I thought I was being clever when I visited my local supermarket at midnight on Friday. With snowy weather forecast, everyone in the entire country was hitting the supermarket during the daylight hours to pack their house, garage and garden shed full of bread, milk and carpet shampoo. So, to compensate for this, and to ensure that I didn’t go without clean carpets, I decided to make a quick stop to my local Tesco on my way back from a night out on Friday. It was shrewd thinking – the supermarket would be empty and I could get in and out of the store really quickly. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, tiredness and hunger meant my decisions were slightly skewed. I managed to buy Easter eggs for the entire street, enough cereal to feed a small African village, 24 bags of of cat litter (I have no cat) and 15 boxes of tampons thanks to a special offer that I just couldn’t find the energy to turn down. So, ladies, if it’s that time of the month, you’ve got a cat with mild bladder weakness and you like cereal, mine’s the place to be…

Note: Please let me vacate my flat before you arrive, as I can’t bear to argue with you over which Easter egg you want most…

I filmed this game of senior citizen Jenga on my phone in a bar area at a local hotel during a break in my salsa class. The lady’s reaction to toppling the jenga tower is just fantastic!

Important note: no old people were harmed in the making of this film…

Today, I have decided to work from Costa; as a break from being at home. I’ve got my coffee, I’ve got my sandwich and I’ve got my berry muffin. Unfortunately for me, I’ve also “got” a teenage couple sitting on the table next to me. These two teenagers have clearly just discovered the delights of kissing (they’re sitting there sucking each other’s faces off). Now, anyone normal would find a corner somewhere to engage in this private and newly-exciting activity. But, no, they’re literally sitting right in the middle of Costa.

I could move all my stuff (laptop, jacket, bag, coffee, sandwich) onto another table nearby. But, instead, I’m going to sit here, moan lots and think up some mischievous ideas for what to do next. I could:

1. Tell them to get a room at a hotel (one that allows children!)
2. Tut loudly
3. Do nothing (and plug my earphones in)… far too sensible, that one!
4. Hit them. Lots.
5. Start singing. Perhaps a song such as “it started with a kiss…” by Hot Chocolate. I wonder, is there a song called “f*** off and do that somewhere else before I strangle you with my scarf and bury you both in a plant pot!!”
6. Find the nearest supermarket, buy a can of beans, scoff the lot and… well, you can probably guess the rest…
7. Take photographs, threaten to tell their parents and then blackmail them for everything they’ve got (£2.43 in pocket money and half a packet of Chewits)

They clearly think they’re invisible to everyone and that everyone in Costa is hard-of-hearing. I am, at this very moment, wondering whether such a public display of teenage passion is a decent motive for murder.

Maybe I’m just jealous. Do you think I’m jealous? When I was a teenager, I was just happy for a girl to notice me (usually followed by a face of disgust or a comment of “why are you standing outside the girls’ changing rooms?”). I’m not bitter…

Oh crap. I’ve just noticed. I’m looking around at the other tables in here and EVERYONE is a teenager. I’ve accidentally walked into the local puberty asylum. There’s only one thing for it, I’m going to have to put on some tracksuit bottoms, spray myself with 13 cans of Lynx deodorant and don a baseball cap.

You know what, I’m going to be a bit nicer to this couple. I mean, we were all young once. I haven’t eaten my muffin yet, so I could give them that… in small pieces… projected with velocity at their faces!! No, you know what, I’ll go and buy them a present… do they sell Chlamydia Test gift tokens in Boots?

Whether you love it or hate it, texting has become a major part of our daily lives. From keeping in touch with our friends to competitions and promotional offers on television and radio, these days we struggle to be away from our mobile phones for any length of time.

I saw a classic example of the promotional use of texting today whilst watching daytime television. A quiz was sponsored by a de-congestant and they were enticing people to find out more information by texting the word “mucus” to them. Lovely! What next?…

Latest offer: Win a pair of underpants. Simply text the words “I’ve soiled myself and my spare pair are in the washing machine” to 63352

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had numerous discussions with friends about frustrating text message conversations. Based upon those stories, I thought I’d write a post listing some typically frustrating types of text chat. You’ve probably been involved in some of the following types of conversation before:

Textual Harassment

This label applies to those people who bombard us with text messages. I’m sure you’ve been in the situation before where you finish writing a text message, hit send and a reply arrives back on your phone before you’ve even had the chance to put it down and take a sip of your tea. By replying, you’re signing a mini-contract to waste the best part of your day engaging the other person in pointless chatter. What a waste of bloody time!

