I Am (Apparently) Not A Stuntman...

About 18-25 drinks. A blend of London pubs on a stag night adventure. Beer. Spirits. Mixed beery spirits. Spirity mixed beer. Green stuff with taurine. After a very fun initial rampage through Wapping and then Whitechapel, I remember not very much at all. The vague memory I do have is the night bus driver shouting at me for making sick-like noises then kicking me off the bus. "Where the fuck am I?" I thought, as I literally swayed myself off the bus. All I could see was houses. I found another bus stop and realised I was in Hainault. Brilliant, I'm in England. I swayed my way down the road towards the station and found a closed cab office. As I had no battery on my battered phone, I used a phone box which appeared to eat the first four pound coins until it started working. I must have sounded totally ruined but the nice man said someone was coming to get me. Yipee. The cab arrived about 14 years later and I was delighted to be sitting in the warm - but it only made me more battered. I didn't know which way to tilt my head but it was guided by which way the car turned, like I was feeling G forces in a fighter jet. Luckily, very luckily, I live on a gated estate. Even in my supreme levels of drunkenness, I conjured a cunning plan to evade the driver and avoid having to pay the fare (I didn't have more than 87p anyway). I got through the gate but, in my ultimate wisdom, let Sergei come through after me. I must have totally snailed down the road away from the driver cos he didn't chase me at all - but I thought he was! He started shouting "Hey! Hey!" and I thought I better leg it quicktime or the geezers gonna switch. Running in between the blocks, I thought I could hear him coming after me so had to speed up. Rather than just run down the 5 steps in front of me, I decided it was critical to my hasty escape to absolutely launch myself, at the greatest possible height and speed, into the air. Dropping from about 10ft, I landed on my ankle, smashed my face and performed a stunning double diagonal roll. Some tekkers are baaaaaad. Absolutely broken and fucked from the impact, blood coming out of my hand and ankle ruined, I pulled myself off the floor and hobbled off round the corner and into my block. Mission accomplished, ta ta Sergei. Unfortunately, as I woke up on the floor wearing a defrosting steak & kidney pie and hugging a loafer, I realised that I'm not actually a stuntman and I'm in 11 shades of pain.

An Open Letter To Mr Lately...

Dear Mr Lately,

You have come into my shop, now, 17 times. Your dishevelled appearance and pungent stench of "skunk" is not only distressing to myself, it is off-putting to my customers, even rastafarian Duncan, a patron of many years. I felt it necessary to write to you and officially inform you - you are now BANNED from the shop. It beggars belief that you cannot accept we do not stock, or have ever stocked, the 1992 trance mix "Pulse and Thunder". Naturally, your relentless pursuit of this unknown track aroused concern from my staff and we were forced to investigate your identity, hence this letter.

Are you actually the biggest buffoon in the history of air and food? Did it not cross your mind at any stage of your life, perhaps 1992, to create a copy of this alleged mix, for your own personal use? This strikes me as rather bizarre, Mr Lately. The suspicions of myself and some of the staff members are that you do, in fact, have multiple copies of this imaginary track and are using my shop for some form of cheap self-satisfaction. On that note, if you are seen within 100 metres of my shop we will be forced to call the police. Glenda, my sales assistant you recently assaulted when she laughed at what we now know is your vague and ridiculous name, has acquired a taser and she is most willing to use it - a taste of your own pulse and thunder if you will.

Additionally, it is shameful exploitation to send a girl of 14 on your pathetic marketing errands. We gathered she was your daughter by her equally dishevelled appearance and, rastafarian Duncan explained, her consistently red eyes were a sure sign of cannabis abuse. Disgusting, Mr Lately.

Your daughter is also banned.

With no regards at all,

The Proprietor, Haggle Vinyl.

Arise: Sir Charlie Sheen

Words cannot describe how much of an epic legend Charlie Sheen has become in a fortnight. I'd fucking knight the fella and name a leisure centre after him:

The Sir Charlie Sheen Leisure Centre,
54 Caincrack Cresent,
Stoneburn-Upon-Pipe,
Crackshire.
CR4 CK0

Sheen says "I'm tired of pretending I'm not special. I'm tired I'm pretending I'm not bitching a total fricken rockstar from mars". Aptly put Mr Sheen, you are indeed special and nobody can deny you are bitching a total fricken rockstar from mars - how foolish of us to presume otherwise. He then went on to mention "Yeah, I am on a drug, it's called CHARLIE SHEEN! It's not available cos if you try it you will die, your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body". (I've always wondered why my gran went madder than a gaggle of rabid geese when she polished the oak table in the front room, they need to put some warnings on that shit.) This came in the same statement of intent that he is going to sue CBS for $300 million following the firm booting him off his show. Outrageous. How dare they sack the man for merely being more buzzing than a kicked hornets nest for 26 hours a day?

I'd quite like to lock up Mr Sheen, Gillian McKeith, Frank Bruno and Kerry Katona in a dungeon with only magic mushrooms, meow meow and buckfast tonic wine as their only rations - wonder who would come out alive? On recent performances, my money's on Sheen. Whilst Bruno brutally raped McKeith for her snatch seasoning and teabag stash, I could see Katona's involuntary twitching rendering her powerless to Sheen's "fire breathing fists". As Bruno stood triumphantly laughing at his new bag of fishy oregano taken from McKeith's redundant corpse, his guard would be down - allowing Sheen to launch his venomous spit into Bruno's eyes, killing him instantly in a hallucinogenic nightmare and ending the melee victorious.

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.