested we just head out for a quick pint, a few other people were going and a quick drink couldn't hurt.

So I grabbed my stuff and headed along. After getting drawn into a complicated round system I had drunk more than was on the original agenda and was up for a proper night out. Luckily so were my colleagues. I had no idea that we would still be out at 9:00 am the following morning.

It was inevitable on this horrendous impromptu binge that I would at some point lose my bag and sure enough the following morning/afternoon when I woke it was nowhere to be seen. I turned detective and checked my trouser pockets for where we had gone. My hand was stamped with the letters 'P.T.T.N' the same letters were to be found on a flyer in my pocket. Worse was to follow, having read the flyer properly it transpired that 'P.T.T.N' stood for Penetration, a bar in Farringdon that is only open from 5:00 am to 11:00 am.

My desire to retrieve my property somewhat diminished on this revelation. So on top of the £200 night I had funded with my credit card I had also lost approximately £150 in personal possessions.

I wouldn't have minded so much but I had only lost my last gym bag the other month.

A Warm Round of Applause

Early Monday morning at work a few female colleagues were berating me for shaving my head, saying that I looked much better sporting a slightly longer fuzzy look. In a guarded defence I stated that it was good enough for a young lady to want to take me back to her place that weekend.

Background: It was general knowledge that I had previously gone through a six month 'drought' and on hearing this news the colleagues in my team broke into rapturous applause. The applause was infectious and within seconds all 80 members of staff in the open plan office were clapping like crazy, oblivious to the reason for doing so.

At the very same second my manager comes walking into the office and as I work in sales naturally assumes that I had just closed a major deal. His face filled with excitement as he asked what all the commotion was about. I was too red and embarrassed to answer, but luckily the colleague sat next to me quickly chimed in with, 'Cornford got laid this weekend'. 'Oh', said my manager, 'oh'...

Time and Some Fine Work by Trained Medical Staff Heals All Wounds

2007-05-05T02:29:00.000-07:00

I am 24 and bald. Well technically just balding, but it is only a matter of time. Whilst the fringe folicals at the front line remain strong, the same cannot be said for the top centre of my increasingly exposed cranium. Think Zinidine Zidane, but without the football skills, money, model wife, well the list goes on.

So what can you do, I either attempt a Bobby Charlton style comb over, with the unique twist being that rather than sweeping the hair from left to right, I would instead be attempting some kind of mafia like front to back coverage, or shave it all off and try and make it look like it was my decision.

I chose the latter of these options.

Now there are two problems with having a shaved head. Firstly the facial features become horribly exposed, with any 'irregularities' becoming far more prominent and secondly you have to walk around permanently looking like a Nazi, or indeed one of the BNP's latest candidates.

This second flaw becomes increasingly problematic, as I have two scars on my head further inhancing my thuggish persona.

The first scar was a completely harmless affair and can be put down simply to childhood innocence and naivity, seeing as I was only ten at the time. My associates and I were at the local swimming pool and were all trying to out do each other with 'spectacular' dives and flips into the pool.

One kid did a bomb, another a backflip. Desperate to upstage them all I announced my intentions to pull off a backwards flip bomb. Yes ladies and gentleman, I was going to propel by body backwards whilst at the same time tucking my legs and arms in tightly in the classic 'bomb' stance.

As my friends looked on in anticipation I readied myself and got into position at the edge of the pool. Brimming with confidence I sprang with cat like agility and swiftly proceeded to twat my head on the iron support bar that lined the edge of the pool.

As I floated to the surface of the pool, blood streamed from my head discolouring the water around me. It was at this point that I realised that I had not quite been successful in performing this spectacular feat.

One of my friends who had managed to contain his laughter, swiftly alerted my mother to my mishap and being the good woman that she is we swiftly made our way to the hospital.

I required eight stiches in the back of my head and they did of course have to shave a substantial bald patch around the exposed area. This was not a good look for a 10 year old, it was the early 90's after all, an era where the 'step' and 'undercut' hair styles ruled supreme.

If this wasn't bad enough, to ensure that the wound did not get infected, I had to wear some sort of hair net when out in public for the next two weeks, once again this was not a good look.

