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Phew, so I'm now using O2 broadband. It was becoming incredibly frustrating being disconnected every ten minutes with my BT connection you see as typically it takes me 11 minutes to entertain myself manually.

I of course endured a torrid time trying to reduce my direct debit with BT as I knew I would. Trying to negotiate a path through the confusing multitude of automated menus to speak to an actual person is border line psychological torture.

The first number I tried was an automated line altogether. Automated, yet the bloody women still spent 30 seconds of my life explaining that calls may be recorded for training purposes! I will never get those 30 seconds back, who knows what I could have done with them.

I was stronger though, stronger than they ever gave me credit for and eventually after four attempts I was able to speak to Natasha whose North West accent was thicker than a tax credits application form.

I hope never to have to speak to BT ever again ever. I coped once. It's questionable whether I'd survive a second ordeal. So anyway, it's O2 now. It appears to work fine. I was concerned initially that another customer services confrontation was on the cards when I read through the little booklet.

"If you are using a Mac," it said, "do not us the CD, just plug it all in and Mac's being so cool will just work. If however", it continued, "if you experience problems, please visit our website at www.o2.co.uk/help/broadband."

Yes, you see the source of my fear of impeding customer services conversational doom - how the fuck am I supposed to check that cock sucking website if I can't connect to the damn intrawebs!?? How how? This is the fucking installation process. Macs are great, but not that great.

More thought is all I'm asking from these people, more thought and more consideration, perhaps even a touch of logic once in a while. Too much to ask?

You know why we're doomed as a species don't you, cause we hate each other. There's nothing stirs the human interest more than a fight breaking out somewhere. Someone proposes marriage in public and most people groan, roll their eyes and call the bloke a twat.

When a fight breaks out though, it doesn't matter you're doing, you could be the one proposing and you'll drop everything to go and have a look see and you'll have never felt so alive watching them pummel each others faces in.

This is the GUKPT in progress. About 20 players left, playing for about £90,000, but the moment a fight breaks out it's fuck everything, sod the money, let's have a look. We're a simple people, bless us.

An interesting day as far as football goes. I really ought to have checked young Paul's blog before I went ahead and backed Manchester City to beat Fulham, but I thought I was being prudent. I had to place my wager last night as I was working under the assumption I wouldn't be awake in time to place the wager prior to the 3pm kick-off.

In real terms, I was surprised Chelsea beat Yoonited this afternoon. On paper they're a much better team. Manchester United's position at the top of our great league is very flattering to them.

In order for United to win the title, assuming they do, three astonishing things had to happen. Foist of all, Jose Mourinho had to resign, ZAP! Arsenal, having been five points clear with about 10 games to go had to go on the worst run in their recent history, winning only 2 games in 12, KAPOW! And Christiano Ronaldo had to go and bang in about 35 goals and break a United scoring record for a midfielder previously held by that ex-upstanding member of the community, George Best.

Had those three occurrences not occurred, either Arsenal or Chelsea would have walked it. If memory serves, Manchester United were in the bottom half of the league for a good few weeks. Unfortunately for myself and the wider football community, they did occur. I still fancy Chelsea though.

Of course Avram Grant is not human, being Israeli I'm sure the core of his soul is as black as one of my fried breakfasts and there's little doubt he spends the small hours of the morning bathing his testicles in the monthly blood of a Palestinian virgin, but his team isn't half bad and since United may have lost Rooney for the season - one of their three best players - the league places look far from set in stone and like Dale Winton after sucking a truck drivers cock in a petrol station toilet, I fancy a reversal in positions.

* * *

After toiling away for hours trying to solve that bloody Mensa thing, I gave up. A Mensa boffin has provided the answer. I'm sure I tried every conceivable combination of numbers, but apparently not. So anyway, this is the answer:

* * *

I've decided I must become a member of Mensa. Not cause other people might be in it and I'm competitive, no, I just want to better myself and drink my coffee from one of their cool mugs. I've been studying. I've had no sleep for days. Have a go at this if you're bored. It's kinda tricky:

Each letter in the given sum represents a different digit (0-9). Figure out which letter represents which digit so that the given addition is correct. No number is written with 0 as its first digit.

I obviously got the answer almost immediately, but I won't post it yet. No, I'll wait until sort or later on. Don't leave the answer in comments all the same. Not cause I don't want to know the answer or anything, cause I already know, I just don't want you to..to..spoilt it. For other people and that.

It's St George's day. Hoorah! Tally ho pip pip etc. Have you dusted down your St George's flag and celebrated your Britishness this morning? No, neither have I cause it's a Christian celebration and has fuck all to do with Britishness.

