Enjoy while you can ladies, because soon it will all be mine

I have realised that in my cupboard I have a large number of pieces of Tupperware. The thing is, I did not buy a single piece of it. It has all been hoarded from ex-girlfriends. So: some people take money from their partners and rip them off; some keep underwear as trophies; I, however, keep stuff that stops my bread from going stale. I don’t see this as thievery but merely practical and environmentally friendly, because Tupperware’s never something a man sets out to buy – not when he’s single anyway. That’s because lunch normally consists of a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle and two packets of pickled onion Monster Munch.

So how does a guy come to be in possession of, and keep Tupperware? You know how it is: she does a nice thing and makes you lunch and then you go off with the box it came in, saying you’ll clean it and bring it back but you never do. But that also means that’ll be the one and only time that she makes you lunch, as the next time she offers to do it she’ll say that she didn’t have the last bit of Tupperware back, so until then she’s not lending you anymore… But already the deed is done and you have the Tupperware in your cupboard for keeps. And on the whole, I would say that I have come out of the deal quite well.

Because when is there an appropriate time to give the Tupperware back? You don’t just turn up with it if you’ve used it that day and you’re staying at hers, because you will have never, ever, washed it up at work. Who would do such a thing? It’s not even proper Tupperware until at some point in its life it has supported its own ecosystem for at least a week, then you can marvel at the smell you’ve created and then impress her with it.

There is great intellectual profit to be had from comparing the lover to the calibre of Tupperware I managed to snaffle. One particularly good piece comes to mind: made of sturdy thick plastic that is unlikely to buckle under any severe pressure, and can be locked reliably, which meant that it stayed clean on the outside and dirty on the inside – a bit like the girl I got it from.

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This has been a long time in the making, both the routine, and the video itself. Four months ago I took part in the X Foundation’s Stand Up And Be C*unted evening and for all that time I have been sitting here with baited breath to see my performance. Well, here it is and I am really rather proud. Fucking should be, as they laughed in all the right places. Still, if I am going to pursue a career in show business, then I am going to need a personal trainer soon. That chin has got to go.

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I found this at the ever excellent Film Drunk website this week. I really don’t know what to say about it, but it still looks fucking excellent. And I have no idea how I am going to get to see it, but if anyone know if it’s going to get a screening in the UK then please let me know.

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But revisiting the site (it’s the one where you’re someone’s friend) got me thinking about how annoying some of these profiles can be; and can I be arsed to traipse through all these profiles to find a good one? And there are loads. Initially this is fun, but as someone said to me, then it does feel like you’re perving in some kind of cyber pub, rather than looking for someone you genuinely want to be with. Maybe that’s just me.

One of the most common annoyances with internet dating profiles is that they try to cover all the bases. If I have to read another profile about a person that is equally ‘at home’ going to a pub as they are to a club, going to a festival or chilling at home, bungee jumping or fucking fly fishing, then I’ll scream. If you don’t give us a point of reference, then it’s difficult to start a converstion for fuck’s sake!. Then girls write about what a great friend their girlfriends are, and all the girly things about them they adore.  They say things like: ‘She loves Gok’s Fashion fix and watches it religously every week’ — oh yeah, because we men love that show. Or it’s: ‘She’s such a good listener and you can turn up with a bottle of wine and tell her all your troubles’. Good God! And my personal favourite: ‘If she was a character from Sex in the City …’.  Men absolutely, positively, and without a doubt could not give fuck what character she is from Sex in the City … unless it’s Samantha, of course.

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Well, if she's not going to want it

To cut a long story short: I was left with a rather personal and expensive present this new year that was no longer wanted or needed (the receiver has told me that she is not going to want any presents from me in future). The intimate nature of the present and the risk it posed (that is, in me buying it) meant that, although the present had been initially accepted, I had still held on to the reciept. So when the new year came and the inevitable happened, I had to make the sad and lonely walk of shame to take back very expensive lingerie to a very expensive lingerie shop.

What happened next was an absolute masterclass in humiliation.

Not least because the type of store I was returning goods to, already makes the exercise embarrassing. That the returning goods were the entire matching set screams that your purchase either was some kind of futile gesture and you’re a loser, or it’s obvious that Christmas and new year did not go too well, and you’re still a loser.

Owing to the nature of the goods in question — that of ‘intimate apparel’ — the sales girl tells me:

‘Sorry, refunds are not available. What would you like to do?’

Erm, wear it myself? Wait until the next young lady comes along, and see if she is the same size and has the same taste as my previous girlfriend, and won’t mind wearing an erotic ensemble intended for someone else? Or do I sell it on ebay — saucy underwear for sale with the description ‘lingerie for sale, never worn but much leered at’?

All the while this is going on, the shop’s stereo is blasting out a song by Roy Orbison called, unbelievably, ‘It’s Over’.

‘I can offer you a credit note,’ she says.

Erm, ok. That’s gonna be the best bet. At least I can properly sell it with minimum grief.

‘It is good for six months,’ she continues.

Now the bit when she rips the heart right out of my chest, and then skewers it with her six-inch stiletto heel. She takes a good look at me and adds:

‘… but for you, I think that we could extend that time.’

Nice.

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I no longer want to buy a hard copy issue or online version of a newspaper I am not going to read all of. It’s a waste of my money and the old way, a waste of paper. I stopped buying the Guardian on Saturdays, because all I really wanted to read was Charlie Brooker and throw the rest in the bin. Surely it will not be long until Charlie will have his own site where a Google ad program will ensure that he gets all the advertising revenue direct to him, rather than it going through Guardian Newspapers who pay him a salary. I can’t see why he has not done it already; maybe he’s a lazy fucker.

