Dad here LOLing, LMAOing and ROFLing all at the same time

Saturday, the day my father often calls me. You might know Clive he has appeared on these pages before, mostly being angry about some uncouth customer with a tattoo and an Arsenal shirt wanting to know why they don’t have ketchup or why the sausage roll had chocolate inside it.

‘It’s a pain au chocolat!’

Aside from this my father is a very ambitious, driven and passionate man. But he is also frustrating, completely disorganised and well, a bit mental. He owns something called the Town Mill Bakery; a company which ‘puts fresh bread straight back into the hands of our customers by bringing baking and bakers back to the high street and away from soulless, faceless industrial units and lorries trundling up and down the motorways’.

‘Yeah whatever mate, have you got any sticky buns? No? Well this is too poncy for me; I am off to Gregg’s for a cheese and ham slice and a can of Coke.

Anyhoo, being the pioneering businessman that he is, he knows that he needs to use Internets to get his message out there on how they bake bread in an organic, fair trade, all the ingredients contain real artisan baker’s fingers in type way. And my Dad fucking loves the Internet, he thinks it’s brilliant and by far the most significant invention of the last 50 years. Trouble is he has not got a single fucking clue how to use it.

The best analogy that I could come up with today, is that he is like a 13 year old boy with a hard on, £100 and a date with Kelly Brook. He knows what he wants to happen, so desperately he can visualise it in his head, but has no idea whatsoever on how to get there or where to even start. In short Dad has no strategy. For Dad, strategy is an obstacle not a means for getting from A to B.

Now this can be charming, people say ‘oh he’s a bit out there’, ‘he’s an enfant terrible who lives life by his own rules and consequences’. For me, who has dealt with this for the past thirty odd years, it’s just psychological equivalent of rubbing your knuckles on a cheese grater. Not least when we have our Saturday talk and he asks how Twitter/Facebook/Tumblr works and how he can get one. His logic for asking me is that as a teenager I was able to tune in the telly and therefore am an IT genius and a social media expert – well why not, everyone else seems to be?

Have you ever had to try and teach someone in their sixties how to use a social networking site? Then have you tried it with someone who is as belligerent and impatient as my father? I think only probably bomb disposal in Helmand Province might beat it for stress levels. All the little niggly bits that we are use to doing to get these accounts, like put in your email address (’I don’t know it, I never use it’), some pictures and set a password that you can fucking remember are the norm, but Dad does not see why HE has to. So then asks me to show him, then gets bored and asks me to do it for him, because according to him I am good at this sort of thing and like it.

His timing is impeccable when asking for this advice. I am normally in the middle of a meeting, making dinner or (ahem) otherwise engaged. In other words, doing things that are of personal interest, but these are of no concern as he needs know to how he can register his Oyster card right now. He lives in Dorset but still has to have one. No, me neither. My default response has now become ‘JFGI’, which I had to explain means ‘Just fucking Google it, Dad’. Now, Internet abbreviations that’s the next minefield for us to cross, as not only is Dad dyslexic but he has whole a new language to learn.

To give you an example, when I told Dad I was writing this blog I sent him the title. He responded with:

‘Very funny, when I read that I laughed out loud’

To which I responded

‘You mean you lol’d’

Eight hours later I got another email saying

‘Lol…I just got that!’

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So it came to this: after months of inaction and sitting idly looking at my computer, not being arsed to write because if I put the computer at my desk then I am not connected to the internet (courtesy of the shitty router provided Orange) and so can’t search for funny pictures, films and witty writing (i.e. porn) while I am meant to be contributing to something I am paying for. So what broke the silence? Something that for reasons I can’t fathom, because it really makes so angry, I have not talked about before.

It’s Tesco and more precisely, Tesco Bishopsgate. Since it opened I have never any better than disappointed when I have visited, sometimes I have been apoplectic with rage at its ineptness. And I am not the only one; I have spoken to neighbours who have expressed the same level indignation at this shithouse excuse for a supermarket. They were all over 60 mind you.

This time it was new the packaging for the newly sized chorizo they sell, but there’s a fuckload of things wrong with it. From those stupid self-service machines that now require as many staff to make it work as could be working fucking tills. The fact that it only has two freezers and it stocks neither oven chips or ice cream in them (two things that my local Costcutter, that is bloody ace by the way, always has in its freezer) and that it never, in all the time it has been open, been able to sell me coriander after 5pm on weekday – why can’t you just buy more you fuckwits!

But mainly my hatred stems from the shop itself having a vendetta against me, no really. Don’t ask me how it knows, it just does, but it seems to be able find out what I want to cook for dinner and remove the key ingredient before I arrive. I have come to believe that it’s bit like the Overlook in The Shining, it has some supernatural power that utilises for evil to stop me making a broad bean and feta fritatta.

And if I am making stir-fry they’ll be out of the black-bean sauce , if it is burritos then they’ll be out of tortilla wraps or if it’s an omelette they’ll be out of eggs. What sort of supermarket runs out eggs for fuck’s sake? One time I needed cumin seeds and I worked out that that was the only spice in their range they didn’t stock. There wasn’t even gap where it should be and according to Wikipedia it’s the second most popular spice in the world after black pepper. So why don’t they have any?

What I should do, is what I keep telling myself to do and always end up doing is going to Waitrose. Saying that, I went to the one at John Lewis today (flagship fucking store I’ll have you know) needing cheap tomato sauce. And what was the only condiment they didn’t stock in their essential range? That’s right, tomato bloody sauce. See, they’re all in on it. Colluding to prevent me having what I want for my tea. Bastards.

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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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