You finally get the urge to sign up to a gym.  You agree to pay upwards of forty quid a month to experience sweat and pain.  In return the gym agree to give you an induction and three free training sessions with a personal trainer.  You imagine them to be toned, tanned and in perfect shape. 

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I actually really like water.  It’s cold, it’s refreshing, it’s delicious.  When I go to a restaurant and I am asked if I would like some ‘water for the table’, I always say yes (although I’m not quite sure what a table would want with water, it’s hardly going to drink it).

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I have the worst eyes in the world.  Well, maybe not in the world, but certainly pretty bloody shit eyes. 

I’ve worn glasses since I was thirteen.  I was the kid at school with lenses thicker than Lee Ryan from Blue.  For some reason at that age, I chose to wear read and gold tinted frames that made me look like Dennis Taylor’s lovechild.  And ever since, year on year, my eyes have got steadily worse.

Today I wear contact lenses.  Each year I go to the optician hoping that my eyes will have ‘evened out’ and not deterioated even further.  But each year I am disappointed. 

Only people with shit eyesight will know what it’s like fumbling your way to the bathroom each morning, fuzzy eyed and blinky.  Only people with shit eyesight will know what it’s like to hit the very pinnacle of tiredness on public transport, and know that you cannot shut your eyes for fear of waking up with dried plastic contact lenses stuck to your retina.  Only people with shit eyesight will have genuinely considered laser eye surgery, which does actually involve a person shooting a fucking laser into your eyes.  A LASER!

This is how desperate we are for a solution.  A solution to the problem of shit eyesight.  We need help.  We need a miracle.  And we need it now.  If my eyes keep going downhill, soon I’ll need a dog and a white stick, and that’s even worse than looking like a relative of a former snooker champion.  So please, somebody, HELP ME.


This is one hell of a heart-breaking moment. Finding out that the jolly fat fellow in the red who magically drops off presents into your room every Christmas Eve is in fact not Father Christmas, but actually your parents.

I was convinced Father Christmas existed until my best friend at the age of seven, Stephen Gill, nonchanantly decided to tell me the horrible truth at the school dinner table. I was tucking into my cheddar cheese sandwiches looking forward to that magical time of year once again, and Stephen decided to ruin the entire festive period by telling all.

And as tough to take as it was, it suddenly all made sense. So that’s why my parents are so keen to leave out some booze and biscuits for him – so they can have it! I’d always thought it was quite irresponsible of mum and dad to get Santa shit-faced on whisky and then send him on his merry way, steering a gaggle of reindeer through the night sky behind the wheel of his sleigh.. Now it makes sense. They weren’t advocating drink-driving, they were getting drunk themselves!

It makes sense of course, but it is sad. Because Father Christmas epitomises Christmas. I know the Christians will kick off and say it’s about God and Jesus and Mary and the donkey blah blah blah, but Santa Claus is the one magical character that adds a touch of fantasy to the festive season. A man who children adore and think of as this magical, all-seeing, gift giving hero. A santa superhero. It’s brilliantly innocent. And I for one will do my best to make sure my kids still belive in Father Christmas until they’re well into adulthood.

I’m sure that won’t fuck them up…


Lifts.  They’re everywhere.  I have one in my apartment block.  I have one in my workplace.  Because of the sheer number of lifts in my life I am pretty sure I am au fait with how they work.  You pick the number of the floor that you want to go to, and you push the appropriate button – right?  In fact, more often than not the button will light up, confirming your selection.  Soon you will be taken to your desired destination.  Simple.

Why then do people come into the lift after you, and push THE SAME BUTTON like you’re a fucking moron who is incapable of working this fairly straight-forward contraption?  Why do they look at you, smile, and then do exactly what you did five seconds earlier?  Why?  Why do they not trust me?  Why do they think that my lift technique is somehow going to fail them? 

Oh I know why.  Because they’re fucking arseholes.  That’s why.

NB:  These people can also be found at traffic lights, re-pressing the pedestrian crossing button.  ARGGGHHH!

65: WIGS

I know losing your hair must be tough.  Mine is one the way out at the front.  It must be tough to accept that you have more hair on your arse than on your head.  But please, don’t go down the wig route.  It’s embarrassing.

PS, I love SIR TERRY WOGAN.  He’s allowed a wig.


Playboy is a multi-million pound brand and as you can see from above, they are very good at what they do. They get hotties to take their clothes off, pose for a cameraman and then put the pictures in a magazine so that men can toss themselves off to their hearts content. But Playboy have also started manufacturing clothes, make-up bags and wallets, and I’m not quite sure who they’re looking to appeal to.

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Why do TV channels think anyone at home enjoys some smug wanker giving us their views on programmes before telling us what’s on next.  Coming up with lame jokes and being overly chatty and matey – I don’t know you, I don’t want to know you, stop talking to me through my fucking TV set.

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I’m sure the Harry Potter books are really good. I’m sure that they’re as enjoyable for adults as they are for children. And I’m sure that the end of the Potter saga came as a blow to many loyal fans who have grown up with the little scar-faced runt.

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