Fabulous Weight Loss Tip of the Day…

Who is in agreement that women's magazines are infinitely more interesting than their male counterparts? They are, it can be argued, the ultimate in guilty pleasures you never own up to, rivalled only by the Hollyoaks omnibus, cold macaroni cheese (inhaled directly from the tin), and Westlife's Greatest Hits. Oh.

My favourite part of these female weeklies aren't the excitable titles that always finish with an exclaimation mark (eg. Chat! Frig! Knickers!, etc), nor is it the life affirming reader stories or the knitting patterns. Oh no. The best part are the Readers Top Tips, where people write in with their own personal nuggets of convenience, in the hope that by sharing, it will illuminate the lives of others. They're not wrong.

Up until this morning, I thought that the best one ever was the following:

Worried that your teeth will be stained after a heavy night drinking red I wine? Drink a bottle of white wine before going to bed, to remove the stains.

But no, as I frantically fingered the pages of a discarded weekly at work this morning, I came across a tip that has, in a heartbeat, revolutionised my life. Oh yes. Apparently, a ‘GOOD SMILE’ (and I must admit, I choked on my lard-infused Krispy Kreme when I read the next bit), can take ‘A WHOLE TWO STONES OFF YOU.’

Really? REALLY??? I’ve got a toothy beam! I can lick my pearly whites and say, ‘Wow!’ My grin could be sponsored by Crackerbarrel! Ooh, I feel thinner already!

*Beams in manner of drunk loon having marvellous Acid trip*

That’s my weight target SMASHED then…

Who’s for a Big Mac-lyrca fest?

Say CHEESE!

Alternative Career #5: Rapper...

PROS: Seeing as though my erm, singing voice, isn’t what it was (think: sound of a newborn being hacked to death in an acid bath), becoming a rapper is like being a pop star by the back door, isn’t it? Isn’t it? It all seems relatively easy either way. Look at Eminem: all formulaic if you ask me: get a nursery rhyme-esque tune and put some daft rhyme about hating your Mam on top of it. ‘Hey Mam, you big fat cow / Make me a cup of tea now / And some cake / Don’t make a single crumb / Otherwise I’ll kick you up the bum… Bo!’ It’s not rocket science is it? The rest of it seems text book too: I can flail my arms about and repeatedly point at floor for no apparent reason and I’m good at swearing, which seems like a staple of the rapper community. Baps, shit and fanny, etc.

CONS: Rappers seem to take themselves quite seriously, which could be a problem for me. Also, the clothes are ridiculous. I refuse to wear my jeans halfway down my legs. I mean, what’s the point? I’d only end up tripping over myself and screaming ‘motherfucker, bo!’ as I landed in yet another dignity-free heap on the floor. I don't do hats or baseball caps either. I’ve simply not got the right shaped head. I’d look simple. And what would I call myself? Feminem? MC Snot Gobbler? Bogroll? I couldn’t. I just COULDN’T. Besides, isn’t there something slightly ridiculous about being a rapper and being over 30?

CHANCES: Despite the lyrical genius that I have demonstrated above, I doubt that the record companies would be keen to recognise my talent. And whatever way you look at it, I’m not street enough, issit? Or to put it another way: I ain’t got no guns, no war, no disco / record exec is my foe / I once had a manky toe / It smelt of motherfuckers! Bo! Mam! Stop being a twat / Get back in the kitchen and put the kettle on. White no sugar. And some biccies. Oh.

Ungrateful Admission...

I have a poorly throat.

My colleague has kindly given me some throat sweets to relieve my agony and all round near-death suffering.

They taste of wee.

I do not like them.

I am feeling sorry for self. Boo, hoo and sob, etc.

Sympathy on a postcard, pretty please...

*croaks*

Twat Speak...

Picture the scene: I am in a mind numbing, ultimately pointless meeting staring at a piece of paper where the word 'agenda' should actually read: BOLLOCKS WE WILL CHEW OVER BEFORE COMING TO NO CLEAR CONCLUSION. In order to relieve the boredom, I have a few cunning distraction techniques up my sleeve. Normally I make lists: food shopping, things I need to do, such as check my car oil and tyre pressure (this never happens, but I feel better for reminding myself to do it), and so on and so forth. When things get really bad and I’m all listed-out, I’ve been known to decorate my note pad with stars or even practice alternative signatures as though I’m fifteen years old.

