Battle of the sexes!

"No one will ever win the battle of the sexes....there is too much fraternisation with the enemy" Said Henry Kissinger.

I think this sentence was a product of it's time. When Henry stood in the White House, looking out of the bay window at the legions of Bra Burners doing their bit for the feminist cause, but not the environment (and of course ironically, helping bra manufactures).

However, in these days of widespread technical advancement, new Weapons of Mass Disruption are beginning to win it for the females. Inventions like dating agencies, speed dating and personals websites are fueling the fire.

I myself am a huge fan of personals websites. It has given me hour upon hour of entertainment when there was nothing doing at work, sitting and looking and chuckling at different profiles. Especially the completely fraudulent ones, where women who will never see 40 again try to pass themselves off as 22: it's just not true. Also, the amount of very intelligent and extremely beautiful Russian women who seek a 'life partner' who earns roughly the same as Roman Abramovitch arises suspicion.

I used to find the best ones and save them so I could show my Dad when he pops over at the weekend. He shares my slightly warped sense of humour. Some people may think it's a bit cruel, but some profiles are just so ridiculous that they bring great joy to the masses and should be celebrated. Furthermore, it's unlikely they'll get many serious replies.

I'm not knocking it, honestly I'm not. Infact, before I decided to go to Canada (not much point now), I thought I should put up or shut up. Rightly thinking that I have nothing to loose, I got a general feel from some of the other male profiles, and created my own. I waited for the amazed public to recognise me as a rare treat, the one that got away and should be recaptured immediately, and storm my inbox with sultry offers of wine and romance.

I did get one offer from a big boned, chain smoker who lived frighteningly close to me. I got very scared and removed my profile immediately from the system.

After a couple of weeks, I discovered that I could send my profile only to those whom I wanted to see it. Marvelous I thought! This actually worked quite well and I got e-mailing to a few very friendly people. I actually arranged to meet one in London. We met up and she was far more beautiful than her profile had eluded. She was also good company, but we didn't really hit it off enough to see each other again. I think my English wit may have been lost in translation once it reached her German sense of humour. She's back in Germany now (I think it was a slight over-reaction to leave the country. It wasn't that bad!)

I think personals reflect the current state of the battle of the sexes very accurately. It clearly shows that women are winning! Men's profiles tend to all say the same thing. "Nice down to earth guy, likes bars and fine dining", "or young professional male, looking for a nice lady to share good times with". Nothing to taxing, a bit lame really. Whereas the women just go for broke. They forget to describe themselves, and launch straight into list of demands from their prospectice man.

Here are some actual quotes highlighting why I would not be suitable for them.

"Hope you're the sort of person that doesn't trawl the personals on regular basis but just happens to be glancing through, maybe you're discerning and still haven't found what you're looking for either." (too late, as you can tell I already waste far to much time trawiling)

"I'm looking for a Christian man, no if ands or buts--no equivocating, malfunctioning or disreputable Christians please" (If only I could stop equivocating??????)

"WARNING: I don't drink, smoke, or find crowds of desperate people doing said activities to be appealing AT ALL. " (Fun, Fun, Fun!)

"I laugh hysterically and inexplicably at nothing at all" (Check to see what colour coat she has on. If it's white, I win the bet)

"Abrasive, pub-going, uneducated megalomaniacs need not apply." (Thats me out on all 4 counts)

"Politically I am on the right and I am not interested in left wing types. I have travelled the world and I want someone equally worldly. The reason I am on here is because I am fed up with losers approaching me with sad one liners in clubs and I am told this is a good way to screen these types out easily. That means no icebreakers. I will warn you that I am semi high maintenance and previous relationships have failed because my ex partners weren't up to it.The right man will be. If you're on here, drop me a line" (Semi-high maintenance!! Enough of this false modesty)

"surprise u!! i am a transexual-ladyboy. been live as female role fulltime since i was 16" (Oh Sh*t, Not again!!!)

I could never fight in the battle of the sexes, I love the females in my life to much. However, by the looks of it, women have no such hangups. Such is life!

Richmond upon Chancery Lane

I knew Friday night was going to be interesting when Dad turned up and demanded to know where the beer was. He had come around straight after work because we were going to an open mic session where 'Richmond' were playing (my guitar tutors band). When I mentioned that I didn't have beer in the house because it tends to get drunk before it reaches the fridge, he paused and looked disappointed for a nano-second before diving into the wine rack.

We got off the tube at Chancery Lane to look for the wine bar where the gig was being held. All along the way, Dad was looking out for pubs which would serve him a decent pint if the wine bar couldn't (poor dad doesn't drink all week and like a beer on a Friday, and I was taking him to a wine bar). Happily the bar was right next door to the Law Society (Dad's a Solicitor) so he began to calm down because he knew he could always get a good pint in there. I wondered if he could get me in. "Of course" he replied "I pay enough to be a bloody member for gods sake".

The bar itself was a lot smaller that I thought it would be and not how I imagined it. It was already quite busy and I felt if if I should apologise for some ridiculously "British" reason. Before I could be heard, Dad said he thought it was an intimate arena, and he liked it. He also liked the only beer they had on tap so we were off to a winning start.

There was a small stage where one of the acts was about to start. He called himself Wolf Man of 1. The kindest what to describe his peformance would be, enthusiastic! My ironic cheer of "Encore!" was met with steely glances from wolf weary listeners.