Still my mother was very forgiving and although I had been a 'silly boy' for trying to pull off a stunt that I would later find out could only be performed by a trained acrobat, she was just happy that I was safe. The same could not be said for the next time she would have to take me to the hospital...aged 21.

Everyone has their 'thing' when they are drunk. Some start fights, others feel compelled to get completely naked, I for some reason liked to climb infrastucture - and I was good at it too.

Having supped upon a few sherries, I was walking down Guildford high street with two of my companions, I simply notes that I felt that it was within my capabilities to scale the local Argos and strut along the 'cat walkesque' roof. One friend claimed that he thought I could not and therefore insulted my prowess as a climber.

I instantly rose to the challenge and instructed each of them to provide me with a 'leg up', it was about 15 feet high so I knew I would require some assistance - I'm not an idiot.

So with their help I sprung up and desperatedly tried to grip the end of the ledge. Unfortunately some worthless architect has designed it with a rounded edge, making it incredibly difficult to get purchase. Desperately trying to hold on, my efforts were futile and I plummeted to the floor in a heap, much to the amusements of my friends.

My ego (and body) bruised I was not to be defeated and instructed them to assist for a second time, unfortunately with the same tragic outcome. It was not over, one of my friends was short in stature and therefore could not provide me with the required boost to reach my objective, so I cut him from the team flagged down a stranger to be his replacement.

A strapping lad, all six foot of him and with his kind assistance it would surely be third time lucky. So with the boost I scaled and dam was I close, but not close enough.

My third fall was to be the decider. On landing I had cut my right eye brow and almost certainly broken both wrists, so we went to the Kebab House.

Some Chav implored that I 'Mate, listen mate, seriously mate, I'm not joking mate, you need to go to the hospital'. This was probably the only sensible thing this man has ever said, but I was not to listen to him. It was late and I was tired from all the climbing, so instead my friends and I got a taxi home.

Being the good friends that they are they insisted on staying round my place that night in case I was concussed. Being the idiots that they are, they stayed downstairs, so even if I did pass out in my room they would not have known anything about it.

Instead the next morning, with two broken wrists I had to drive them both round to their houses...my car was a manual, this hurt a lot.

Having done this, I then had to explain to my mother why there was a gaping wound above my right eye. She knew I had been out drinking, so I thought it would be best to modify the truth and explained that the injury was a result of trying to leap frog a letter box. I thought this would be slightly less distressing than regailing how I fell trying to climb Argos, three times.

So there we were in A&E again. My mother was not so understanding on this occassion and I felt her embarassment when sitting next to me as I explaining to the nurse how the injuries occurred. Another eight stitches needed above the right eye, a fractured wrist that they put in a cast, but good news the other wrist was only sprained.

So people in the street, when you do see me, there is no need for concern I am simply a balding idiot and the only person who I pose a threat to is myself.

Cornford and 'The Model'

2007-04-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not I was not always this smooth...

Although still a couple of sonnets short of a Romeo, you may be alarmed to know that I have actually got a lot better at meeting girls.

When reading that last sentence please appreciate where the 'pulling' goal posts were first positioned. I was awful...no really awful. Amongst friends it's easy to be outgoing and confident but making that intial approach to that stranger in a bar is a completely different proposition. Praise the lord for alcohol, you probably won't find a passage in the Bible that will help you to do this (too busy banging on about the poor and the needy) but try and praise him regardless.

Alcohol is the all important social lubricant and without it you would not have been born. Take a look at your Dad right now, chances are he's not exactly the Fonze. Can you imagine him confidently swanning up to your mother without 8 pints of special brew bubbling away in his gut? And this was all in the days before Internet Dating and text messaging, so no sodding way is he meeting/talking to your mother without a skinful of Dutch courage.

That's why Jesus turned water into wine, so we could all get laid. And thank God, quite literally in this case, otherwise I would still be reading my 'How the Body Works' educational book (thanks for that Mum, way to parent).