Textual harrassers will, invariably, end up becoming stalkers and/or participants in late-night radio phone-ins.

Textual Dysfunction

Texts arrive on your phone but don’t make sense. Why? Because they are full of:

1. mis-spelled words
2. txt speak… E.G: “b4 u go out l8r dont 4get 2 put ur shoes on”
3. words that have been changed by the ‘predictive text’ on the sender’s phone

Beware of number 3. A casual phrase, such as this one describing your dinner preparations:

“I have topped off the plate with some peas”

can easily become:

“I have tossed off the slave with some pear”

Now, you’d think that people would read a message through before sending it. But, no. People suffering with textual dysfunction are busy using their single brain cell for another use (breathing, probably) and so have no available capacity do this. As a consequence, you spend half an hour deciphering the message. Text conversations with textual dysfunction sufferers are a constant frustration.

Premature Text Ejaculation

This occurs when someone gets half way through writing a message and then accidentally pushes the send butt…

Textual Frustration

You send an important text message requiring a quick response and stare longingly at your mobile phone – waiting for a reply to come back – for days on end. Nothing. Has the message arrived on the recipient’s phone? Should you send it again? Perhaps they have replied, but it didn’t send properly. One thing’s for sure, you can’t possibly pick up the phone and call them (that’s far too sensible) so you’ll have to just sit there and get frustrated until you end up throwing your phone at the wall (and missing, with your prized iPhone smashing straight through your 54 inch plasma television). Now you’re even more cross…

Tosser… I’ll never speak to him ag… ah, what’s that bleeping sound coming from inside the television?

Those who engage in textual harassment tend to regularly suffer from textual frustration… usually within about 5 seconds of sending their message.

Rebound Text

This occurs when you dump your existing phone, after becoming bored with the features, and get a new model, with a new number. You must immediately send out the obligatory message to your entire contact list (3 people) to make them aware of your new number.

Textual Depravity

This label can be given to those people who regularly indulge in sending rude and tasteless jokes.

We all like a funny joke or two. However, there are some people who not only text jokes around to their entire address book, but also consider themselves to be the King/Queen of party entertainment. They pull their phone out of their pocket at gatherings and recite their entire list of jokes to everyone in the room. They chortle loudly at their own jokes, thinking they’re funny. However, everyone just thinks they’re a tosser.

Textual Tension

This label is for a text conversation where, due to the fact that text lacks emotion, something is misread and interpreted the wrong way, leading to a fight. Your sarcastic message to your other half telling him/her “thanks for cooking me dinner tonight, I wish I could say it was delicious…” may well receive the reply of “well, f*ck off then, you can cook next time…” This mistake is an expensive one, usually requiring flowers, chocolates and plenty of grovelling (in person and in text)…

To Conclude:

Far from being joyous, texting can be an inconvenient and frustrating pain in the arse. It’s time to take a good look at yourself. Do you fall into one of these categories? If so, keep it to your bloody self!!!

With thanks to mejh for the photo

Coming to a service station near you soon (possibly), it’s the 24hr Hot Menu (from frozen) vending machine. These are popping up all over Japan, so it may not be long before you spot one in the UK. You might see two machines alongside each other – this one for “casual frozen foods” and another one for formal chilled foods – a cornish pasty dressed in a tuxedo, for example.

So, who would use this sort of service?

Picture the scene… you’ve just crawled out of the local night club at 2am and are desperately craving some meat (as are the two hookers leaning on the lamppost across the street). The local kebab shop was fire-bombed last week and the only place open to you is the local service station. However, because you live in the roughest location in the entire world, they are not allowing people into the shop area; choosing instead to serve customers petrol and small snacks whilst cowering behind a screen of 12-inch-thick bullet-proof glass. If only there was a quick and simple way of getting some hot, fast food…

Your luck is in, as they’ve just installed a new vending machine on the forecourt that allows you to buy a hot meal. You approach the machine and stand there, swaying, whilst trying to focus on what each meal photograph is supposed to represent. One is shaped a bit like a fish and another looks like a pair of battered testicles. One thing is for certain – they all seem to come with chips. So, you opt for the cheapest one (sparrow and fries). Now then, where’s the vending machine for the condiments…?

Would you eat anything from one of these machines?