The second act was interesting. He must have been the wrong side of 70. He played brilliantly and swore relentlessly. His last song was played with the guitar on his knees and a lighter being rubbed along the fret to create a sound that must have been inspired by heavy and sustained substance abuse. His lyrics focused on familiar themes such as 'f**king kids' (not literally as this carries a heavy prison term) and 'space men'. Nevertheless, this didn't stop me from bumping into him later and telling him how wonderful I thought he was, and how I hoped I would see him peform again soon. "What you need is a manager!" I said. Yes I meant me, and yes it was a creepy thing to do. However I have a good excuse... I was drunk.

Dad and I soon bumped into Pete (my tutor) and he came over and bought us a drink (he really hasn't got the hang of this groupie thing). Rob and his friend Alistair, turned up and the four of us stood, talked, laughed and enjoyed the music. Richmond were up next and they were excellent as I knew they would be. The next band, were called Lopez. They were also very excellent. Pete reckons they may go all the way. So as the blog that breaks new musical tallent, click on www.lopezmusic.com You saw it here first folks!

After Richmond finished their set Paul, the lead guitarist, asked us what we thought of the set and then offered to buy us another drink (I should really start going to more gigs). I had quite clearly had enough to drink already as I agreed to do an open mic myself. Stupidly I broadcast this knowledge and I have quite a few people who want to come and laugh at me. They won't be laughing if they have heard me sing. I either sing or play the guitar, not both simultaneously. If I try, I end up concentrating so hard on getting the guitar to sound like the song I'm trying to play, that my singing becomes a barley audible whine. Having my voice amplified with a mic means that by law I cannot play within 20 miles of Battersey Dogs Home.

As the evening drew to a close, Pete came up to my dad and me and offered us a lift home (what can I expect from them if they crack the US market. A flat maybe!). So I got a lift with the band all the way back to Ilford. How cool is that.

On the journey home, Dad who is a massive music buff but completely tone deaf, talked about the industry, being successful, and about music in general. This led to a shock announcement the very next day. Dad had been pondering all night and has deduced that bands need something extra to help them stand out. Therefore he has selflessly decided to help young acts break into the big time by offering his services as a bongo player. He wants to by a good set and get proper instruction. He realises that his image may not fit the young and trendy acts coming through. Undeterred, Dad has agreed to shave off all his hair to make him look more hip. I worry for him sometimes, I really do. If he does go through with it, which of course he won't, I promise to post photos. If anyone needs a bongo player, please do get in touch. He's cheap!

With love,

Andy

Why I love Peter Cook!

Peter Cook: comedian, actor, writer, performer, owner of Private Eye magazine and towards the end, terrible drunk.

A few hand picked quotes I nabbed from various websites from Ian Hislop.

"It will be a tribute to the funniest man in the world," said Hislop. "He was a very good proprietor because he never interfered. He never asked why we were costing him millions of pounds."When I was being sued by Robert Maxwell Peter was at the back of the court waving his cheque book." I will miss his jokes. He invented the phrase 'this man is a proven Lawyer'. Surreal brilliance, impossible to match."

"My single favourite memory is the commando raid on the Mirror building that he organised in the late Eighties when Robert Maxwell was about to produce a magazine called Not Private Eye. Maxwell had sued us, WH Smith had pulled us off sale but were proposing to sell his magazine. We desperately needed to get hold of a dummy issue if we to stop them. No one could think how to do it, so Cookie sent over a crate of whisky to the Mirror office with his compliments, thinking, rightly, that the people working on the dummy didn't want to do it.Three-quarters of an hour later he rang them up to find they were legless and said, 'Oh, we'll come and join you.' so five of us got into a taxi, breezed over and went straight up to Maxwell's office. Cookie sat at Maxwell's desk and ordered champagne, we wrote Hello Bob on the windows and called him up in New York."

For more larks from the great man, click on "The Establishment" link to your right.

Enjoy your day xx

Public Appeal!

On Friday 12th of August at about 11.30 pm, I along with my good friend Darren was standing on the pavement outside the Hollybush pub in Loughton Essex.

I was waiting for a lift home when an event took place, that left me feeling cheapened by a gross personal violation of my body.

I was simply standing chatting wittily and merrily to Darren when a young Irish siren, about 25-28 years old, 5ft 6, slim with long dark hair, fair skin, and a very strong perfume of vodka, came bowling up to me and asked me where I lived.

Being a wily old fox, I was not quick to fall into this blatant attempt at entrapment. I casually replied, that I lived in Ilford (cunning I thought, specific enough to avoid a retort, but vague enough not to pin me down). "Ahhhh!" she exclaimed "I used to live in Seven Kings!".

Dam, How did I not see this trap. It was too late, she threw her arms around me, gently and seductively swivel her hips up to mine, and kissed me on the lips!

Shock ensued. The power of the moment must have been too much as she swayed into the path of a reversing car (it may also be attributed to the quite violent aroma of booze emanating from her). Being the gentleman I am, I grabbed her and lifted her to safety.

A strangely farcical conversation followed during which, the Irish siren said I was funny looking, but my ginger haired friend looked normal ("this was because she is Irish" Darren said "there are lots of ginger people in Ireland". Brilliant after 6 stella's, truly brilliant). She then tried to punch me in the stomach to see if I really had the washboard stomach she was dreaming of underneath my T-shirt (diet was going well thus far, but at the weekends I seem to always have a blow out and undo all the good work that I have suffered for during the week).

She proceeded to give me another dig in the ribs just to make sure, and then violated me once again by snaking up to me and planting another smack on the lips.

Thankfully, my ride pulled up soon after, and whisked me away from this frightening ordeal.