Still Alcohol does have one or two minor, minor flaws. According to top scientists it has been known to affect judgement and decision making. This usually results in one of four scenarios when approaching a mademoiselle:

1. You approach someone way out of your league - she surprisingly says no (may use words other than no, but essentially it will amount to the same thing).

2. You somehow manage to find and approach someone in a lower league (think the Macclesfild Town of lady folk) and she says yes. You try and laugh it off the next day by saying something manly like, 'every dog has her day and it was her turn', but really inside your crying. Also probably wasn't a great idea to swap numbers, you know your going to text her the next time your out.

3. You somehow manage to find and approach someone in a lower league, she says no, you think oh dear, your onlooking friends think oh yes... tomorrow you are going to be their banter bitch.

4. Possibly the worst, your punching just above your weight but hanging in there until the full extent of how much of a drunken twat you really are becomes painfully apparent, she walks/runs/evacuates away out of the building.

Everyone has a few number 4's in their locker, let me tell you about one of mine.

We were in Bar Med in Guildford, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular brand of chain bar, it is a popular hang out for Smirnoff Ice clutching underage drinkers, sporting their latest 'Mad House' purchased Yves Saint Lauren shirt.

My friends and I frequented it regularly.

Several Reefs, Red Squares and the afformentioned Smirnoff ice's later, I was taking one of my every '15 minutes' alcohol induced toilet breaks. However, en route to the powder room I found my path blocked by a beautiful young lady. Having politely asked her if I could get past, it turned out that this block was intentional and she did in fact want to talk to me...oh dear.

My alcohol intake was worrying high in light of the task ahead. The almighty confidence that alcohol had giving me, was unfortunately at the expense of general speach and mobility.

Focus, must focus, these opportunities don't come along too often. We talk, the simple stuff to start off with. I ask her name...three times, in fairness the music was loud but I think she is starting to suspect.

Nevertheless she invites me to sit with her, probably more for my own safety as it probably looked like I was going to collapse. I'm losing the battle, my lack of speach is only inturrupted by mindless drunken jabbering. I just about manage to get a sensible question in by asking her what she did for a living. She replied that she did a bit of modelling work, probably a lie, but who cares I would never find out the truth so as far as I was concerned a model was interested in me.

This only doubled the pressure and in response I started to drink more to give me that 'killer edge', surprisingly this resulted in disaster. The facade was broken and it was clear that I was a drunken idiot. Luckily for all concerned it was the end of the night.

I give her a peck on the cheek and in a moment of unbridled optimism ask for her number. 'Unfortunately' she had only recently purchased the phone and did not know the number off by heart so it was best that she took my number instead.

So I woke up the next day and in the cold light of sobriety realised that I had royally messed it up with a number 4. It's moments like these that you vow to 'never drink again' and instead devote your life to helping people. No way was she going to call.

All of a sudden a text comes through, it was her and she was asking how I was. This is cruch time, in one text I need to rectify all of last night wrongs and prove what a funny, great, good guy I am. This is what I wrote:

'Hey was great to meet you last night, you know I went out with a model once, that was until she fell apart!'

This was not the best text to send.

This was not the text that would encapsulate funny, great and good guy and I realised this very quickly. Amazingly she did not get back to me.

A few days later a whole load of us were going round a friends house, this whole episode was behind me and I was to learn from these mistakes and grow as a human being.

As we all sat round, one of my friends asked if I had heard anything from her. I explained that I had not. He persisted, 'really you havent heard anything, nothing at all?'. I reiterated that I had not and asked why he was being so inquisitive? Surely it was no real surprise that she hadn't been in touch. 'Oh nothing', was the reply and then he beckoned his little sister into the room.

She came in clutching her mobile phone and proceeded to read a text from her phone out loud,

'Hey was great to meet you last night, you know I went out with a model once, that was until she fell apart!'

Yes you've guessed it, the text was never sent by 'the model' but was instead sent by my friends little sister.

So there I was with this 12 year old girl ripping it out of me thrilled that she was part of this wind up. It was bad enough thinking that I had sent the worlds worst text message to some girl I would never see again, let alone effectively sending it my closest friends.

This was to open up a whole new world of piss taking and I was to be reminded of it often...

