I can’t sing. I like to think that I can, but I really can’t. In addition, I hate watching other people sing when they’ve clearly got the musical talent of a drunk Labrador. So, imagine my quandary when I was approached by a gorgeous, Mexican lady and asked to participate in a karaoke evening…

Let’s start with some background on where I am. I’m on holiday in sunny Cancun, Mexico – the only place in the world where buses have a bus to catch (they speed around, competing with one another for passengers). I’m staying in an all-inclusive hotel, where food, alcohol and entertainment are thrown at you and ingested like feeding time at the local crocodile park. It really is modern debauchery at its finest.

Yesterday, after a day of relaxation mixed in with a tragic attempt at pool-side salsa dancing and some beach soccer, I was relaxing in the bar with a drink. It was at this point that I was approached by the gorgeous Mexican lady, Paola, wearing a stunning dress. With my brain distracted and tongue half hanging out, I heard her mumble something about a karaoke show. Alarm bells sounded in my head. I did the only thing I could think of – I nodded enthusiastically (to seem bold and brave), before running off to hide in a corner where she couldn’t find me. Unfortunately, she sought me out and discovered my hiding place.

Sitting down next to me, she had her book of songs at the ready. I flicked through the pages, trying to buy some time to figure out a way to say “no” without looking like a boring, spoil sport. However, my clever brain had deserted me and been replaced by a giant, wobbly jelly. Glancing through the book I stopped, quite by accident, on a page of Frank Sinatra songs. “Fly Me To The Moon – sing that, I love that song,” she boomed from next to me. “Here, write your name and I’ll do the rest.” Foolishly, I agreed (my jelly brain had turned into a trifle by this point). Whilst she ran off excitedly, I ran off in terror – towards the bar. The only possible way to make the experience less painful was to order a few quadruple vodka and cokes. Reaching the bar, I signalled the barman in desperation and then glanced around the room. I felt a little more at ease – the room was half empty. Great!

As my imminent demise approached, the room was filling up. Word was obviously getting around that somebody was going to die horribly on stage. The karaoke show began and from that moment, every time the announcer read out a name that wasn’t mine, I sat back, swigged another vodka and coke and took a deep breath.

After 3 singers, my name was read out. This was my moment – I strode up onto the stage; faking confidence. The introduction to the song began and I started singing. It was bad, very bad – I could hear it, yet could do nothing about it. To make matters worse, the song had no backing vocals – Sinatra never needed them to distract from his amazing voice. So, it was just my voice and an almost-silent instrumental. A break in the vocals allowed me to try and win the crowd back with a little dance – it worked – but then I had to start the final verse and that meant singing again.

I didn’t just murder the song, I butchered it into little pieces and fed it to the cat, before having it vomited back up with a fur ball. The only consolation I can take from it is the thought that Paola won’t be able to hear her favourite song again without remembering my performance, so there is some kind of revenge there. Still, I think I’m now deserving of the nickname The Butcher Of Bexhill.

Despite my singing being awful, I wasn’t the worst singer of the night and I didn’t take it seriously. So, although it was as painful as having teeth removed with a cordless hammer drill, I did come out of it with a sparkling smile and a little piece of dignity. I think Paula appreciated the effort…

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!!!

This week, tickets went on sale for a series of concerts by one of the biggest bands in the world (you know who I’m talking about) – a British male group that took the pop world by storm with hit after hit during the nineties.

Billed as the “biggest pop reunion ever”, the concert announcement caused an unprecedented demand for tickets; bringing websites and phone systems to their knees. Throughout this time, fans were repeatedly requested to “have a little patience…”

I experienced the frustration first-hand; spending hours on the phone, hitting redial only to receive a heartbreaking engaged tone. My redial button was seeing more action than a bedspring at an Amsterdam brothel.

After hours of phoning, my hopes of getting hold of tickets for this once-in-a-lifetime experience were finally dashed. The concerts were fully booked and my chance had gone.. I wouldn’t be going to see my beloved Right Said Fred afterall!

I don’t know how I’ll cope…

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!!”

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….

So, you’ve just finished watching the lunchtime news on the television. The economy continues to struggle, there are concerns about terrorists wearing explosive underpants and snow is on the way. For some reason, the first two things don’t worry you (even though you’re due to fly to Manchester next week to take part in an episode of Mastermind, in which, incidentally, your specialist subject will be ‘Insect Secretions’). However, the mention of snow is a serious concern.