Therefore, if there were any witnesses to this harrowing experience, or if any other men suffered the same fate that that night, please could you let me know who she was, if she will be there again next week, or call freephone 0800-cal-bully, because I wouldn't mind being violated some more!

Cheers,

Andy x

The CAMRA Real Ale Festival 2005 - London Olympia

(Jolly boys reunited)

My love affair with beer started in my late teens, and apart from a few painful moments ( physically, the morning after, or mentally when you remember what you did last night) the love affair has been a strong and constant one.

In fact, it has probably been the most constant thing in my life. It had always been their with me during the happy times, the parties celebrations, and the cool kick back moments. However, unlike any fair weather friends, beer has been with me through the breakups, knocks, downers and Eurovision.

I have been lucky. I have had a mentor to guide me through this path to manhood. Notably my good family friend Doug. Doug is an expert on beer. He knows how it's brewed, what to look for and how to sample and more importantly how to enjoy. He turns drinking beer into an art-form and a science. Therefore, getting sloshed with Doug means I'm furthering education and therefore is perfectly justified.

Imagine then dear reader, my excitement when the "Jolly Boys" (a bunch of lovable drunken reprobates whom I grew up with) invited me to the worlds largest real ale festival. We decided to go on the Friday, just in case we needed a full weekend to recover (I love the boys foresight). Three of the lads took half days, and as two work in the city we met them up there. I decided to make a day of it, so I took the whole day off and treat myself to a lie in and a sturdy breakfast. The last "Jolly" who will remain nameless due to legal reasons went AWOL from his post in the British Transport Police (good to know our transport system is in good hands after the recent bombings).

After some inconsiderate sod decided to throw himself under the train at Liverpool Street Station, we rendez vouz'd at the entrance of the festival.

(The scene that greeted us at Olympia)

As we walked in we bought our pint glass and stood in awe at the sight that greeted us. London's Olympia, packed to the rafters with 450 different ales, and gourmet cuisine of every kind to satisfy the thirsty drinker.

(Me tucking into the gourmet cuisine avec beer)

We went around drinking halves from different varied stalls. Some award winning, some with just a small que. We gaily walked around soaking in the atmosphere, talking to very friendly complete strangers. I was surprised to see so many people hanging around the "Lancaster Bomber" stand, until we realised that they sponsor Andrew "Freddie" Flintoff, who was at the time, hammering the Australians in the Ashes Cricket series. They had a small TV screen around which 100 people must of stood waiting for the next Aussie to fall prey to the English attack. Cheers rang high when a wicket fell. There was a terrific atmosphere. Thoroughly British if such a thing still exists?

(Stealing from the war veterans)

There was one particularly disturbing aspect of the day highlighted in the above photo. Lots of games were scattered around the arena to play for crap prizes but for extremely good causes. Besides when you have had a few, one enjoys a challenge. The stall you can see is for the Poppy Appeal for our war Veterans, a most worthy cause. Chelsea pensioners would stand by the Bog and look after your pint glass for a small fee while you went and answered your call of nature. Great stuff! As you can see above the object of this game is to pass the hoop along the wire without touching. The course was a particularly fiendish one, however the attractive young (I thing Australian.. Huh, just because England is winning in the cricket doesn't mean that you should take it out on our war hero's) lady in the photo, was taking such precautions with her attempt. I stood and watched for about 5mins as he slowly completed the course. Look closely at the woman running the stall. Her look suggests that she is saying "what the hell are you trying to do to these people? Take the food of their plates!".

(Darrrvid... who loves ya baby!)

I don't want any naming or shaming, from the doubtless hundreds of thousands of devoted readers. Someone is bound to recognise her. The appropriate thing to have done, would be have got right to the very end and then slip, affecting a 'silly billy me' expression. Everybody knows you could have done it, so quit there and save everyone's blushes. Please give generously www.poppy.org.uk

(Drinking in perfect harmony)

Just for the record, 'Nelsons Revenge' and 'Your granny wouldn't like it' are Bully's top tip(ple).

(I love you Bully. Jon falling at the 403rd hurdle)

At about half past seven in the evening the nameless PC, fortified with strong Bavarian dark beer, decided he needed to put all his new found pissedness to good use. So I was forced to leave this BEER FESTIVAL to go to a WALKABOUT PUB on the Embankment. I ask you...Where's the logic!!!

(United we stand....otherwise we'd fall over)

PC pulled amazingly, and I went home with a nice warm beer coat on perfectly happy to stare at the crap advertisements on the tube for the next 45 minutes, safe in the knowledge that it was a great day.

(The end of a beautiful day. At Walkabout in Embankment)

Hello again!

As a courtesy to Her majesty's Government and the Bank of England, I graciously decided to write a quick post to let the English speaking world know how I'm doing. As a result of this hopefully, I can single handedly avert chaos for the great institutions that mentioned above.....(I know they were worried).

I am perfectly fine!

I realise that my silence had caused consternation amongst the masses, but fear not dear reader. It's not because I don't love you. It's just that due to the rapidly approaching evacuation of this fair Isle to Canada, I have been preparing by investing some quality me time.

Work is incredibly quiet at the moment. Added to this we have more staff than ever. The two new people who are to replace Ian and myself have already started. Ian and myself have of course been training them up in all areas of our work. However once we showed them where the kettle was and they seemed ok.

They are both very nice chaps. Rob is Ian's brother (nepotism or what?) and Charlie is very keen and enthusiastic about the job (something Ian and I lost a long time ago). Due to this new bloods enthusiasm, our thinly veiled training programme consists of delegating what little work we have to the newbies. The system seems to be working well at present (for me anyway).

