These things are irrittating.  Designed to prove that you’re a human, you have to type in a series of letters, numbers or a combination of both for security issues.  But if it’s just to prove we’re human, why must they make them so bloody difficult to read?

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If you take a job as a taxi driver isn’t it quite important to have some vague idea of where places are and how you get to them? London cabbie’s have to train for years and undertake ‘the knowledge’ before setting foot in a black cab, but once they’re qualified you can guarantee that they’ll know where to go and how to get there. But independent taxi firms? Fuck me.

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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.


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!


I’m 32-years-old this year. I should have stopped playing Football Manager by now. It’s really time to grow up, isn’t it? And yet when my birthday comes around, I know what I want my girlfriend to get me…

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A lot of people criticise Jamie Redknapp, and it’s easy to see why. He’s good looking, he’s married to a pop star and he’s paid to talk about football. His fiercest critics would belittle his views on the beautiful game, but on his day he can be quite engaging, and having met the man I can vouch that he is as polite, good natured and chatty as you would expect. But surely even JR’s biggest fans can’t defend his choice of advertising campaigns.

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