Just as St Patrick didn't actually assuage Ireland from their snake infestation, St George didn't actually slay any dragons. Partly because they're a mythical creature and never existed, but mostly because, like the snake thing, it's an alagorical tale depicting the triumph of Christian values over pagan values.

Now of course, the slaughter of pagan's isn't necessarily a bad thing, I've seen the Wicker Man and those people freak me out, but the fact remains it's still got noffin to do with being British; bowler hats, tea, losing at sports we invented and so on.

So as far as I'm concerned the BNP can keep the flag, I've got no interest in reclaiming it in the name of British tradition and values. I've bought some crayons today and am going to design my own flag to represent me and my values - I suggest you do the same.

Not that I'm bitter or anything, but ha fucking ha. Not even the referee can help Liverpool when their players fuck up to this extreme. John Arne Riise, you ginger buffoon, oh how I love the.

How badly did that commentator want Liverpool to win? He was the same in our game against Liverpool in the last round. He must lose up to a pint of cum per match depending on how involved Steve Gerrard is. I hope he shit himself when that when goal went in.

The end.

So it's that primary business again over in the US of States today and the stakes couldn't be any ....the same as it has been for what seems like forever. It's ever so slightly tedious now, I'm bored of it to be fair.

They're in Pennsylvania this time and once again the voting appears to be following the same pattern as all the other major states with bundles of delegates up for grabs; the hicks who eat mayonnaise sandwiches and go to family reunions to pull, will all vote for Hillary and the intelligent professional types in the the cities with vote for Obama.

Haggard old Hill Clinton will win about 64% of the vote and it'll change nothing. It's an awesome process and not at all a waste of everyone's time and money. It's quite scary though the future of the world could potentially rest in the hands of a demographic that have more pairs of dungarees than IQ points and an Amish community who are second only to Catholic priests in sexual abuse cover-ups.

I can just about accept if I stretch my imagination to the absolute limit, that stress causes over-eating, but I'm afraid it won't extend to such a degree that it will allow me to believe John Prescott suffered from it. The over-eating part, yes I can believe that, I'm just unable to give credence to the confession he also got around to the vomiting part of the condition.

It's interesting ain't it that most of the press knew about his "condition" yet declined to make it public out of courtesy to Prescott and to save him any humiliation. I would have thought it was in the nations best interests to be told when the deputy Prime Minister develops a stress related health condition.

The press seemed to think it was in our best interests to know he was shafting his secretary. They didn't seem to have any concerns for his reputation and dignity then. And why is he suddenly revealing this now? He's claiming he didn't reveal it before because of the shame.

What has enabled him to assuage his shame and sense of embarrassment? Has he just decided to man-up and confess, or might it be the vast sums of money he's getting from his autobiography has given him financial courage enough to spill the beans, er..as it were?

Either way people, let's be clear now, there is no need whatsoever to feel any sympathy for the man. Even if it's all true. This is all about making money. And anyways, if he wasn't doing such a good job of royally fucking up the nation he wouldn't have been so stressed in the first place. That is what I've always said.

This is Pope Benedict XVI, or "mein fuhrer" to his friends, speaking publicly at a youth rally in New York about growing up in Nazi Germany. A monstrous regime he called it! He was brainwashed apparently by Hitler's passionate rhetoric and ...erm propaganda rallies, like the one he attended at Nuremberg.

I'm comfortable in my sexuality

I'm going in search of an iPhone once I've drunk my tea. My research has shown me the process for purchasing one of these things is not for the faint hearted. The vetting process for adopting children is faster and less invasive. I've heard tell of people attempting to purchase iPhones with hard currency only to be told that cash is no accepted! Cash! They don't accept money!?

I haven't slept since early yesterday evening, I get very tetchy when I'm tired. I've already had another phone call from "Colin" this morning which hasn't improved my mood. The potential for blood and a slot on this evenings regional news is very real indeed. Nurse, the screens please.

addendum* I knew Apple wouldn't let me down. A deliciously easy purchase and set up. I've never felt so alive.

I’m currently fighting a titanic consumer battle. It’s a battle I cannot hope to win and has given me a sense of the injustice and resentment the Treaty of Versailles gave the Germans after the Great War and consequently got Hitler so wound up. The corporations have got us by the balls man. We’re a vanquished people, but I will fight on.

They want every penny out of us, every damned penny. They’re watching us too you know. Always. I went for a poo at 4am yesterday and immediately upon my return to my bedroom, on my Mac, Google Ad’s were showing deals on toilet paper.