So, what have I been up to this last 2 weeks? Well work wise, virtually nothing apart from a few meetings. I spend far too long day dreaming about what I might get up to in Canada. The danger of this, is that my expectations become artificially high. I'm not stupid! I know that it is likely to be tough, but hopefully good fun. Nevertheless, I can't suppress the tiny piece of my mind that hopes something big is going to happen: and why should I! Keep on dreaming: that's what I say.

The rest of my time in the office is spend doing what little work I have, reading Ian's and Lewis's blogs, checking in with the Peter Cook appreciation society, reading Richard Herrings blog and looking at some other weird and wonderful websites. (Links to on the right)

In my spare time I have been very busy of late. During week days I'm either at the Gym, Playing tennis, down the pub or practicing like fury on the guitar (again following on from the idea that something BIG might happen in Canada, and if not, to provide a better friend during my quieter moments).

Basically there is nothing much doing at the mo. Just winding down. The lull before the Canadian storm. It's quite sad really. Nevertheless, the last time I said my life had gone all gone quiet, things went bloody mental for the next to months. Touch wood!

PS.

At the weekend, I went to the worlds largest Real Ale festival at Olympia, which was fantastic! However, I will wait until I have uploaded the photos to give you the full debrief. This was just to (pardon the pun) wet your appetite!

Love Bully x

Essay: The Stratford Crazies

(Picture, The two Ronnies pretending to be Crazies)

Definition: Stratford Crazy:

A person who is usually found on or around the crisis bench in Stratford town centre. Usually found in small groups or teams of crazies, they are always to be found in good voice and humor. Their vital role in the local community is facilitated by low grade rocket fuel, thinly veiled as a better quality rocket fuel, or white Lightening or Super Tennants/Skol Strong Larger (for the more discerning crazy).

Definition: Crisis Bench:

Benches in Stratford town centre where crazies traditionally ply their trade. Also used my manic depressives to contemplate, and old people to rest. (NB if you are from outside the UK and wonder what on earth I am going on about; switch into BBC World, find out what time Eastenders is on. Watch it and look for the little green in the middle of the square. You see those benches with people looking very intense (probably smoking), there! Got it! Good!) The crisis bench usually seats some of the most interesting and diverse people you will ever meet.

How, I hear you cry, could I spot these crazies in my own home town/village?

Well this is a difficult one to answer, as crazies are heavily influenced by the environment they emanate from. However, there are a few generic factors you can look out for: -

• Concealed drinking vessels.
• If you can see shiny gold on black/blue cans, that is an indication of Super Strength larger use
• Ill fitting 1980's European sports wear
• Cuts and bruises everywhere.
  

What sort of people are these Crazies and what is their role in society?

Good question and well put. There are many different types of Crazy. They have different aims and objectives, but the one thing they all have in common is their hedonistic lifestyle. Crazies don't live by conventional rules. They are their own bosses and will never answer "to the man". Many people are envious. I myself walk down to the high street at a lunchtime and wish I could be out in the sun getting drunk instead of having to go back to work.

The common mistake people make in regards to Crazies, is that they are disparate. Infact they are a highly organised and community spirited bunch.

Early in a morning around 8.30-9am all the crazies are lined up outside McDonald's, to be given their tasks for the day. Mostly they sit in silence and philosophize to themselves and each other, but some have more hands on tasks.

One Crazy who, I often see living in various phone boxes in the Stratford/Forest Gate area, lends his bloodshot eye to traffic safety. He shouts at the green man that appears when it is safe to cross the road and then shouts obscenities when people cross when it is not safe to do so. Very useful for blind people.

One Crazy is on secondment to the fashion police. Every time someone with glasses walks by he shouts "You should have gone to Specksavers!..... Have you got a fag?"

The festive season is a particuarly busy time for the Crazies. Startford also has an array of quite fine buskers plying their trade in Stratford. The Crazies take it upon themselves, for no commercial incentive, to act as backing singers and dancers for these musicians. Despite only a limited budget, Crazies often dip into the petty cash to by a festive hat in order to spread even more Christmas cheer!

The wonderful thing about the people of Stratford is that they always have time to chat to a Crazy. Legal advice, religion and Big Brother VI are always popular topics of conversation.

I went to speak to The honorable Hugh Wittington-Smythe, a retired High Court Judge and now full time crazy.

AB: Hugh, If I may be so informal, how did you break into the tight nit and secretive world of the Crazy?

HW-S: Well Andrew

AB: Mr Bull if you please.

HW-S: Sorry Mr Bull, where are my manners. It all started when I was at the Barr. The pressure of the job and the lack of self esteem that I was feeling at the time, really made me think I wanted more from life.

AB: A more hedonistic lifestyle perhaps?

HW-S: Yes exactly, a more henonistic approach. I wanted to devote more time to the lesser works of Plato and refresh my Socrates. Thucididies and his work on the Peloponnesian War. Fantastic stuff. Have you read it?

AB: Only the Letts notes.

HW-S: I know of some other part time Crazies on the County Court Circuit. They told me that the Stratford Crisis bench was the place to be if you were really committed to a life of hedonistic public servitude. Of course my family were a little upset by this turn of events, but they agree with the fundamentals of my Crazieness.

AB: Thanks you for your time Hugh.

HW-S: Any time dear boy. Fancy a swig?

AB: Not my hour I'm afraid, but thank you anyway.

I fear for the Crazies, along with the Marshgate lane protests, the Crazies are not happy about the Olympic bid success. They feel that with all the gentrification that will manifest from the Olympic success, that the Crazies will be driven out into the suburbs and away from their spiritual home benches. Mind you their slogan "Your Crazy, don't vote for London 2012" may have backfired somewhat.