I felt compelled to write a blog post about this as it stirred up feelings of both hilarity and shock in quick succession. The green item pictured to the left is a plastic sperm with a nose piercing (keyring). Where did I get hold of it? Go on, have a guess… (any of you who have teenage children may already know the answer to this question). My friend’s 15-year-old son was given this green ‘funky spunk’ at school. It’s part of a government initiative, which means that these sperms are coming out of our pockets… so to speak.

So, why was he given the pea-coloured, artificial semen? Well, the children at his school undertook a chlamydia test. In exchange, they were presented with a free ‘shot of plastic man juice’ (available in a variety of sizes and colours… I’m not sure how they decided who was given which) and a £5 gift voucher. I still haven’t worked out what they are expected to do with the keyring. Perhaps they take it home at the end of the day and present it to their parents, proudly announcing “look Mum, I don’t have chlamydia!! Oh, and, as a celebration, I’ve bought myself some pornography with my gift voucher…”

Is it a sign of the times that teenage kids now receive prizes for not having a sexually transmitted disease? Perhaps they should go one step further and test for all the other STDs at the same time? If they pass, they could be given a free cock ring (available in a variety of sizes and colours) and a 12 month pass to their local strip club… (just a suggestion)

Now, when I was at school I used to get picked on for my big nose (the bastards… where are they now? Probably working in a factory, producing plastic crap for Christmas crackers and… government initiatives). However, it appears that times have changed. So, I suspect that the latest playground bullying conversation will probably go along the lines of this:

“Come on then, Wayne, where’s your sperm-ring? Hey EVERYONE – Wayne’s got chlamydia!!”

Yesterday, I was strolling happily through a London tube station when I spotted an attractive lady with the word “love” emblazened across her chest. As I passed her by, a question popped into my head: does she love her ample bosom or does she want me to love it? Furthermore, does she have two different t-shirts, with the ‘hate’ one being reserved for her ‘time of the month’ or moments where she suffers with particularly low self-esteem?

I was clearly giving the whole moment too much thought, as I began debating whether to go out looking for a t-shirt with “marriage” written across it. Afterall, if the saying is correct, her and I would go together like a horse and carriage! That’s a very old phrase though – these days it should probably be updated to “love and marriage, love and marriage, he’ll end up an alcoholic and she’ll smell of cabbage.” Yes, I know what you’re thinking – it is a rather sad statement. But, there is some truth in the thought that marriage is like a deck of cards – at first, all you need is two hearts and a diamond. Years later, all you want is a club and a spade.

Anyway, I very much enjoyed the lady’s outburst of love (I suspect that the wonderbra helped quite a lot with that).

A list of the most stressful experiences that anyone can go through in their lifetime will include events such as the death of a family member, divorce and moving house. I think that supermarket self-checkouts should be added to that list…

When approaching the checkouts with your three items of shopping, there are usually two choices open to you. You can queue up behind the hoards of families putting their monthly food shop through the tills of the spotty trainees or you can risk your mental health by using the self-service checkout systems. The world of personal shopping really has gone out of the window, to be replaced by a form of torture only previously seen on bad Japanese game shows. Still, it can’t really be that bad…. can it?

A few days ago, I gave the self-checkout a try. My first challenge came with deciding where to queue. There were three rows of checkouts and other customers seemed as perplexed as me about choosing which queue to join. They were all milling around looking like they were mentally building complicated mathematical algorithms to decide where to go. I found myself joining in with this pointless exercise…

“Should I opt for the queue with the fewest people or should I also take into consideration the number of items in the basket of each shopper in each queue? In addition, should I factor in the likely intelligence of the people in the queues?”

There was one certainty with all this – whichever queue I chose would be the wrong one. Sure enough, I got stuck behind a lady who couldn’t find the barcode on her packet of Ryvita, a teenager who needed to individually select 15 different flavours of muffin using the on-screen interactions, an old lady who spent 5 minutes sorting through her over-large collection of plastic loyalty cards and, finally, an elderly man who delayed one-second too long in putting an item into his ‘bag for life,’ setting all the alarm bells off. At that moment I was so filled with rage that I wanted to strangle him (rendering his ‘bag for life’ useless forever after)

When I finally arrived at the self-checkout machine, frustration turned to stress. I suddenly felt all self-conscious that it was my turn and realised that everyone in the queue behind me was watching me, waiting for me to do something stupid and forming opinions based upon the combination of items in my basket. I really should have given it more thought before proceeding through the self-checkouts with condoms, lube and an extra-large cucumber…

It was then that I wished I’d taken my items and hidden them under a loaf of bread on one of the conveyor belt checkouts. I tried to scan the items quickly and, inevitably, set the flashing lights and alarms off. In my mind, I could hear an announcement being made over the supermarket tannoy system:

Security announcement: unexpected contraception has been found in the bagging area… and he’s got an extra-large cucumber too, what’s he going to do with that?