Stories now come straight from people who it is happening to, who just want to tell the story and have no political, social or business agenda or motivation. I would like to think that having seen the sort of shit that Fox News pumps out, people will be sensible enough not to part with their hard earned cash to Murdoch. He is just whining because his business model of many years is looking obsolete in a medium that is moving so fast he can’t catch up. Oh and why would you pay for the Times Online or The Sun website? They’re shit. Slow, badly laid out and still thinks it’s newspaper trying to be a website rather than the other way round.

I find that more and more I don’t look for the big media channels for my news or reviews of stuff. Look at Trip Advisor as a great example of user generated content, I want to know from a person who went and paid for somewhere, what they thought of the accommodation and facilities. Not from a journo who got the whole thing for free, got paid for going and then has to bow to the ad revenue from the hotelier. The Internet is ours to stop that sort of bullshit, so let’s use it.

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“Can I have the so-and-so in this size? Look there, I have even brought along the specific stock code to make sure that this is exactly what she wants.”

She looks at you, smiles and says:

“Yes of course, we have it in stock. But …”

What do you mean “But”? I did everything I could; I have the picture and everything!

“Which colour would you like it in?”

Oh fuck! And the assistant then presents you with every single colour of the spectrum, some of the hues only visible to women. You can’t tell the difference. And don’t even bother to try making the decision because you can visualise the disappointment in her face when you present her with it – as if to say how could you possibly think that this would be my colour, you don’t know me at all!

But all is not lost: thanks to the genius of modern technology you can call and find out what she wants. No fucking hope. It gets worse now. I call and ask her through gritted teeth.

“Hi, I’m here in the shop. What colour did you want that top in?”

“Ooh I don’t know, what have they got and what do you think?”

Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fucking motherfucker! On one occasion this conversation happened to me while I was on the other side of the Atlantic with about ten minutes to get to the airport. Tactfully, but in fact clumsily, you try and get a decision out of her.

“Hon, this really isn’t the time. Which one do you want?”

Well done son. Now you’ve fucked it.

“Look if it’s that much trouble, I’ll go and get it myself on Saturday.”

Arrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!

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You made me miss what Cheryl had to say about Olly

It’s Halloween, this means that I will be hiding from the local children with the lights off and telly muted so that I don’t have to provide them sweets and they don’t interrupt X Factor (please let Jedward sing ‘Walk This Way’ for rock week). As a single man living on his own, I feel deeply uncomfortable giving sweets to children and why would I want to give anything to kids who for past 12 months have been locally wreaking havoc on mountain bikes while talking mobile phones, terrorising the elderly and are now mugging me under the banner of a pagan festival?

Then there are adult Halloween parties that require dressing up and I hate fancy dress more than I hate a urinary tract examination. I have never in all my life been to a party where I thought ‘you know, I am having a good time, but what would make it better would be wearing some polyester monstrosity that has caused my body to produce an odour that could be used in a chemical weapons attack’.

This is fun forced upon you rather than just letting you have fun. And you’re trapped, you can’t leave the party or even stop in the pub on the way home, you already look like a knob, but you’re now a knob with nowhere to go if the party is shit.

I have been reliably informed that fancy dress is an ice breaker at parties. Really, how long can the conversation about your costume go on for and how interesting can it ever be? Firstly, if someone has to ask what you’ve come as, then it’s probably not very good or you have come as a sci-fi character so obscure that your explanation will have you boring the fuck out of others in no time.

If you are going to dress up as a character from a series that only appears on Sky1, then do it with other some sad fuckers who think it is fun shooting paintballs at each other through a life size recreation of the Stargate (this actually fucking exists)? Do not regale me with reasons why the character’s story arc is allegorical and how it mirrors your own struggle in IT recruitment solutions.

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Laughing at my own jokes at this point

I have in fact been up to something really rather jolly exciting and that’s that I did my first stand-up comedy spot. This was all thanks to an old friend of mine making me do it and the X-Foundation who gave me the opportunity, all the name of charity I hasten to add. Although this was a side issue as the point of this was totally self-serving and I was completely out for myself.

After several weeks of tutoring by Chris Head, myself and nine others were ready, willing and armed mostly with wank gags. We did not learn of the line up until an hour before the show and true to my prediction I was up first. Just as well cos it meant that I could spend the rest of the evening tucking into the rider and getting shitfaced. Unbelievably, it went better than expected. They laughed in all the right places, a couple of lines got applause (I have given knob-cheese a brand name) and I even got some ad libs in.

This all left me with rather an odd feeling. Apparently this is called pride. Ms Rant introduced me to it, as she is one those mouthy Australian people they are apparently quite used to it. All that is required now is to prove myself to a room of complete strangers who are pissed up and ready to shout at me for no apparent reason. Provisionally that’s February 11, 2010 at the King’s Head, Crouch End. Let’s hope they are smegma friendly.

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So Auntie who’s the replacement? Some one that represents Britain’s young in the modern digital age? Someone that is down with it, but also eloquent and witty? No. It’s Fearne fucking Cotton. I hate to use this phrase, but talk about from frying pan into the fire. I had the misfortune to have to listen to her all the way home in the car while travelling home from North of England on Sunday. During this journey I was very seriously contemplated asking Miss Rant to rip my ears off and stuff them up my arse so that I would no longer have to her inane drivel. I know that you might suggest that I changed the channel, but that would have meant local radio, and there’s only so many times you can hear someone bleat on about the wheelie bin problem.

Anyhoo, in mild celebration of the Whiley’s demise, here is Lily Allen giving Jo what for in the only way she knows how. I liked Lily before I saw this, and now I love her so much I would happily crawl through a barrel full broken glass just pick the peanuts out of her shit.

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