In conclusion, not all Crazies were forced into this situation. A lot have done it out of choice. They live a lifestyle that they wish to live, which is more than be said of most of us supposedly non crazies. So when your out and about and you see a crazy in distress, see if their alright. Have a chat. You never know you might learn something!

How many degrees in a semi circle?

Well it had to happen sooner or later. Not being the sort of chap who likes to revel in his own glory, but if you have dallied here from Ian's blog chimply the best, I feel duty bound.

Today at roughtly 12.40 hours (GMT) during a moment of sheer concentration, skill and determination, I managed to throw my first 180 point score in lunchtime tournament darts. When the moment finally did arrive a large cheer rang out (mainly from me. Ian was begining to think I couldn't do it) and even the barman came over to see for himself.

Ok maybe this news isn't setting your world alight, but if this is the case there are therapy groups you could and should attend. It really is the most addictive lunchtime pursuit. Even rubbish players, like Ian agree!


I realise that my posts are becoming more darts related, so I will leave it at that. If anyone would like to discuss this MAGNIFICENT achievement, or even my 123 outshot on Monday, please feel free to post a comment and I will do my best to reply to as many of them as I can (ignore the hit counter down below, it must be on the blink).

May the darts be with you!

Food!

I'm getting worried about Ian. As you can see from this recent photo he slipped to me in between the pages of the Newham Magazine, he is nothing but bone and bone.

I myself however, am of more stoic proportions. Luckily, being 6ft3in my height helps to fuel my denial that I haven't got a fraction podgy over the last couple of years.

Being one never to miss a trick, it has allowed me to dust off some old one liners which I can drop into polite conversation.

"I do watch what I eat. I take a good hard look at it and then stuff it right down."

And "What do you mean; I'm in perfect shape! Round is a shape!"

Lastly (I promise) "It's not a beer belly, it's a fuel tank for my sex machine"

Every Cloud!

Manifestly, in a drive to loose a bit of weight before Canada, I am adapting a few new, so far uncoventional practices. As you may have read in a previous blog, I no longer drink until I've gone blind on everyday with a Y in it. This was considered bad form and so have knocked that on the head. It has been relatively easy to enforce, as long as I stay away from the "Jolly Boys" (you know who you are).

However, I think the hardest part is denying myself food at work. At this time of year when the schools are off, work becomes so dull, that I have bought some eyedrops to perfect the art of sleeping with my eyes open. Eating is inherently entertaining and legisimises a quick break from trying to look busy.

I take a packed lunch to work, but we also have a sandwich lady who comes to the office at 10.30am (crucial time in the morning, breakfast is by now a distant memory). Then to add insult to injury, if you resist that temptation we have a sandwich man turn up half an hour later (bloody psychologists the lot of 'em). If you can resist him as well (he's a charming young man), then I go out for lunch and reward myself with a jumbo sausage roll. No No, Wrong Wrong Wrong! Bad Andy Bad!

For the people who know me who are wondering why this sudden and dramatic change in attitude, the reason is two fold. Firstly, as I am slowly advancing in years, I am starting to become more sensible. "God Forbid!" I hear you cry. Sadly, due to stupid things like going to work, I cannot devote full time to the champagne lifestyle, I so richly crave and frankly deserve.

Secondly, after a period of excess such as a holiday, I have developed a strange sensation that emanates from my brain. Psychologists have diagnosed me with Guilt, and it's ruining my life.

Guilt, has some worrying side affects. It possesses me to go to the gym and undertake that unique form of masochism: SPINNING (see the bottom half of The Fury post). A game of tennis and a circuit class a week tends to keep the guilt at bay.

Therefore, to all the people out there who are battling the bulge, stick with it. I have lost a little bit already and am trying to keep the momentum going. If a friend says "don't eat that sausage roll, have a piece of fruit instead" don't punch their lights out. They are only trying to help. With a little will power and a good sense of humour, we could all look like Ian someday. I know it's his dream!

TTFN.

Easy As 123....

Well that's it. We've sorted out our insurance, booked our flights and told work when we are leaving. I have written the largest cheque I have ever written (£1001 for my flights and insurance... I felt weak afterwards) and have had a rather fun pub crawl on Friday night, thinly veiled as an attempt to find a venue for our leaving bash.

Monday is now upon us. All the schools I work with have broken up for the summer (which is ironic as looking out the window today, it looks as if the summer is now over), it's cold and grey, and there is a very eeriee silence at work!!!

As there are no schools, we are not getting the mad hysterical phone calls and barrage of e-mails and abuse we are used to. I miss it! It feels as if it could be a long summer. Mind you, the deeper we get into the summer, the nearer it is to Canada.

I'm busy training up the new boy. Rob, is Ian's brother and is taking over from us at the NEBP. He may be a hit with the ladies, but when he made me tea instead of coffee this morning, all pleasantriess were dispensed with, and the fury unleashedd. It's for his own good. He'll need a thick skin for this job.

(Just kidding Rob, I'm loving your work)

Imagine then dear reader, my relief as lunchtime approached. Rob, Ian and I strolled purposefully down to the last bastion of refuge, the Edward VII pub (where else) for a lemonade and a quick game of darts.

"BLAST!" I cried when I realised that I had left my darts at home. I was worried that we might actually have had to talk to each other. My fears were allayed when we stumbled on the pubs set.

I use the word "set" in it's loosest possible sense. They were more of a collection of three different sets of darts with different barrels and weights. They also had some knackerd blue flights which at least gave the impression of uniformity.