Price targeting they call it. Consumer bitch slapping I call it. They know, they know, that some people just don’t care about how much they pay for stuff. “Price insensitive” if you will. They want the monies from people who buy cappuccino mochochoono de vert latte’s for £4 from Starbucks, despite the fact that a regular cappuccino costs £2 and the difference in costs to Starbucks to make the former beverage is about 3p.

Small, medium. large coffee's it's just about finding those people who don't care what things cost. A large cappuccino costs about 50p more than a small one, but to make it costs the coffee shop about 4p more. Bastardos!


Because of my supermarket phobia I get food delivered to me. A sort of cooler meals on wheels. The website offers the shopper who can’t cook, a convenient means of purchasing meals. See the price of Coq-Au-Vin:


See the price of Coq-Au-Vin once I’ve signed in:


Amazon got in trouble for this sort of behaviour back in the early days. The cookies they leave on your computron record your shopping habits and allow the company to tailor their prices according to each and every shopper i.e. they can shaft every single one of us. Bastards!

It’s a sneaky online means of snooping out the cappuccino mochochoono de vert latte buyers, the people who buy Del Monte orange juice instead of the supermarket's own brands which are packaged in a bland and boring way to make them look shit even though they're exactly the same.

Southern Electric is at it too you know. They’re relying on our lack of vigilance to shaft us. All of us! By God every damned one us. Economy 7 is supposed to heat your water and what not during times when the rate is low, midnight to 7am in my case. I’ve noticed though mine kicks in at about 12.40am. They thought I wouldn’t notice you know. They thought wrong dear lord.

Not that there’s anything I can do about this of course. Change to British Gas? Wankers. N-Power? Fuck no, I’ve got a beef with them going back nearly a decade. Unless I want to freeze to death I’m stuck.

Argos of course can fuck right off too. If you ever purchase something from them and have it delivered and require a refund, you won’t get the postage part of transaction back and they know you won’t argue the point either as it’s generally only a couple of the queens sovereigns.

British Telecom too, fuck my life they’ll be the death of me. I’ve been experiencing Broadband issues for weeks now. Several times I’ve spoken to a guy who insists his name is Colin, but in reality of course, being from India, this is highly unlikely.

I have nothing against the Indians, I’m reluctant to impose my Britishness on them because of the whole colonial thing, but it’s such a difficult accent to understand, I can’t help but get frustrated with them. I can just about order a curry – discussing technical stuff is so laborious.

Three times they’ve promised to sort my issues out. Eighteen different departments, fifteen different reference numbers and still I can’t crack one off in time before my connection breaks. What am I gonna do? All the broadband people are the same. They’re all shit. I’m either gonna have to accept it or start buying magazines again.

As for Sky TV, if I were given an hour and the assistance of the Saudi Arabian secret police to torture someone, it would be a toss up between Dick Cheney and Rupert Murdoch. Seven thousand channels and not a single fucking thing ever on that I couldn’t watch on You Tube.

What’s the point of Sky + if there’s nothing on you want to save? Sky + is the equivalent of a cappuccino mochochoono de vert latte. I fell for it and I’ll be paying the price for at least another 13 months.

Of course I exclude Apple from my struggle, I recognise I don’t actually need an iPhone, but I must get one as the coolness is worth more to me than the actual disparity in value. Every other corporation though I can only hope will be bent over and dry arse raped by another great depression, then they’ll know how I feel. That’s what I always say.

As soon as I win the lottery, which incidentally is about a 14,000,00 to 1 shot - meanwhile you only get paid £3m - I'm off from this capitalist hell hole. I'm off to Club Tropicana where drinks are free, fun and sunshine there's enough for everyone. EVERYONE! Cool Cool Cool Cool.

The Pope has apologised to the numerous victims of sexual abuse from American catholic priests, he would have done something about it sooner, possibly decades ago, but he was busy exterminating the Jews at the time during his time with the Nazi youth.

"Gravely immoral behaviour," he called it. Can someone who had Hitler's poster on his wall as a child really be in a position to judge anyone on morality? I don't think he commented on whether or not the Catholic church will continues to take out insurance policies on sexual abuse law suits, but he was adamant that paedophiles will be excluded from the sacred ministry.

If I've done my maths correctly, in order to exclude paedophiles in the first place you'd have to be aware of their paedophilia, no? So you'll exclude them on this basis, but that's as far as you'll take it? You won't for example, tell the authorities so that once you've kicked them out into the streets, they won't then be able to abuse kids somewhere else? You don't think they ought to be in jail or anything?