You Learn, You Grow

2007-04-21T14:53:00.000-07:00

You can look back and laugh, but at the time I was self harming...

It was hot, very hot. I was off to Guildford to meet a girl who I had got talking to at a bar on a previous night out. It's two and a half miles to the nearest station, I couldn't drive as I was going to be drinking, my parents were out and I didn't want to ask a friend as I would have had to explain that I was going on a date.

My friends rip the piss mercilessly out of each other, which is fine I like banter as much as the next guy, but I didn't want to give them any fresh material and as you may have gathered, not all my dates go that well. So I walked the two and a half miles on what was an unusually hot Summers day only to find that the trains were cancelled and a bus replacement service was in place. The Sun came streaming in through the Bus window and without air conditioning it was a pretty horrible journey.

Never mind though, I was on course to Guildford and would soon be drinking tall cocktails with a potential new lady friend.

So we meet and were going dutch on rounds. I offer to buy but she insists on paying her way which is cool - shows she's not after my money, which is good as I don't have any. Conversation is a bit stale, but hey we have only just met and these things can take time. I get the feeling I'm not the bad ass boyfriend she's after but it's too early to be making these kind of judgement calls.

I go to the toilet for a numero uno and on my return find that she is on the phone to her friend. Disaster, one of her best friends is distraught as she has literally 'just split up with her long term boyfriend'. I try to pretend that I care and she hints that in this time of need, she has to be with her friend to provide moral support.

I assume she is lying, but you can't be sure, so what can you do? I either say, 'Liar pants on fire and don't think your getting out of this date so quickly', or say 'of course, I completely understand'. After much soul searching I choose the latter and we part.

I then get the bus replacement service back to the nearest station and start the two and a half mile walk. At this point I make the executive decision to send her a text, something nice and simple that shows what a great guy I am. It read something along the lines of, 'hope your friends ok, sorry we had to cut the date off early and maybe we can meet up again some time'.

Unfortunately I accidentally sent this text to a good friend of mine. He quickly deduces that I had been on a date and that she had made some excuse to effectively run away. Within seconds, he had forwarded this text to all my other friends.

On my long walk home I am kept company from numerous texts from well wishers, such as 'Nice date Cornford!'.

To put this in perspective, accumulative transport time equals approximately three hours, actual duration of date one hour. In case your wondering, I never did hear back from her, maybe the text didn't deliver...

Apparently it is meant to be good luck.

2007-04-21T14:30:00.000-07:00

Don't be yourself, be someone better...

Another tale from the dating archive. At university I met a handsome young lady at a night club establishment and arranged to meet up with her later that week.

We agreed to met at the town square centre by the large monument, a popular meeting place. I wasn't a 100% sure what she looked like having drunk heavily at the aforementioned night club, so I got there nice and early so that she would have to pick me out.

A tip for anyone out there who finds themselves in a similar situation, always get to the meeting place ridiculously early (20 minutes will do, there is no need to camp overnight) and just stare directly at the ground and wait for them to approach you. The temptation will be there to look up,

'Oh is that her', you will think and panic will set in, DON'T LOOK UP!

So I was there early and staring intently at my shoes. For those of you that have read my flip flop related dating post, please note that I was wearing shoes to this date - this is standard practice. It was 7:30, the arranged meeting time, when all of a sudden a pigeon with sniper like accuracy shat furiously, leaving a streaked white terd down my jeans.

Decision Time, do I leave the agreed meeting place at the agreed meeting time to attend to my garment issue and risk antagonising the potential Mrs.Cornford, or do I stick put with shitty jeans.

I decided to attend to the jeans and dived into a near by Wetherspoons. Having doused my jeans in water, I had to perform hand stand acrobatics to waft them under the hand dryer - much to the amusement/bemusement of Wetherspoon patrons.

Luckily, my date arrived late so the original plan was back on. When she did arrive my jeans were sans shit, but they were evidently wet below the groin area. I didn't bring this up, she didn't bring it up and amazingly in this instance there was a second date.

Note to self: Turning up to a date in a suit and flip flops is a bad idea.