As the game got underway, we realised that we were setting new benchmarks in terms of our play. We were missing the board and marking the benches. When going for the doubles we ere hitting the score board more than the dart board. Lets face it, we couldn't hit a barn door let alone a double.

A bad sportsman always blames his tool. I was just about to become a very bad sportsman, when something rather strange happened.

After 9 darts we all had roughly 130 left. Ian went for the big 170 checkout, but when he hit 6 with his first dart he knew it was not going to be his day. I was left with, yes you guessed it.... 123.

First dart, go for odds, I hit the treble 19. Sixty six remaining. I go for 20, playing the percentage game, by leaving myself with single 10 or 6 for a shot at a double. But I hit the treble 20. Six left! Double three for a personal best 123 checkout.

Bang!Straight in. It was never in doubt. The darting gods were with me today. I felt as if I could miss it. The darting gods are a fickle bunch.

Back in the office now and it's still gray and cold.That's why I thought I'd write myself a little blog, so when I'm feeling bored, I can relive my highly insignificant moment of glory again.

God bless. (photo courtesy of Sir Ian Pope... What a silly grin!)

The Fury

The purpose of setting up this blog was two-fold. Firstly it was to be a lighthearted and humorous jaunt, as I move from London to Vancouver which people may wish to read and respond to.

Secondly, it is a medium in which I can unleash my RAGE AND FURY upon the meek, in a civilised way where nobody gets killed.

Today I'm feeling particuarly narked, so the latter of the two uses is coming into force. I'm not a moody person, but I can be quite an emotional one. If I ever find myself in a bad mood, I can usually hide myself away for about 20 minutes during which it will have passed and I'm back to the happy go luck chap I like to think I am.

Today is a bit different. I awoke this morning, pulled back the curtains to reveal brilliant sunshine for a wonderful morning. I felt terrible! And I couldn't work out why?

As a grand socialite who thinks he should be paid just for being me, I am finding work a trifle tedious. It's really hard to motivate yourself when you know that all your projects, which you have started and watched grown, have all come to an end. It's the closest thing to parenthood yet.

Now all that is left is for our replacements to start and train them up into the next generation of Super EBP Legends. Lots of organising, which is not really my forte`.

Not to worry, Only a few hours left before I go to the dreaded SPINNING! For those of you who are not au fait with the gym. This is a class which involves sitting on a stationary bike, peddling like fury at different resistances for 45mins to an hour. I believe it was first invented bt the Spainish, during the inquisition to extract confessions from non believers. It has since been used by the middle classes to repent their sins. After I finish a class, I always feel absolved. I also feel bloody knackered. I have no sense or feeling by the end of it. Spinning is my opiate.

It all makes me wonder if I will have the heart to really go for it in Canada. In my mind I have, but in my mind, I feel I could do most things if I was really up for it. Reality sometimes differs slightly. Through working with lots of campanies and schools, I have learned that nobody is ever as enthuastic about things as you are. You have to enthuse and pursuade them. (note to self: Maybe I should be a con-man.)

I forget that I am very comfortable in my big chair at my big desk, coming to the end of a 2 year reign here. When I'm out on the streets with no money or food, I'll soon buck my ideas up. I find that old woman with lots of dosh and a serious heart condition, marry her, subject her to my driving, and live happily ever after.

Only kidding. Dido, I'm all yours!

Sobering thought!

Bonjour,

I have discovered a new way of getting rid of hangovers.

Not drinking!

Now fear not distressed reader, for this is not a permanent sanction. I have merely decided to cut down my weekly intake to a trickle or nothing at all, and keep my love affair with beer and red wine confined to glorious weekends of indulgent splendor. My units are now comfortably within government health and safety guidelines, I don't bindge and I have never been so miserable.

You see dear reader, that this self imposed restraint has led to some very disturbing side effects.

When I went to the pub with Ian for a chat and a game of darts in the wonderful North Star Pub in Leytonstone, I drove. Ian, being supportive of my task, joined me in a glass of lemonade.

We chatted as normal, played bad darts for an hour or so (that's how long it takes us to hit a double sometimes), but then I asked if Ian wanted another cheeky lemonade. His answer was "Na thanks". Ian often refuses when I try to ply him with drink (he's the sensible one), but I didn't want a drink either. After 3 pints of lemonade, I could drink no more. I was defeated!

When I thought about it I felt pretty gross. Three pints of Lemonade is pretty heavy going. That then got me thinking as to how on earth I could physically drink 7 pints of Newcastle Brown Ale and still have room for a reconstituted Kebab and chips, like any other Tuesday morning?

I looked into the science of it all. I know that alcohol helps absorb food faster and beer dehydrates you by making you wee out more than you take in. All very interesting, but I'm not wholly convinced that this explains the phenomenon.

I believe that there are more spiritual powers at work. I'm convinced there is some sort of mystical force that resonates during the brewing/fermenting process. And it has the power to turn your stomach into a tardis/carpet bag/Chichister Cathedral!

The initial affects are staggering. You can't just go to the pub for one pint, the force inside you is already too strong. Even if you know you have to be home because your dinners cooked/take the dog out/kindney transplant, you quickly resign yourself to your fate. It's going to be at least three!!

Then at three pints, the force has practically taken over your soul. Your ability to make coherent decisions is gone. The evening is a right off, and as you are already at the pub you might as well stay!