I don't like the Pope to be honest with you. I'm not a parent, but I would think the last bloke I'd want as my last line of defense between my wee ones and predatory catholic priests would be the Pope.

I don't get this. I came upon this completely accidentally when I was browsing. The woman covers her face, why? Cause she doesn't want people who happen upon her website purely by chance - as in my case - to recognise her? She' stark fanny naked in the street though! What about the random street folk not 50 yards from her position? Italians, I ask you.

What in the wide wide world of sports is going on here? Answers on a postcard to the usual address I would have thought, oui?

I haven't really got anything to say at the moment if I'm honest. I hope to resume normal service shortly. In the meantime here's some music.

I bought some baoding balls recently, they're useless. This weekend my entanglements with Southern Electric, British Telecom and the Goddess of fortune have taken their toll, I've come off second best each time.

I figured I would need to look at porn for nearly an hour earlier today to calm me the fuck down...but I kept getting disconnected. A further tussle with BT is on the cards. It's days like this that leave me with an overwhelming urge to live as a hermit.

My research has shown that there is now only a habitable region of forty-seven square feet left on Earth where Wal-Mart, Starbucks or Google have no influence. It's a claustrophobic statistic.

Fucking corporations, Bastards,...oh son of bitch bastardo's. I was never Hitler and Dick Cheney's biggest fan, but at least you can have a bash at shooting tyrannical individuals. You can't assassinate a corporation. Bastards.

I'll never sleep tonight thinking about all this, then tomorrow there''ll be an email waiting for me from Amazon recommending books on insomnia. You see just see if there isn't.

Let's have some calming country music now shall we?

boomp3.com

I was just eating a carrot and something popped into my head. It's a poker issue so those of you not interested in the game can move along.

Now then...why when all the money goes in pre-flop does the dealer still burn three cards for each of the betting street? This is no further betting. Obviously they need to burn the top card, but why if there is no further betting do they still burn a card on the turn and river? Surely they can just burn the top card and then splat down all five community cards at once, oui?

Burning three cards this way only adds to the feeling of misfortune if the final river card is the card that loses the pot for you. If you just splatted five cards down and spread them out there'd be none of that false sense of misfortune and none of this whining about being "rivered."

Once the money goes in, the order of the five board cards is irrelevant. You're no more unfortunate if the door card loses the pot for you than the river card. So from now on I'm campaigning for a dealer splat if the money goes all-in pre-flop.

Also, I just have to get this off my wee chest. One of my pet peeves in poker is players complaining of bad plays after getting their money in with the best of it and being sucked out on.

I'm guilty of it myself to be fair, but it's such a wrong-un. It's more wrong than marrying a cousin. Let's say for example, you're holding ooooh I don't know..Ace-King and your opponent has erm..let's say Ace-Deuce. The flop is Ace high and the money goes in.

The turn is a deuce and the river a blank, winning the pot for the Ace-dDeuce. Now Ace-King guy whines about a terrible call. This is unacceptable and French based ponce derived whining. You're almost 9/1 to win the hand on the flop!

You ought to be singing zippity-do-dah in your head when you hear the guy announce "call." If you're not prepared to accept odds of 9/1 you shouldn't be playing. That's how you make money in poker, by other people making poor decisions.

So anyway, don't whine to the player about his call. Especially if the player is me. I'm fragile and I might cry and you're bitching to the wrong guy. Don't hate the player hate the game man. Oui?

I'm quite big on Poker After Dark. I like it. I'm up at this time of an evening most days and it usually offers up some good viewing. The lack of commentary is also a good thing as table talk can often be far more interesting.

With few exceptions the commentary on most poker shows is patronising and mildly irritating, but the game in progress at the moment on Poker After Dark desperately needs commentary or background shopping mall music or the death throes and agonising braying of a donkey's last moments.

With a line up of Antonio Esfandiari, Shaun Sheikhan, Mike Matusow, Phil Hellmuth, Phil Laak and Daniel Negreanu you had to expect table talk, banter and what not, but in reality all you got was noise. Lots of noise.

How Americans manage to talk so much and so loudly without ever actually saying anything is an astonishing phenomena. Phil Laak in particular excels at using 100 words when 3 would have sufficed.

The dynamic at this table is very similar to middle-aged couples, married for some time with children, on a rare evening out possibly at a wine bar. They make a lot of noise and they talk and laugh, but although they're talking to each other and laughing at each other, they're only really interacting with whom ever has the misfortune of walking past their table.