Today’s list was altogether different. Due to the alarming amount of office speak that was being used throughout, I found myself compiling a list of what I think should be done to the speakers of this utterly irritating twat-language. Sadly, I never got past point 1: Kill them. Now.

I work in a place (admittedly not for much longer), where we are encouraged to LIVE THE VALUES of the company… I kid you not, but every employee has to justify their commercial existence year on year by explaining how they are IRREPRESSIBLE, EFFERVESCENT and (because they’re a broadcast company) how TUNED IN they are. Tuned in. Do you see what they did there? Fist-eatingly bad.

These days, we don’t send emails, we FIRE THEM OFF as though they’re some sort of incendiary device. If this isn't terrifying enough, we don’t tip people off or give them advance warning that a communicative firework is heading their way, we give them a baffling HEADS UP. Then there are the managers who tell us not to REINVENT THE WHEEL, but to THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX instead. What’s wrong with the phrases, think laterally or please don’t be so fucking obvious? Apparently, THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX is the most overused ‘business cliché’ – ironic then, that proponents of the term couldn’t think outside of their own bleeding boxes enough to come up with a fresh, brand new phrase. The gimps REINVENTED THEIR OWN WHEEL. What they ought to do is BRAINSTORM some ideas. No, wait – brainstorming is a bit too 80s. These days, we have IDEA SHOWERS. Oh yes we do. (Actually I don’t, I am busy collating lists of goods that I need to procure from Tescos or making my signature more superstar-friendly, remember...) When having these ridiculously-titled collaborative exercises, we are urged to employ BLUE SKY THINKING. I mean, what the frig is that supposed to mean? It transpires that Tony Blair is responsible for such a wanky term. So if the Iraq war wasn’t enough to get him lynched, maybe talking like a pretentious, maddening prick is.

As the meeting went on, my mood got blacker – particularly when we were confronted with a CHALLENGE – a seemingly innocent word that disguised the term, ‘HUGE FUCK-OFF PROBLEM’… It wasn’t all that bad though! Apparently, certain action would result in QUICK WINS. This was also referred to as LOW HANGING FRUIT – at which point I nearly fainted. Reports were produced, which we weren’t supposed to read. Oh no, we were invited to do a DEEP DIVE and then DRILL DOWN. People hastily scribbled notes, presumably entitled, how did my life come to this?

After an eternity, the chair wound up the meeting, but rather than ask us if we had sufficient time before the deadline to complete our actions, we were instead quizzed to see if we HAD THE BANDWITH. Upon hearing this, I had to resist stabbing myself in the eye, but as we left the room with an instruction to HIT THE GROUND RUNNING, I found that the only thing I really wanted to hit was the bottle.

Amusing Spam Message of the Day...

Lovingly titled, 'Bang her hard! Make her scream and suck your hard golden cock!'

Apparently all I have to do is buy some tablets from Nigeria (after sending my bank details) and I'll, erm, soon be banging away with my oddly coloured rhythm stick. Do you get free ear plugs I wonder?

Other thoughts:
1. Jaundiced pee-wee?
2. Is this entirely consensual?
3. Goodbye, last remaining thread of heterosexuality...

To Crop Or Not To Crop?

Whilst there are many aspects of my physicality that frankly disappoint me (eg, size of big toes, size of nostrils, size of belly, perma-tired look, etc, etc, etc), at the pinnacle of my self-dislike is my hair ‘do’...

On the plus side to my questionable barnet, I don’t think I’ll ever go bald, but this is generally because my follicular structure seems to be made up from a half-chewed brillo pad, old straw, cheese wire and the sort of fluff that only ever collects in the belly button.

If I foolishly allow my locks to grow, I end up looking like Michael Jackson when he was black. He might have looked quite good in 1973, but fast forward to 2009 and the image does not transfer well to a 32 year old chubby honky (with curiously large nostrils and big toes, don’t forget.)

