Karma's a bitch... Hopefully

I am literally 'back on the saddle' now, as my pledge to never, ever use the train to commute again continues. I cycled to work today. Boy oh boy was it hot. No breeze or anything. But cycling up Ben Nevis through treacle on a seat adorned with rows of razor blades whilst on fire would still be preferable to sitting (or more likely standing) next to all the other stinky and repugnant bags of flesh we like to call humans on an over-stuffed carriage with an internal temperature of 1,000 degrees. I really do hate the train.

I had been cycling to work for a couple of months, but this was rudely interrupted by my return from holiday, when I was greeted with a somewhat empty garage, with a blank space where my beloved bicycle used to be. I had all my ridiculous cycling gear on and everything, including my lady-pleasing cycling shorts and a cycling helmet that makes my head look even more bulbous and ridiculous than normal, my reed-like neck barely supporting my massive brain and gormless face. I was upset. Not knowing what to do, I closed the garage door again and walked off. As it was about 6am and I was jetlagged, I then went back to the door and opened it again just to check that my barely-functioning brain had somehow not seen the bike. But the bike was still gone.

I then went back into the house and looked for the bike in all of my rooms, even the upstairs ones, but the bike was not there. It's amazing how a bit of denial and jet lag can rob someone of all their common sense. Eventually, I had to concede defeat and change back into clothes appropriate for work and board the dreaded and despised train. Which was, of course, late. I got into work, and regaled my disinterested colleagues with my dreadful story. Then a few of them tutted when I said that I had left my bike in a locked garage. Apparently garage locks are just there for show, and can be picked with a bit of soggy tissue. I was then advised that I should have added some more locks, which is always useful to hear 6 weeks after purchasing a new bike, when none of them bothered to impart that same advice when it may have actually been useful.

So it transpired that I was a victim of crime yet again, as I have been several times in my life. All pretty petty and non-threatening crimes, admittedly, Apart from the occasion when I was threatened with what must have been a 6-year-old child in Trocadero once; he attempted to mug me, and informed me that we was Triad, at which point i soiled myself. I have lost about 4 bicycles to the nimble-fingered thieves in South West London now. In fact, my primary reason for not getting a bike for so long was the almost certain knowledge that the bike would be stolen. I just thought that I might get longer than 6 weeks with it.

And then there are my Car-related tales of woe. In my first car I was shunted into the middle of a busy roundabout by a moron in a huge Jag, which then sped off. My vast head nearly fell off, and I had to wear a spongy collar for a month, and my car was written off. I had to cut into the back shelf just to retrieve my stuff from the boot, as it had been rendered permanently shut. In a later car my stereo was nicked by some ratboy who simply bent the top of the drivers door until it was roughly horizontal which was very considerate of him as I could never raise or lower the window again and a lovely whistle could be heard when exceeding 40 mph. This then pretty much occurred again in a later car, although this time a SatNav was the target. But the SatNav was not present, so they just nicked all the leads and rifled through my wife's gym bag instead.

But I have a new bike now. Never let it be said that I give up. Well that has been said as I regularly start and then abandon things because I lose interest. So I give up lots but I did get a new bike, so I'm back on the road. I even put some additional locks on the garage and stuff. But what of the perpetrators of this sinister crime? what judgment will they face? Well in all likelihood, they will face absolutely nothing. I know that they live in the flats near me. They are the only ones who can see my route to the garages. I imagine them salivating, as they remove my poor bike from its home. Taking it back to their lair where they then disrobe and toss each other off and shit on each other, before swapping the bike for a wrap of skag.

But hope is eternal and I hope that whoever took my bike kept hold of it; and on one very steep descent when landing from one of their idiotic wheelies the front forks suddenly and unexpectedly snapped, sending their gibbering face plunging into the concrete. Then the Car behind them had no time to stop and ran over their tiny little head, which popped like a grape. Then the truck behind the car hit the car and exploded, setting the little thieving and dead cunt on fire, so even his mum who is also his sister and gran wouldn't recognise him.

The cult of the fag hag

There was a film a few years ago featuring Jennifer Aniston, which meant a lot of people didn't watch it. But for those that did, it made the prospect of being blind and deaf positively beneficial. The film was called 'The Object Of My Affection' in which a terminally-typecast squawking Aniston tried to ensnare her male best friend, who happens to be gay. Amazingly enough for a Hollywood film, she doesn't end up with the gay chap, and it's not happy ever after. However there is approximately 2 hours of Aniston pulling out all the stops to 'get her man' (Am I the only man who wishes Aniston would disappear up her own arse? She was shit in friends, and shit in all of the identikit romcoms she has been in. In fact, her best role was in South Park, as at least she wasn't visible.)

There is a point to this - women such as these exist in real life. And seldom are they as aesthetically pleasing as Perennial bridesmaid Ms. Aniston, and that's saying something. Most gay men have some level of female following, and the reasons for this are obvious - gay men make great company. Gay men will a) Not try to shag you, which is what every straight man will be after, regardless of their denials. They will also b) Not look better than you in a dress, unless you are fat and ugly, in which case you shouldn't be wearing a dress. c) Gay men can bitch incessantly, but will not get under your skin like a bitching woman would. d) They know how men work, so are much better at explaining male behaviour than any speculative efforts from one of your drama queen, man-hating, female friends.