It's all a cliquey ruse to give off the impression that they're all having such a great time. A wince inducing attempt to make anyone not part of the clique feel that they're missing out. Anyone trying that hard to give the impression they're having the greatest of times is usually desperately miserable within.

Daniel Negreanu in this episode is the only one who betrays the masquerade. At times, the poor man looks like he'd rather be in a barrel on a lengthy sea voyage in the 17th century than at that table. Phil Hellmuth and Phil Laak on the other hand are in hogs heaven.

Phil Laak has the most irritating accent and his inability to keep still for five minutes reminds me of a four hour flight I once endured with an eight year sat next to me who evidently had been fed nothing but boost bars and strong coffee since birth.

I don't think I can manage the remaining episodes, but with Vegas only a few weeks away I feel I need to in order to acclimatise myself to that culture of making noise for the sake of making noise. The consequences on me could be disastrous.

So when when when will Governments learn that in order to build a genuine sense of community, the people have to have a little latitude to police themselves? When, tell me? The strongest communities are built on a sense of us against them, and them is usually the state, so it's daft for the state to believe it's policies can impose a sense of community on us all.

I'm on my to the sammich sto this afternoon and I'm listening to a radio phone in from Norn Iron and by golly almost ever caller argued that they felt safer and had a stronger sense of community at the height of the troubles because their paramilitaries acted like a police force.

This is also the reason why Iraq is now in such a chaotic mess because the US in all it's wisdom completely dismantled the police force which had it's own way of doing things and also why the east end of London was safest when the Kray's were up until all hours cutting out Chelsea smiles into numerous dudes faces who for the best part, deserved it really. You larfin at me you carnt? I'll make you smile for the rest of your fackin liiife.

It's all well and good for the police to insist we resist the temptation for vigilante free for all's, and leave them to do their job and we would do if they could actually do their job, but they're not in a position to do their job anymore are they?

If your car was broken into do you ever expect the police to catch the weasly fucker? Or return your goods? Do you even bother calling the police nowadays? No. But would that same weasly fucker break into your car if you lived in a street populated by professional criminals with really sinister cockney/Italian/Northern Irish accents who were known publicly?

Bless the police, they're a sweet bunch with their little jackets and radio's and pretty blue lights and so on, but they're completely redundant aren't they to be fair to them. There's not enough of them for one thing, but what really makes them impotent is essentially being forced to keep the peace with two hands tied behind their backs as they're obliged to follow rules, provide evidence and observe silly human rights regulations.

I've often argued this country needed a ruthless crazy tyrant to solve it's crime issues. Someone who wears women's clothes behind closed doors preferably. Or at least the police need to be given absolute power. Give them say a free month every three months where they can do what they want without having to justify it. It's hardly likely that they'd use that time to beat old ladies up and be all mean to the innocent folk.

Surely they'd use the time constructively and it'd be open season on all the mouthy bastards that have used the police forces own rules to fuck them over. I've seen those police shows. Some drunk bastard swearing his tits off and the poor bobby just has to stand there and ask him politely to stop swearing. At the end of the show Ross Kemp or who ever's narrating reveals said drunk mouthy bastard was given a warning and told to be on his way. I'm quite sure no one's ever spoken to Gerry Adams like that.

So yes, let's have two police forces I say. I legit one with uniforms who adhere to the rules and keep all the EU people happy, and a darker force who dress as locals and operate in the shadows. Chavy fucking car thieves, drug dealers, sexual deviants, they'd be gone within the week, that's what I always say.
Anyway, what I really wanted to talk about was my new microwave. I nearly ruined it today. It's one of those combination efforts. I accidentally microwaved when I should have been ovening. For 40 minutes my food was cooking when it only needed 11 minutes. It melted. Black acrid smoke filled my kitchen. I'm a right narna.

boomp3.com

What's better than roses on a piano? Tulips on your organ, just ask almost every bloke who ever met Diana Princess of Wales. Am I right am I right? High five!

(cough) so anyway, er...Crazy man Mohamed Al-Fayad has finally decided to give up on his ludicrous quest to have everyone but the Avon lady tried and convicted for the murder of his son and Princess Diana.

He's giving up for the sake of the Princes apparently. Ten years this inquest has been going on, so ten years and about £20m of the tax payers money later and now he's finally given up..for the Princes. Not because it was a yard full of horse hockey in the first place. Man I'd be pissed off if I was a tax payer. What a waste of money.

It's been clear to me since the beginning how she died. They were all drunk weren't they? Three sheets to the wind; Dodi, Diana and the driver. Pissed up in Paris, they're in a dark tunnel,..if she wasn't sucking that drivers cock when they ploughed into that barrier I'll give up detective work.