Locked out from the system, I felt completely helpless. I looked around desperately for assistance and a lady in uniform came to help me (no, not the police). She scanned her card through the system, gave me a look as if to say “can’t you do anything right?” and then told me to carry on. In the meantime, I could hear the people queueing behind me tutting, huffing and whistling to themselves (it could well have been to the tune of ‘Right Here Waiting For You,’ I was too busy panicking to be able to tell). Sweating profusely, I paid, grabbed my bags and beat a hasty retreat.

What an ordeal! If I’d wanted to spend my precious time scanning shopping, I’d have applied for a job as a (non-spotty) checkout operator. It’s not service, it’s not quick and it’s certainly not personal – I don’t even get the benefit of having a pointless conversation with a miserable checkout operator. Quite simply, it’s me working for the supermarket and not being paid for it. There’s no fun or benefit to me in that.

Well, it was inevitable. Your partner bought you cake and chocolates for your birthday and now they’re showing on your waist. You looked in the mirror today and your self-esteem dropped through the floor. Thank goodness your home was built well, otherwise you might have plummeted through the floor with it. With the weather being so cold outside, the idea of a run seems about as enviable as a night in doing your tax return. There’s only one thing for it – you’re going to have to make a visit to the gym…

Prising yourself out of the warmth of your home, and wearing your most fashionable leotard, you head along to the local fitness centre – Waist Management.

After paying your entrance fee, you squeeze through the turnstiles and are greeted with a plethora of torture devices. It’s decision time; should you try the rowing machine, the cross-trainer or the treadmill?

Decision time

As if things aren’t already uncomfortable enough for you, in your over-tight leotard, you’ve just spotted someone that you know and, inevitably, hate. It’s your work colleague, Hal (surname: Itosis), a man with a mouth so gargantuan that he could use a broom to brush his teeth. He enjoys winding you up with his sarcastic comments (whilst wafting a mixture of marmite and espresso breath past your nostrils). The annoying shit is leaning on the water machine trying to pretend he’s Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’ll no doubt take pleasure in watching you prance up and down on a cross-trainer looking like the back half of a pantomime cow.

Whilst thoughts of dread echo through your mind, one of the cross-trainers becomes free, as the man drags himself off and crawls away towards the water machine. He’s left behind a present for you – his sweat; all over the machine.

After dragging the entire contents of the paper towel dispenser across the room, tripping up several people in the process, you dry the cross-trainer, clamber on and start your exercising. You set the machine to level 1 difficulty so that you can move really fast and look far more impressively fit than you are. Instead of looking at you, everyone will be looking at the guy to your left, Jim, who is struggling on level 10 (whilst listening to ‘Eye Of The Tiger’ from the Rocky film). You’ve nicknamed him Jim because of his uncanny resemblance to Jimmy Saville.

A few minutes later…

After three minutes on the cross-trainer, you’re beginning to feel bored. No-one is sharing conversation (so much for the gym being a social thing). Instead, everyone around you is wearing earphones; plugged into their music mix of Lady GaGa, Bon Jovi and the Village People. In need of something to break the tedium, you stare at the television that sits bolted to the wall at the front of the room. It’s showing music videos. Well, they’re supposed to be music videos. They actually seem to be a mixture of nudity, sadomasochism and debauchery… with lyrics that you can’t actually hear.

Ten minutes more hard work go by…

You’re kicking up quite a sweat. The realisation then hits you that you’ve been in a trance for the last five minutes – unable to drag your eyes from the hypnotic movement of the female walrus on the running machine in front. Determined not to focus on her repetitive buttock movement (RBM), you look back up at the television screen. The music channel has taken a commercial break and the television is now taunting you with an advert for fish and chips. Wow, that looks good…

There must be some consolation for this continued torture – the exercise must be doing you good. You’ve probably burned off enough calories for…. fish and chips. You look down at your screen for some statistics and it’s only too willing to show you – you’ve been exercising for 15 minutes, you’ve burned off 100 calories and your heart rate is…. it’s not showing. It was showing a minute ago, but now it’s not. That’s it then – you’re dead. You decide to warn Jim on the machine next to you that he may need to call an ambulance. He’s still got his headphones in, so you’ll need to scribble it down…. “Dear Jim, please can you fix it for me to have an ambulance, as I think my heart has stopped?”