2007-04-21T13:49:00.000-07:00

I have been on a lot of first dates, I have been on very few second dates...

Twas a lovely balmy Summers day and my good friends Thomas and Penny kindly opened their house and garden for what was a great social event. Everyone bar myself was drinking socially and responsibly and although I was not a total mess, there is no question that I was heavily intoxicated.

I was staying in my old room at my Mums house and in my drunken stupor trying to put a DVD on in my room I twatted my head on the corner of a shelf. If that wasn't bad enough, in doing this I knocked an old money box off the shelf which then proceeded to land sweetly on my big toe.

This money box is made of what I believe to be led and was full of foreign coins (apologies for my crap childhood hobbies). Weighing a tonne it did a nice job of bludgeoning my toe and left my nail clinging on for dear life.

However being pissed I was impervious to pain, so went to the toilet and promptly went to bed. I woke in the morning to a throbbing pain, finding my mother (a lady in her 50's) down on her hands and knees on the upstairs landing scrubbing my blood out of the beige carpet.

'You're 24' she said, explaining that I was too old for this sort of tomfoolery.

'I'm sorry' was my only reply.

The nail came off completely with little persuasion, leaving my bloodied toe fully exposed. At this point I realised that my foot modelling career was over. In full throttle mothering mode, my mum swiftly produced one of those plastic thumb guards and instructed me that it was paramount that I wore it on my toe to prevent infection. I am old enough to know that Mother does know best, so followed her instructions.

I had to wear flip flops to work with my suit and the first colleague I came across enquired as to why I was wearing a condom on my toe. At this point I realised I needed to get it professionally dressed by someone with medical experience.

My job is predominantly desk based, so in all this scenario would not really have been too bad if it had not been for the fact that at this party it had been brought to my attention that an attractive lady had expressed some interest in me.

Being a real man, I cowardly got a friend to give me her e-mail address so that I could get in touch. How did people get laid before text and e-mail, can you even imagine going back to having to call a girl to set up the first date? God bless technology.

Anyway back to the matter in hand, we arranged to meet up near where she lived which is some way from London so I had to head there straight from work...in my suit and flip flops.

Looking like a Miami Vice reject, I made the decision to nip the situation in the bud and I explained my attire straight away which unfortunately meant going through the whole episode.

Already I could tell she was thinking, I'm on a date with a guy in flip flops and a suit and clearly he has the maturity of a six year old to have gotten into this situation in the first place. Being on the dating back foot it was paramount that I put in a Man of the Match performance.

Unfortunately having eaten the meal, which was very nice, the only options available was local pubs all of which are pretty horrible. I chose the best of a worse bunch, but it transpired that Liverpool were playing in Europe that day and the pub was screening the game. My desperate attempts to exude charm and wit, fell on a audible background of Chav football observations,

'That was never a foul you c*nt' and so on.

We parted with a kiss on the cheek and I have not heard from her since. I do however hear that she is dating a young gentleman with excellent taste in footwear.

And on the Seventh day God ripped the piss out of Cornford...

2007-04-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

My name is Alex Cornford, I'm a 24 year old guy living in rented accommodation in London and working in online advertising sales. I'm about 6 foot tall caucasian, with short (balding/greying) brown hair.

If your still reading this it is unlikely that the previous paragraph has 'wowed' you. All sounds pretty normal, why has this boring bastard set up a blog and more to the point why the hell should I continue to waste my time reading it?

Do you know how in every friendship group there is always the guy/girl who is the but of most, if not all of the jokes, even when they are in the room. Well, that is pretty much me. I am lucky to have a number of different social groups and consistently I seem to fill this role. Do I mind? Not really, and I guess I even play up to it to an extent. Part of it is my own dam fault (there is no doubt that I am an idiot), but mostly the majority of my misfortune and downfalls is down to God/Buddha/the universe/kabbalah whatever the hell your into (apologies for the contravening blasphemy in the previous sentence).

I have received a number of requests (2) to actually document the many trials and tribulations of my life. For those of you that know me I am sure that the 'hilarity factor' of the following posts will be significantly enhanced, for any unlucky random who has stumbled upon this site please read, learn and grow. Think of it as a Saved by the Bell style experience. Do as I don't and you can't go far wrong...