I know paparazzi are tenacious, but Diana pictures were a dime a dozen, why would they all risk their own lives just to capture one random picture of her in a car? They wouldn't, unless of course that picture was something spectacular...like for example Diana photographed with her head between the hairy thighs of the chauffeur licking a bollock.

I've said all this before, but people don't want to accept the truth because she's the nations treasure, but during her peak she was second only to Ulrika Johnson as Britain's busiest whore. Even I fucked her once.

Let's see, Will Carling, James "I'm not Harry's father even though he's the spitting fucking image of me" Hewitt, Paul Burell, me, James Gilbey, Philip Dunne, Stephen Twigg, Ted Forstman, David Tang, Hasnat Khan, Dodi Fayad and various other miscellanious shags all too often forgotten after a night on the alco-pops. The only guy who wasn't getting any at the time was Prince Charles. That's why he ended up hunting down that Camilla beast. Kinda feel sorry for him really.

Anyway, I digress..so finally Fayad has given up, he would have been better served pumping the money he must have wasted on legal counsel, into the transfer market to boost Fulham's first team.

If Fulham get relegated because he's spent so much money trying to convince the world his son wasn't effectively cuckolded by England's rose it'll be a double whammy for the fella, ironically Diana's favourite sexual position. It's funny how things work out isn't it?

So I was able to finish third tonight in the Fox game without getting even slightly lucky and I even came away with a £160 profit after an awesome display on the PLO cash table. Oh yes. I run good.

Nothing else to say really. Awesome I was. Awesome. Move along now. Move along. These aren't the droids you're looking for. etc

boomp3.com

Just a slight wee addendum people: As there's been no standarisation of poker rules, this is probably one of those grey area's which every casino/card room has it's own standing ruling on but are you allowed to announce your hand while the hand is in progress?

It makes no difference to how dodgy one of my calls was, but it did influence my decision. If someone asks you what you're holding, can you tell them? I'm quite in tournament poker you're not allowed to turn your cards over or flash them, so I assumed you weren't allowed to verbally announce them either.

I'm hearing different things. As I recall from the WVCC's AGM it was decided that if you show your cards accidentally, the hand is not dead, but if you do it intentionally it is..so what is the essential difference between showing a hand intentionally and verbally declaring what you have intentionally?

So there's been some more protests against the Chinese Olympic thingy this time in Paris. Am I the only one who thinks this is really rather boring and slightly gay? I have every sympathy for the plight of the Tibetans, I do I do..but I can't help them and me trying to blow out the Olympic torch flame in protest is not going to help them. It's not a fucking magic torch. What are people trying to achieve by extinguishing the flame?

If you really really feel that strongly about the issue, go to Tibet. Put yourselves between the wee Tibetan monks and the Chinese military. Then I shall respect your protest...elsewise it's just worthless and mildly irritating.

Most of the people protesting aren't even Tibetan, they appear to be just student types who can't wait to get up in the morning and be offended on someone else's behalf. Just fuck off and stop wearing such ridiculous woolly jumpers that's what I've always said.

On a more amusing note, some of the police in Paris wear roller-blades! Awesome. Some how I just can't see the bobbies here adding this to their uniforms. Armed roller-blade response units. Our police, I don't know, just seem so uncoordinated and just not cool enough to carry this off. We'd do it wrong anyway and give them roller skates instead. Pink ones.

No but no but no seriously..this Olympic stuff: please protesters, you're wasting everyone's time. The world is quite aware of China's human rights record, but the world doesn't actually care see..so running after a wheel chair athlete carrying the Olympic torch and spraying him with a fire extinguisher is going to achieve nothing but give the poor chap a cold.

It doesn't help anyone and it's really quite pathetic and insulting to those on whose behalf you're protesting. Like all those undereducated dirty folks who chase after police vans carrying paedo's to court who wave their fists in the air furiously - it's got nothing to do with justice for the victims and seeking revenge and what not, it's just a competition on who can be seen to be the most offended.

All those Monks in Burma who took on the armed police with nothing but their sandals, and those thousands of Chinese students in Tiananmen Square who stood in front of tanks and were mowed down with live rounds...that's how to protest and still the world didn't do anything. Until you're prepared to offer up that level of commitment, just don't bother. Stick to eating pot noodles and cultivating appalling facial hair.

He was right you know, W.C. Fields when he said, "if at first you don't succeed try, try again. Then quit. There's no use in being a damn fool about it." The poor woman I witnessed this morning trying to reverse park her people carrier agreed also, fortunately for her husband.