After 7 pints your stomach gives you a tiny little reminder that you haven't eaten, and then it's off to the nearest Curry house or purveyor of dodgey Kebabs (remember, the more bacteria the better. It's soaks up the alcohol)BUT WHERE DO WE FIT IT ALL?

In conclusion, this has to be a miracle, an act of God that no man can insure against. It's like the changing of the seasons and the tides of the sea, it happens, and I can accept no responsibility for it. Well, that was my excuse anyway.

Manifestly, I ugre you all to not upset these Gods. Do not laugh or anger them, because they bite back in the morning. Be reverential and please drink responsibly!

Thank you and goodnight.

115 Check that out!

Dear reader,

Some of you will have stumbled upon my little ramblings from reading my Canada bound companions blog, chimplythebest by Sir Ian Pope. For this reason I feel duty bound to share the match report from today's lunchtime game of darts in the magnificent Edward VII pub in Stratford.

Ian, as you may know, Ian is not a naturally talented darts player. His somatatype is all wrong for a start. He needs to train up from his current ectomorph frame to more of a mesomorph/endomorph structure. I am helping in this regard, by acting as his sports nutritionist and making sure he sticks to his diet of Newcastle Brown Ale and pork scratchings. I am also trying to get him to start smoking, but he keeps giving up. Some people have no will power!

Manifestly, I am taking all the credit for his recent upturn in form. He has changed his approach to the game and even his personal motto from "The English love a looser", to "scorings for show, doubles for dough". Seriously, he has improved no end. I think this recent success has fueled his enthusiasm. We often get to 2-2 and play a tense deciding leg. I think, if we ever put money on it the pressure would be so great, spontaneous combustion would be a real possibility.

Anyway back to today. Robert was playing as well, but he hasn't had the time to develop his skills yet to be a true dartmaster. Be patient young one. So, in effect it was a 2 horse race.

Ian had a good run of darts in the first game. Scoring heavily and piling on the pressure. I was just about clinging on to his coat tails. It came down to the doubles. Ian had first shot at double 16. He missed only narrowly. A hushed silence filled the room. Not surprising as there was only the three of us in there.

I had 59 left and missed double 18 on my last dart. My heart sunk. It only takes one miss for the Pope to pounce! Unfortunately, he hit an odd number with his next dart which really messed up his finish.

I got one more chance and hit double 18 with my second dart.

And to to the next leg. Again, Ian storms off into the lead and is nearly 100 points ahead after 9 darts. It looked as if it was going to be another draw. I was playing poorly but had managed to get down to an outshot of 115, which is at the very limit of my range. However, I may not even have a shot because Ian had 3 darts for his double.

His three darts were well grouped but he couldn't get the double 16 then double 8 he required.

I stood up to the mark. A dodgey first dart strayed to the left, but landed in the treble 5. That was the 15 I needed. I was still alive. Next dart: hit the heart of the treble 20. It was still on. By this point I was in the zone and felt as if I was on autopilot.

One dart left. Double tops for to equal my highest outshot ever. BANG! It was IN! I had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

Darts is only a bit of fun, but that's because I won. Ian has not yet uttered a word to me. Instead he speaks to me through Robert. I hope this stops soon, otherwise it's going to be a very long flight to Canada.

Birthday Boy

On Sunday it was my 24th birthday. As I hurtled into my 25th year on this earth, I began to look ahead to what it might have in store.

My move to Canada is coming up frighteningly quick. It always seemed like something on the horizon. I was aware of it but isn't quite tangible yet. This is understandable.

(Ian and myself locked in mortal swingball combat)

We are still busy at work and carrying on with our normal routines. However when Ian said yesterday that we had exactly 11 weeks left and he hadn't even got the flights booked yet, I started to feel my stomach turn with a pang of anxiety.

Always good in a crisis (my life seems to consist of bounding from one small crisis to another), I dropped everything I was doing related to my paid employment, and got on the old
"dog and bone" to get things sorted. Panic over: probably until the weeks get into single figures at least.

My Birthday itself was great. I got up early after a night down the Old Maypole Pub with the boys (A George Michael sing-a-like performed the usual medley of hits to keep us entertained). I cut the grass! However the excitement didn't end there.

At about 3pm Mum Dad my 2 sisters and Ian had been invited around to Chris and Dougs house for a BBQ with their children and their partners. Chris being the hostess with the mostess and Doug with the almost in-exhaustible wine cellar, make a team that ensured that the evening would last long into the night.

It did!

Rather worse for ware after a few bottles of vintage oak barreled red, I headed home declaring my love for everyone. I got to bed told it I loved it, and awaited my morning punishment for my excesses of the previous day. I would take my punishment like a man, with a little help from Nurofen. I had had a brilliant time and so had everybody else. I even got my own flypast from the Red Arrows. It's just sheer coincidence that the VE celebration were going on down the road at the same time. Still, they killed two birds with one stone.

From Ectasy to Agony

It was less than 48 hours ago that I strode down the Stratford Broadway, more excited and nervous than I thought I’d be. I walked down towards Stratford Station. There, a big screen and a stage has been erected and a large crowd had gathered so see if the 30th Olympic games would return to London for the first time since 1948, and as has become what seems to be a nation obsession; beat the French!

The crowd was larger than I thought it would be, and you could almost smell the anxiety. Most of the people in the throng had 2012 badges pinned to their pin stripe suits and looked tense as the seemingly endless rituals of children singing and the formality of congratulating all the biding cities. These were not cheering, flag waving photogenic and well-marshalled publicity aids. They were at Trafalgar square. These were people to whom the bid really meant something. They were the local residents, whose hometown and probably their lives would be completely transformed by the outcome of this decision. There were the architects of the bid, for whom the decision would mean that all their hard work was deemed a success or a failure.