Worried by what you’ve heard, you switch on the weather forecast and, within seconds, it comes up with a no-nonsense summary of what is to come: Severe Weather Warning: Heavy Snow. You go into a momentary state of shock and, for a split second, the weather forecaster transforms into the Grim Reaper and points his scythe at you. Sensing the need for urgency, you make a quick decision: It’s time to panic in a way that only British people can… *begin Benny Hill music*

The Supermarket Trip

Worried that other people might buy up everything that would help you survive being snowed in by the anticipated 20ft of snow, you jump straight into your car and speed to the local supermarket. After fighting your way into the car park you squeeze into a small space; parking half on the grass verge and half on the man collecting the trolleys. You grab a trolley and sprint through the supermarket doors, spinning a little old lady to the ground as she stands perusing the Easter hot cross bun offer. There’s no time for checking she’s ok – you’re panic buying, for goodness sake…

You dash through the store, heading straight for the bread and milk. Afterall, there are no better survival foods during two weeks of violent snow storms, and 20ft snow drifts, than bread and milk. Tins of food are not going to help and, therefore, should not be given consideration – what a stupid idea!

As you approach the bread aisle, you are greeted by a scene from a nuclear holocaust – the shelves have been decimated. A gust of wind from the stock room sends a bread bag rolling along the aisle towards you, like tumbleweed. Just as you’re about to give up, you spot a wounded survivor in the distance – a baguette; broken in two with a piece missing from the end (and a suspicious child-sized bite mark). This is no time to be fussy. You rescue the stricken bread stick and lift it gently into your trolley, as if you were lifting an elderly lady out of a chair (or off the floor, together with her hot cross buns). Great, your emergency survival kit is underway.

Next stop, milk. As you reach aisle 435, having fought your way through the crowds of 75 year olds scrapping over the last few boxes of Ritz crackers, it becomes obvious that you’ve once again arrived too late. The fridges are empty and there are puddles of milk lying stagnant on the floor. The scene bears the hallmarks of a battlefield after the biggest milk fight in history. You feel like crying, but can’t, for obvious reasons – it’s spilt milk and crying over it would make for a terrible pun.

So, what are you going to do – an emergency survival kit is no good without milk? I mean, you’ve got the baguette, surely you can’t be defeated at this late stage? And, besides, it’s a known religious ‘fact’ that “man cannot live by bread alone”… You have two choices:

1) Choose different milk. UHT, for example, has a much longer shelf life.

2) Slowly prowl around the store, like a stalker with squeaky shoes, and try to locate a trolley with milk in it. Then, using your ninja skills, sneak up and extract the milk from the owner’s trolley without them noticing. I mean, it’s not stealing, is it…

Any thought about trying option one leaves your head straight away – you’re in panic mode, this is no time for sensible thinking. So, temporarily abandoning your trolley, you walk around from one aisle to the next, taking cover behind other shoppers and large boxes of shredded wheat, and casually inspect the trolleys of unsuspecting shoppers. After a few minutes, you spot a young Mother and her trolley, which contains a big two pint bottle of milk – perfect. The milk starts calling you from the back of the trolley – you can clearly hear it (but, strangely, no-one else can!). It’s in a tricky position though – perched directly underneath the Mother’s four children, who sit squashed into the trolley’s single child seat. You convince yourself that your cause is greater than that of her four kids and so, whilst she is building up her emergency supply of Pampers nappies in a second trolley, you sneak up, distract the kids with lollipops taken from the end shelf, extract the bottle of milk and escape quickly, like a fart in a jockstrap.

Feeling elated, you stroll casually back to your trolley with a big grin on your face. However, a shock greets you as you return to your trolley… someone’s nicked your half-eaten baguette. The little shit!!

You feel desolate and bereft of ideas. In desperation, you do what any insane, panic-buying person would do… you head back to aisle 433 to fight over the Ritz crackers…

Some time later, you emerge from the carnage of aisle 433 (The Battle of The Ritz) – battered, bloodied, with a sore ankle where a ninety year old man bashed you with his zimmer frame (prior to you stamping on his toe and poking him in the eye with your remaining lollipop). Before you hobble to the checkout, you must get toilet rolls. However, another battle lies ahead for you. You push your trolley to the correct aisle, only to spot four children having a fight with the toilet rolls. It seems that their Mother left them there whilst she went off looking for some missing milk…

Exhausted from your shopping trip, you check out and leave the supermarket. One final challenge awaits you as you stand there surveying the car park. Where is your car? Three feet of snow fell during your 10 minute shopping expedition, so it’s not obvious. Thankfully, you spot the legs of the trolley collection man…