I'm waiting to get off home after to purchasing some sunglasses and some shampoo from the chemist, but my passage is blocked by a failing attempt by said woman to back into a space large enough to build a four bedroomed house on.

I look on with a combination of frustration, astonishment and fascination as does another motorist equally eager to get off home who was approaching from the east. Her first attempt to be fair to her ought to have earned her a ban from driving.

This was spacial unawareness on a massive scale. Worse even than the woman who reversed into a petrol pump at 35 mph who you can read about here. Her second attempt was approximately four inches better than her initial effort.

At this time her husband in the passenger seat, who had by now noticed the sizable crowd of onlookers, had leaned forward and was presumably shuffling about in his glove compartment searching in vain for a length of chord or a sharp stabbing implement with which to end his own life, but alas nothing. His eyes looked to the heavens and I lip read, "dear lord why have you forsaken me?"

His deliverance from parking hell came presently though as his wife refused a third attempt and drove off passed me with a look of pure indifference on her face juxtaposed to the expression of pure rage on the husband's face. A look that is all too common when couples shop together.

Shortly after, three cars slotted neatly into the space left vacant by the vacant countenanced woman who I suspected may also have been Scottish.

So it's not too long now until Vegas and I think it's time I reflected on my only previous trip to the meadows. Perhaps bringing this out in the open will have a cathartic effect on my conscience and help draw a line under a period in my life where to be fair to myself, I was a totally inconsiderate reckless cunt.

I have matured since of course, but a four or five year period from my late teens and early twenties saw me leave a trail of destruction where ever I went, but astonishingly without a scratch on my person and without registering with my conscience.

And so it went, I'm 22 it's the summer of 1997. I'm cohabiting with an emotionally souped up Italian woman, let's call her Karen, in Tucson Arizona. To give you some idea of how completely ignorant and uncaring I was of cause and effect, actions and consequences and so on, let me just offer up one or two details about this woman: she was twelve years older than me as I had a thirst for the older woman at the time; she had a six year old daughter whom I'm still convinced was the devil and a strange and estranged husband, let's call him Tony, who made Joe Pesci's character in Casino seem like Cliff Richard.

I won't go into too much detail about their family history, suffice is to say though, they were originally from New York, but were given 48 hours to leave the city after Tony punched an old mafia guy!! I know I know..but I just thought it all sounded cool.

So anyway, between the four of us, it's an interesting dynamic and it's fair to say we all had one or two secrets from each other. A recipe for disaster of cordon bleu quality and what better melting pot than Vegas to bring it all to the boil?

It didn't take long once we'd got to Vegas for things to progress to the unnerving stage of disaster. I'd left Karen to play the slots which she claimed to have a casual interest in while I went for a mooch around the vastness of Caesers Palace.

Not 45 minutes later I returned to find her ashen faced and staring blankly into an empty plastic coin pot. "We have to go home," she said. "Say what?" I said. "I've lost $1000, I've got no money left."

I was gone for 45 fucking minutes. How fast can you put one thousand coins in a damn machine?? That's 23 coins a fucking minute! Over a few shots of Wild Turkey she went on to explain how she had a slight gambling addiction, but didn't want to tell me in case it put me off seeing Vegas.

We then drove back to our Hotel and while she sloped off to bed I went for a stroll around the Luxor and weighed up how much it would cost me in lost luggage which was still in her house in Tucson and travel expenses to pop over to McCarren airport and high tail it the fuck out of there.

$500 I estimated. I had about $60. In hindsight I should have whored out my body to the nearest wealthy gayer. Pound for pound I would have subjected myself to a far less humiliating and painful ordeal than what was to lie ahead over the next three days.

It's fair to say I got a bit drunk that night. I'm still not prepared to accept Karen's claims that I tried to drown her in the jacuzzi though. I'm sure I was just playing and there would have been no profit in such a slaying.

The rest of the weekend passed by in a haze of whiskey fueled incoherence and rabid Italian diatribes about things I may or may not have been getting up to while she slept. Not only was she emotional with an addictive personality, she was supremely paranoid. Possibly because I was so fine, she expected me, with my suave English charm, to be off trollop galloping whenever her back was turned. For the record I wasn't.

The interrogation I received on the eight hour journey home was proportionally more arduous than a four month stay at Guantanamo Bay. By the time we got home at about midnight and I had a moment to myself I started to wonder if indeed I had fucked my way through the entire waitressing staff of the Excalibur after all.