As I walked up to the station to take my place in the throng, I bumped into Mike, one of my best friends from home. He has just graduated as an officer in the British Transport Police. He was there in an official capacity to marshal the crowds. I went up and said a quick hello as we had organised to play tennis the next day. He said "I’d love to join you for a swift half after the decision but my bosses seem to think it’s inappropriate". Typical Mike!

Mike was ushered away and we were only moments from the decision. Everyone was silent and we all clambered together to hear what IOC president Jacques Rogge had to say.
They turned up the volume on the big screen. The envelope was opened. "The games of the 30th Olympiad are awarded to the City of"

Pause: the crowd started to rumble with anticipation which was getting so loud I feared I wouldn’t be able to hear it. However then, clear as a bell we heard the word that sent the hundreds gathered into shrieks of joy.
"London!"

It hit me like a thunderbolt! I got rather carried away in the moment. It didn’t matter because everybody did! People we shouting "We’ve done it, we’ve bloody done it!"

Confetti cannons went off, the Bid theme tune started to play and we all felt proud to be a part of that moment. I was surprised to feel like that, and I’m not sure I will again. Although I have done nothing to contribute to the success of the bid apart from register my support and send messages of good will, everyone felt united by the common cause for celebration.

As I turned around and started my walk back to work, the red arrows rocketed past puffing out smoke trails of brilliant red white and blue. At that moment I became a hypocrite as Edith Piaf voice emerged in my subconscious singing #Non, je ne regrette rien#.

Next morning as I got the tube into work, I was reading through The Times reading about London’s triumph from the previous day. The tanoy on the tube interrupted my revelry. We were informed that there had been a suspect package found at Liverpool Street station and that trains were no longer stopping. Furthermore Bank station had been closed because of a power surge due to the rain.

I got off at Stratford as usual and thought little of it. This sort of thing happens a lot on the tube.

I got into work at 9am. As soon as I had sat down, the phone rang to tell me that my recognition event in the centre of town had been cancelled due to a Bomb. I looked at the BBC website and read about the Bomb going off on a Bus at Tavistock Square.

Later reports of bombs going off at Aldgate East, Liverpool Street, Edgware Road, Euston and Kings Cross. Confusion reigned. We wondered if people had been killed, if being in Stratford, that we also would be a target. No one over reacted, but being so close to home, the events rattled us all a bit.

As the situation became clearer, we realised the full story, there had been 4 blasts. One on a bus and three on the tube, causing terror to the poor people suck on the tube trains.

All my appointments for that day and the BOSS day for the Friday were cancelled. People sat huddled around radios and televisions wondering if there were any new developments. Receiving e-mails and phone calls from all over the world making sure they are all ok. Wondering how we were all going to get home having no public transport

After the initial shock of it all, a spirit that is particularly British began to emerge. Our way, London’s way of fighting back showing terrorists that they cannot win was to gel together, help each other out and show a complete indifference to the tragedy of the mornings events. The civilians were following the example of our fantastic emergency services, which have efficiently dealt with the wounded so that they haven’t joined the list of the dead. They have worked so hard and for so long, that London had returned almost to normal with 24 hours. Bravo ladies and gentlemen!

Pubs and private houses were opening their doors to the victims. Making them cups of tea and bites to eat, caring for complete strangers. Everybody chipping in to make sure the terrorists know normal service is resumed.

If the evil people who committed this murderous act thought that by trying to terrorise our multicultural capital that they can divide us, then they were wrong. If they thought that they could cause long term panic and disruption, then they have failed.
Yesterday’s events were tragic and deeply upsetting. Nevertheless the response to these events has been nothing short of miraculous.

The last word should perhaps go to my friend Mike, who didn't make it to the tennis as he was still at work. He was one of the first on the scene at Aldgate East when the Bomb went off. He simply said "Sorry I missed the tennis, but I have seen some bad things today".

What a difference a day makes.

And so the scene is set

"We the willing, led by the unknowing, are doing the impossible for the ungrateful.

We have done so much with so little for so long. We are now qualified to do anything with nothing!" Anon.

This was pretty much how Ian and myself felt as we trudged to the Edward VII pub, our last bastion from work one drizzly lunchtime. We were licking our wounds from a particularly viscous meeting in which our bosses reprimanded us for falling short of our astronomical targets (it got to the point that Ian and I were expected to have worked more hours on a project that there actually were in the week).

Through a conversation I had with Ian earlier in the year, I know that he was interested in working abroad. Canada was mentioned, but to be honest I thought it was a bit of a pipe dream that would disappear faster than a fart in a force 9.

I too had been looking around. I had interviews with the RAF and Navy. I am still thinking about a career in the services (if they'll have me), but at the time I just didn't feel I wanted it enough at that time to put myself through the rigors of it.

So we were both in the Pub with little enthusiasm and even less direction when Ian shouted out of nowhere "lets go and live in Canada!".

I responded in my usual cool and considered way, and said "ok" straight away.

A week or so later we went to a presentation evening hosted by the company who organized the visas. After consulting our respective families and checking the bank balance (bye bye flat deposit) we decided to apply.

There was one shaky moment when I had been accepted for the scheme, but Ian had yet to hear causing panic form both of us. Ian didn't want to be left back at work on his own. I was suddenly thinking that I would be going on my lonesome. Ian's the sensible one!

I needn't have feared. Ian rang the company up ON MY PHONE DURING PEAK TIME and found his place had been reserved.

Like it or not we were Vancouver bound!