2,000 Insane Women, Me and Barry Bulsara

I have a nipper on the way. This means I face an unrelenting pressure to fulfill certain "obligations". One of these is attending the supreme agony of the Baby Show 2011. It's a trap. It's like a mouse taking the very tasty cheese, only to find its spine has been spread like philadelphia on a fat bird's rivita by the rapid strike of a metal bar. Within 18 seconds of arrival, I had a crack squad of ninja hypnotists accosting my woman with offers of a visit to the Apeekaboo Imaging Specialist Midwife 3d/4d ultrasound clinic, just a snip at £120. Then we get pounced on by the Baby Sense, Baby Reflex, Baby Rug, Baby's First Calender and Baby Blooms cartel of mind capturing hustlers, who are asking for a street value of anywhere between £50 - £1000 for their services. For the love of fucking Christ. Naturally, the bird is well and truly intoxicated by this web of sinister lies and I'm having to prize these parasites off my wallet with a broken, sterilised, Avent, newborn to 3 months, bottle. It dawns on me that the only way I can escape this mob alive (or financially solvent) is to bribe my pregnant companion with gifts - so she can speak in hormonese to get us pass the guards.

I did have some rebel allies around me. Whilst the ladies discussed the delightful benefits of the SnoozeShade and Buggy Tug product line with one of the stand's fleecer extraordinaries, I exchanged glances with another fella who displayed a look which read simply as "HELP ME". Like men lost in the desert, all round me I could see dads and dads-to-be spotting flashes of heavenly Sky Sports News on the horizon - only to find it was a tragic mirage and quietly sobbing to themselves. Without a shadow of a doubt, I was overcome with joy that 4 o'clock had arrived and the voodoo wizardry of the charlatan sales army was wearing off on the missus. My escape was on the cards!

Just before I left, I nearly decapitated a toddler with the box of my exciting new bottle sterilising kit. His unhappy dad was a fella who had an uncanny likeness to that nutter, Barry George - who obsessively called himself Barry Bulsara (the real name of Freddie Murcury) and was accused of murdering a famous newsreader. That left me thinking - skaramoosh, skaramoosh - did he kill Jill Dando?

2012 Olympricks: Welcome To St.Ratford

What an exciting time. I was reading about how much the Olympricks is going to cost - £7.301 BILLION. What the fuck. I know Stratford well and you can't polish a shit, or despite what some people say - roll it in glitter. The one logical end result for the Olympic Park will be to build a KFC Ultrastore. This is the only thing that can possibly be accepted as a "legacy" for the local community. 7,301,000,000 one piece snack boxes. Stratford shopping centre makes a closing down sale at the Chernobyl branch of Netto look like a Camilla Parker-Bowles supermarket sweep in Harrods. There's a fish stall. There's a phoneshop. And, thank God, there's a Poundland. It's heads, shoulders, knees and ghettoes. Knees and ghettoes. Keep your eyes on the teef and a hand on your mouth. It's heads, shoulders, knees and ghettoes. Knees and ghettoes.

I am actually looking forward to a few events. Particularly the ones that showcase our local, homegrown talent. The 400m Handbag Relay (stiff competition from the Romanians), Archery featuring the Crossbow Cannibal on day release and, obvious gold chances, the Shooting- it wouldn't be Stratford without a dumbdumb bullet whistling past your face. Naturally, we can't forget the Paralympricks - although it'll be quite tricky to get races started when all the wheels get nicked within a heartbeat of parking on the start line. Equally challenging might be the Aquatic events, it's hard enough to swim with one limb without having to negotiate a skip full of exhaust pipes, an upside down Ford Cortina and two rusty shopping trollies. Best of luck with that folks.

Advertising Magic

Certainly not my ideal breakfast.

Toilet Humour

Apparently it's a faux pas to use the ladies when the gents is out of order.

I'll set the scene. We have two individual, sectioned off, bogs on the shared office landing at work, one gents, one ladies. On Friday, having had two coffees in the morning (and the night before a Nepalese curry), I literally started having contractions and had very little time to reach the WC before certain disaster. Upon my emergency arrival, I see that the gents is "Out of Order". There is only the ladies, que sara, this shit is serious. I would have expected a neat and tidy set up, not piss all over the seat - there's one myth dispelled - but I made my swift spruce, went into labour and gave birth to a rather unlucky Barry. Thank the lord above, the relief was golden, but the following aroma was not something to savour. A bitter, haunting scent that would have made a sniffer dog want to retire. Drying my hands, chuckling at the horror that would meet the next poor soul upon entering this box of woe, I thought it best to get the fuck out as quickly as possible.

I opened the door to see not only one lady - but an entire squad of women from a completely female PR firm based on the same floor, all queuing after returning from a long and boozy lunch meeting - and all desperate to use the facilities. The first woman looked at me in surprise then darted into the toilet as I made my rapid escape. As the door closed she gagged so loudly that it snatched the attention of her colleagues, who all glared at me in utter disgust. When the wave of stench hit them their faces displayed a look of alarm and distress normally reserved for finding a slaughtered litter of puppies - and I was the executioner.

Lesson learnt - apparently it's a faux pas to use the ladies when the gents is out of order - even more so when you're dropping radioactive bombs.