The thing about angry Italian women though, or at least this angry Italian woman, is that the mood swings are quite violent and forgiveness can come as quickly as the indictments. And so the reconciling love making is as furious and passionate as the violence and mindless nonsensical volleys of accusations and insults.

Now then, I'm not too good with names. It's just something I've always struggled with. Someone tells me their name, I forget. I've been known to call people I've known for years by the wrong name. It's what I do. So anyway, as I pummeled away at Karen doggy style thanking the lord the ordeal of the last few days was over, I accidentally addressed Karen by the wrong name.

I know women don't like this, Katie, Fiona, I mean Karen really didn't like it. It was all I could do to cling to the back of her without tearing a hamstring. "I fucking knew it, I knew it I fucking knew it...BASTARDO! etc etc.

Naturally and disastrously she was furious, I had no defense apart from innocence, but I was a wooden house in the path of a tornado and as the good people of Little Rock, Atlanta and Jackson, Mississippi have recently discovered, innocence is no defense for natural disasters.

I was out on my ear. It was quite comical really. A little past midnight and I'm on the front lawn of a crazy woman's house two clicks from the Arizona desert with my belonging scattered around me some of which were drifting off down the street in the hot summer breeze.

What I could have done was just walk a few blocks east and stayed the night at her cousins house. But sure as eggs is eggs I had been scrambled and I knew when to quit. So I made my way to the nearest greyhound station with the intention of heading over to the only other person I knew in America at the time, a 'friendly' if you will, in the shape of my own cousin. He lived in Denver though. A 26 hour coach journey away. He was also to look upon me as cunt though. Fair do's.

The thing about Greyhound stations is that they're always located in the scariest poorest most dangerous parts of the city because it's only the poor folks who use them. Everyone else flies. So I arrive at about 2am dressed in my jeans and a fucking Arsenal shirt. I case the joint and it's a scene from the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Nothing but Mexican bandits, drunks and drug dealers. Splendid I thought. I'm gonna get shot, puked on or raped. I sat down looking as tough yet innocuous as possible and a security dude approached from the west.

I assumed he was going to ask me if I was fucking crazy and to go home quickly, but he actually started talking to me about Arsenal! They were just here he told me. Huh? As it turned out the youth team were indeed on a tour of the USA and had stopped in Arizona.

This was one of the few times when I've wondered if indeed I do have a guardian angel as this guy sat with me and talked about football the entire time I was waiting, while various Mexicans stood around me in the shadows sharpening their knives and making the throat cutting gesture with their finger whenever I looked up. They may not have really done this really..I imagine they did though.

So anyway, with stops in El Paso, Alberqueque and ironically a very quite Las Vegas in New Mexico I was safely in Denver 26 hours later. The great escape only without being recaptured and executed. Surely a series of events that could have happened to any old Tom, Dick or Harry, but I'm hoping Vegas in May this year will be less eventful.

Apologies, I couldn't think of a clever title for this blog. Anyway..all the criticism Harriet Harmen has received for sporting an anti-stab jacket for a jaunt around her own constituency despite being escorted by three policeman was a little disproportionate if you ask me.

If I had access to the same protection I'd want it too walking around Peckham, and I'm just me..she's the MP for that area so there's a veritable cornucopia of reasons for the locals to want to stab her up. Her prudence was just good sense.

I mean really people, as a member of the cabinet you want to try and big up your Government's policies on crime and at least give the impression that you're making good with all the manifesto promises to be tough on crime and the causes of crime, but you still need to reeeeecognise.

A PR gaff it may be, but common sense still needs to prevail. Given the choice between creating the false and ridiculous impression that Peckham is a crime free Shangri-La and receiving a six inch deep stab wound to the tits, OR being safe and committing a minor public relations gaff that'll be forgotten in a few days, I know what I'd choose. Oui?

The thing that alarmed me the most about this photograph was the width of her hips. It's just something that has always fascinated me about the female form. How on earth do they manage to build up such mass around the hips and thighs? Her buttocks alone have gravity. The rest of her is fairly slim for a woman who clearly has to absorb an awful lot of protein from the babies she eats.

Her hips are the same width as the policeman's anorak. That's got to be about 2 feet. That gives her hips about a 5-6 feet circumference. She probably wore the vest to counter the tapering effect of her enormous hips and the tight-ish green jacket. You know what I'm talking about don't you girls? Astonishing stuff, astonishing.

From Nottingham to Oxford, Oxfordshire anyway; this evening's proceedings at the Fox were in stark contrast to the god awful events at DTD on Saturday. It was the best of times and the worst of times as Dickens might have said.