Growing up, I naturally adopted the ‘basin’ cut. My hair would grow at an alarming rate; a bizarre sort of human ivy that rose majestically from my (almost completely spherical) bonce. There were times when I would hold my hand to my head and wonder – a tad forlornly – if the Mop Tops were modelled on me. (Remember the Mop Tops? A plastic head with plasticine inside… Twirl the handle and – HEY PRESTO – the hair miraculously grows! Like, gasp! Despite it sounding thoroughly crap now, I always wanted one, being quite the non-camp child. Didn’t get one though. Nor did I get one of those Slush Puppy ice crusher drink maker things that I hankered after for YEARS. My plan was to set a stall up outside and sell them for five pence a pop. Thinking about it, I was a bit like a fat Ben from EastEnders. Tremendous!) Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, terrible hair plagued my upbringing, blah, blah, bollocks, blah. Put it this way, my family nickname (and I kid you not) was Fathead. And they had a point.

I once tried to side-part my hair for my final year school photo, using half a bottle of hair lacquer and a trowel that I found under the stairs, but the results got me bullied. ‘Look what he’s done to his hair. Doesn’t he look a fucker!’ the bastards would yell… and that was just the teachers. Around the age of 19 I became tired of looking like a bad tranny with rotten knackers and got myself to the barbers.

Mad Slasher, whose premises stank of cheap fags and sweat, operated out of a little hut in the local town. After pointing to one of the better pictures of the 70s porn stars that adorned the walls, I came away with the hair cut that I have since worn to this day. A number one on the sides and a trim on the top, to which I then add gel/wet cement-like substance. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Lately though, I’m thinking of shaving it off and becoming a slap head for a bit. There are numerous benefits to this, namely…

Pros: by using Mr Blokey’s clippers, I could save myself a few pennies and the amount of money I’d save on gel would undoubtedly pay for an exotic holiday of a lifetime (okay, maybe not, just humour me.) It would save me time in the mornings not having to sculpt, texture and generally piss about said tresses, which has a mind of it’s own and an agenda that seems to suggest that my hair HATES me. Also, there are quite a few fit people who have a lack of mane sprouting forth: Grant Mitchell (or whatever he’s called in real life), Becks, Mr Blokey, that Wentworth Miller bloke…

Cons: I’m not sure my face can carry being a slap-head off. My eyebrows look like well fed slugs and in order to accommodate my generously portioned nostrils, I’m never going to win Smallest Nose in the world. And yes, there are numerous beautiful fit blokes that wear their exposed scalp well… But I have a horrible feeling that I’ll end up looking like Uncle Fester from the Adams Family...

Is it a Bee?

TOO MUCH LOL!

Why Madonna Rules #2

Awww....

Screw You, Delia...

Delia Smith hasn't got anything to worry about, you know...

I can see her now, sat in her Norwich based castle, cackling wickedly as she reads through my recipes. Evil old drunk. (Actually, I imagine that she’s quite nice. I’m just being a dramatic contrary-Mary, so ignore me.)

You see, when it comes to creating a tempting schmorgasboard, I try. I really do. Ask Mr Blokey. Actually, don’t. His opinion of my limited culinary repertoire is less than generous. How ungrateful, etc. That said, at Chez Red Pants, we play to our strengths: he is in charge of all things cookery whilst I find myself staring at the wrong end of a bottle of Fairy and a half chewed Brillo, night on night.

There are times when I wish that I could reverse the trend and present him with a veritable banquet, but when your shepherd's pie comes out of the oven looking (and smelling) like a syphilitic rat that's met the wrong end of a double-decker bus, or the millionth person gags animatedly PRIOR to an attempt at scrambled eggs, you tend to lose heart. There's only so much scorn a wannabe chef can take. These days I favour dishes that ding. You know, in the microwave. Ready meals may make today's nutritionists weep openly in the street, but they're so easy to, er, cook, it's rude not to take advantage. Especially as I often kid myself that I am very busy and important.

Picture the scene: you've had a crappy day at work on the back of a terrible night's sleep. You finally arrive home after a nightmare journey and you're so hungry that you're humming Mickey J’s schmaltz-fest, Feed the World as though the gloved one wrote it especially for you. Rather than fannying about with eggs, flour, lean cuts of meat and the worrying confusion that a pre-heated oven with fan combo extravangza fosters, it's easier and quicker to withdraw said meal from the depths of the fridge, ignore the fact that it passed its sell by date three weeks ago last Wednesday and ding it. Even stabbing the film lid is cathartic. I often pretend it's Delia mocking my culinary shoddiness. Or David Cameron’s punchable face. ‘That'll learn you,’ I cackle wickedly as I drop it in the microwave and wait impatiently for my food to cook in three minutes. And then DING. Perfection. Or not.

Why Madonna Rules...

*Enters gay coma*