In many ways then, a gay man should be the perfect companion for a woman. However, it can all go wrong when the woman falls for the gay man and starts to fantasise about converting them into heterosexuals. Below are some scenarios that cause women to become infatuated with gay men. Are you one of them? Do you fancy any or all of the following. Rupert Everett, George Michael, Will Young, Tom Cruise, John Travolta, David Cameron, Simon Cowell, Dale Winton.

1) Your gay friend has said he loves you. This doesn't mean he wants to shack up with you. Gay men tell women they love them the way that women tell women they love them. It's platonic.

2) Your gay friend is (i)impeccably well-groomed, (ii)wears smart, designer clothes, (iii) goes to they gym regularly and (iv)smells great. It's because he's gay. Straight men are hardly ever all 4 of these, and even if they are it won't last long. That's because straight men have better things to do than grooming, like eating or playing old videogames.

3) Your gay friend likes to touch your knee, cuddle you and so on. Sometimes you get the impression that he is flirting with you. Gay men are tactile in the same way that women are tactile towards each other. He does not fancy you.

In summation, then, pretty much all gay men don't like vaginas, and may even find them repulsive. none of this should be a newsflash. To any women who are infatuated with gay men and are reading this I have the following advice.

1) Treasure your friendship with your gay friend and stop moping. You will NEVER get him.
2) Put on some makeup or something. Then you might attract the attentions of an eligible man.
3) Take some cooking and sewing classes to improve your chances of finding Mr. right.

Things I actually like

People often ask me if I actually like anything, since I am so unnecessarily critical about things that shouldn't bother me at all. And the answer is, of course I like things. I like things too innumerate to commit to words. But to give you some insight, here is a brief A-Z of things I like.

Ants
Being indoors
Computers
Dinosaurs
Eggs
Films
Goldfishes
Hiding
Indian food
Junk food
Koalas
Lego
MILFs
Nanobots
Orangutans
Pudding
Quantum physics
Reading (The pastime, not the place - that's awful)
Supertramp
Transformers
Umbrellas
Velcro
Winter Coats
X-ray specs (I have these)
Yangtze river Dolphins (R.I.P.)
Zealots

So next time someone says I don't like anything, I can refer them to this list. That's a massive 26 things that I definitely like.

The only way is Wessex

I've just had a brilliant idea for a new reality show which I'm sure I can get onto ITV6 or something. Kerry Cacktona can narrate it. The royal family are somewhat basking in the glow of popularity at the moment, given the royal wedding and the visit by the Obamas. Obviously having the Obamas visit is by far the bigger event, given that Barack Obama patently HATES the UK because his grandad was a Mau Mau or something. I'm amazed that he was able to not berate something British for a full few days, but then being a 2-FACED CUNT he probably found it easy. And Prince Philip didn't mention spears, cannibalism or Rorke's drift once! Well done Prince Philip!

With this in mind I feel the time is ripe for a 'fly on the wall' documentary about the royals. All the characters are there and the scripts will practically write themselves! Imagine the hilarity as Kate Middleclass and the Pig-faced South African slag that Harry occasionally ruts clash over who will die of anorexia first! William and Harry can exchange good-willed banter while all the time the cameras desperately try to evade the full glare of Will's slaphead and Harry's obvious gingerness and non-resemblance to his supposed full sibling. 'Uncle' James Hewitt can come around and have almost father and son-like conversations with Harry about the most efficient way to have sex with lots of posh women.

Then there are the ugly sisters, played with aplomb by Beatrice and Eugene. They will sneer and cackle as they place a whoopee cushion under Kate's non-existent bum. Although unfortunately their plan won't work because Kate is too light to set a whoopee cushion off. The Queen can cook one of her famous hot pots and then chastise Phillip for trying to steal the hot pot from the kitchen window sill and generally being a massive old racist. Edward and Charles can argue about who looks the most inbred by counting their extra fingers and toes to decide the true winner, but as neither of them can count past 10 a winner is never declared.

Fergie can pop round and beg Andrew for some cake and 10 thousand pounds to get her through the next week, and threaten to say nasty things to Oprah and the massive US audience who inexplicably love her if he refuses to comply. Princess Anne will accidentally be shot to death by one of the Queen's short-sighted slaves after mistaking her for a lame horse and everyone will have a jolly good laugh about it. We can even have the treat of a Christmas Special as they all make their way up to Balmoral in the Range Rover for their monthly holiday and the Queen will accidentally leave Camilla behind! And titter as the feral Scotsmen make a pig's ear of our beautiful language and generally prove themselves to be inferior!

This is the single best idea that I have ever had in my life. Someone should make this shit happen. I should talk to Prince Edward - after all he 'masterminded' the royal 'It's a Knockout' tournament which was massively successful and not at all the single worst idea that anyone has ever had since an idealistic young Chap called Adolf decided to get into politics. And I think Edward had a production company or something until he was declared bankrupt and utterly incompetent for the nth time. Poor Edward.