Life and death

Ten minutes further on and you’re still alive and kicking – it looks as if you won’t need that ambulance after all. The same can’t be said for poor Jim, who is laying face down on the floor. A brief, cruel smirk rises across your face as you remember that he was, ironically, listening to a song by Survivor ten minutes ago.

Looking around at the other people in the room, the walrus has finished on her running machine and is now fiddling with her briefs to try and extract them from her bottom. The gym instructor is looking frustrated at the immense pile of paper towel sitting on the floor next to your cross-trainer… you decide not to acknowledge him and hope that he doesn’t realise you were responsible. Wondering where Hal’s gone, you look behind you and realise that he’s been on the weight machines staring hypnotically at your bottom for the last 20 minutes. The shit – he’s going to have a field day with this one.

You’ve finished!

After finishing your workout, you stagger to the water machine. As you stand there, feeling tired but good, the paramedics carry Jim past you on a stretcher. The poor bugger.

Gym session over. Tomorrow you’re going to feel stiffer than a w*nker’s hanky. The question is: which will hurt more – the aching from your gym session or the sarcastic comments from Hal?

Right, time for fish and chips….

I recently wrote a blog article called Make Your Supermarket Trip Fun. Since then, life has gone a bit mad with work and a flat move. However, today I’m back and I’m…. writing about supermarkets again. I don’t live in a supermarket, believe me (but, if I did, I’d pitch my tent in the bakery aisle).

I was queueing at a supermarket checkout yesterday. Everyone was being so polite – standing in a straight line, not saying what they were thinking (“what the hell is he buying shampoo for – he’s bald?”). It got me thinking: I wonder if there are any articles on supermarket etiquette. It turns out that there are. Here’s one written for WikiHow.

However, it’s very boring, so here’s:

Alastair’s Alternative Supermarket Checkout Etiquette

1. Fill up a basket with as many individual items as you possibly can – stack them high and make sure you include a watermelon and a baguette (more on that in a minute). Then, making it obvious that you’re struggling to carry the heavy weight, head to the ‘basket only’ aisle. Whilst standing in the queue attracting everyone’s attention, keep muttering the words “I’m sure I’ve forgotten something….” Next, start counting your items loudly, but keep forgetting what number you got to and start again.

2. As you stand in the queue, comment on the shopping of the person behind you. Draw particular attention to anything that could possibly be embarrassing and talk in a loud voice. “Ah, I see you’re buying a cucumber…. so, you don’t have a fella in your life at the moment then….”

3. When you get to the stage where there is one person infront of you, grab the watermelon from your basket and hurl it down the conveyor belt towards the other end. As it hits the customer’s shopping pile, and scatters their items in all directions, yell out the word “STRIKE!” and do a little celebration dance.

4. Once the person infront has collected their goods (from the conveyor belt, the floor and the trolleys of various passers-by) and the conveyor belt is completely empty, seize your opportunity. Lay down on the conveyor belt (front first) and belly-surf your way down to the far end with your arms out (tip: ensure you haven’t put any shopping on the conveyor belt first).

5. As you talk to the cashier, change accents frequently and see if they notice. Start British, then move to American, Italian, Australian, French and finish with Welsh (as they always come last ).

6. When asked if you require assistance with packing your shopping, say “yes.” When the assistant arrives and begins to help you pack, repeatedly beat them over the head with the baguette and shout “come on – FASTER!!”

7. Help the cashier out. As they are scanning your items, lean over and start tapping the keys on their keypad. When asked what you are doing, tell them that you’re trying to solve a complex logarithmic equation that will safeguard the future of humanity. To help them further, make the beeping sound yourself as they scan items in (and vary the pitch).

8. When it comes to paying, pull a huge bag of pennies out of your pocket and begin to count them out, one by one. As you’re counting, forget where you got to and start again. Attempt to enlist the help of passers by, and the employee helping you pack, in counting your money and offer to pay them 10 pence each for their trouble. Increase the offer in 1 pence amounts until they agree, then pull out a contract form for them to fill in and sign.