Dating Do's and Dont's

2007-04-21T11:34:00.000-07:00

Why do your friends call you 'Prawnford'?

I am not the world's best dater, this will become painfully apparent over the following paragraphs and posts. Let's take the last example, I will leave out the real names of the poor, poor ladies who were involved in these social atrocities to protect the innocent.

It had been a while since my last attempt at 'courting', so I really wanted to make a good impression on what was to be the first date with this girl. I consulted with my good friend and resident Lothario Mr.X (apologies for the lack of legitimate names, but please appreciate that to name the Lothario would potentially damage future Lothario-ing possibly to libel extents) and explained my predicament/opportunity with this live, breathing girl.

He informed me of a lovely destination in London Bridge called Vinnopolis where I could take my lady friend on a wine tasting evening. Brilliant, I could get her pissed under the guise of culture, which ultimately will make me seem much more brilliant than I actually am.

So the date was set, I turned up in my work suit , looking sharp but not in a try hard way as this was the appropriate garments for my current employment function. I purchased two tickets for the middle option offering, not the lowest cost option so I didn't look like a cheap scape and not the most alcohol laden option so it didn't look like I was trying to date rape her the old fashioned way.

I wasn't sure what to make of it at first when 'Bubbles' our tour guide gave us a crash course on wine tasting. She was one of these people that love life and as she was demonstrating how to slurp the wine I comforted myself in the knowledge that almost certainly this was just a facade for show and privately she self harms in her dimly lit bedroom whilst listening to the Cure.

However, all in all it went pretty well. It became very clear that I knew nothing about wine, mostly I drink Lambrini or Lambrusco and often I can be seen shamefully requesting the cheapest bottle of white wine and 1 glass in bars. Nevertheless this didn't seem to be too much of a stumbling block and I just asked for their recommendation when doing the tasting.

We were both getting merry and then we moved onto the whisky tasting. We both had a shot and she said 'down in one' so naturally I instantly downed the shot. I realised at this point that she still had her shot and she soon explained that she was joking - this was after all, meant to be about experiencing the flavor of these fine malts. Bollocks to that, who wants to bask in the taste sensation of whisky and absinthe, no one not even winos.

Any way this was still but a minor glitch and did not mar my overall 'dating performance'. Having completed the wine tasting she explained that she was hungry as we were passing a fish restaurant. Being the forced gentleman that I am I suggested dining in said restaurant. Now I don't really like seafood, but she was a vegetarian and it was 10 at night so it seemed like the sensible choice.

Another bottle of wine, brilliant maintain her level of intoxication and subsequently my level of interestingness and waitress I will have the prawns please.

Prawns, can't go far wrong, I have them sometimes in my Sainsbury's sandwiches not too offensive to my delicate taste buds. But no, these are the big bastard shrimp prawns with the sodding heads on them and everything. So here I am sitting opposite a vegetarian with my bloody foods eyes pretty much looking at her as I rip off their heads with my knife - excellent.

But ultimately this was not my biggest failing of the night, this was still to come. As explained I don't really eat sea food and therefore was a prawn novice. Trying to tackle them delicately I used my knife and fork to remove the head and tails and proceeded to consume.

It wasn't until about half way through that a thought came to me, I remembered my mum and sister eating prawns and I was pretty sure that they didn't eat the shell, which I had merrily been crunching through.

It was decision time, I had already eaten half of my prawns in their shelled entirety, did I now revert to de-shelling the remaining prawns? I made the executive decision that it would be even more embarrassing to do so and continued to eat what was left fully shelled.

Readers, it was not pleasant, it was not nutritionally sound and there was going to be repercussions. Instantly I did not feel well, but far worse for the next TWO weeks I had the worse gas situation of my life, with most making an exit via the back door. For any work colleagues reading this, I can only apologise for what was a trying time for us all.

Having regailed this tale to my friends they hilariously came up with the nickname 'Prawnford' (Cornford - Prawnford, see what they did there).

Having said all this, it was still one of my more successful dates as following posts will reveal.