Why Cesc Fabregas is actually an ant

On 31st January, I tipped West Ham to avoid relegation and for Wigan to slip though the trap door back to the Fizzy Pop league. Following West Ham's embarrassing run since, especially their 4-0 reverse at the hands of Charlton in which they spectacularly forgot how to defend, attack and play football as a whole - I'd like to withdraw this comment and state that West Ham are as buggered as a bloke walking through Brighton with his trousers down.

Following on the football theme, isn't it a relief to see the FA state that they don't condone the Arsenal and Chelsea players' behaviour in the final minutes of the Carling Cup final. It's nice to see that they don't endorse the handbags at 20 paces approach by both sides in the 16-man brawl, they obviously thought, like me, that it looked a little bit wimpish and they're probably going to fine either club about 50 pence for not controlling their players. Cesc Fabregas certainly deserves an award for physically lifting Frank Lampard off of the floor, normally this would need a forklift, but Cesc did it no problem. Doing the maths, Cesc lifted probably about 20 times his own body-weight putting him on par with an ant. Bloody impressive if you ask me. Of course, Howard Webb the referee gets off scot-free for sending the wrong man off (sorry, Kev!) when Emmanuel Eboue landed his Ivorian fist on Wayne Bridge's chin. Mr Adebayor didn't take too kindly to being sent for an early bath and threw a right paddy in a right old comedy fashion. Can't remember much of the game though, the punch-up took the headlines, well, that and John Terry being KO'd, swallowing his tongue and being minutes away from death if you believe the Daily Mail - thank goodness he's OK, it was like a storyline from Casualty, but with a happy ending.

Moving away from the football theme, I could write about that for days....

What a pissing waste of time The Oscars are. A big deal is made beforehand over who's going to win what award, the stars get there and all get rat-arsed on champagne and martinis, all fawning over each other and licking each others arses. The awards are made and are won by the people who bribed the judging panel the most, ironically it was The Departed this year, a mob film who picked up four statues. The British all go mental over Helen Mirren winning a gong for portraying our Queen, who is apparently German and nothing more than a tourist attraction nowaday. At the end of the whole evening, the bloody papers are only giving two sh*ts about what the women were wearing when they were on the red carpet and whether their outfits were 'hits or misses'. Sod the award ceremony, let's give all the column inches to the overpaid, orange and over-made-up actresses and what they're wearing so Mrs Joe Public can go and piss money up the wall on a similar dress to that of Nicole Kidman from Matalan that she'll only wear once before whacking back in the wardrobe, never to be worn, seen, or spoken of again. Fecking hell. What a world we live in.

But anyway, on a slightly brighter note, isn't it nice to have more daylight in the evenings? Hated having the street lights coming on at half past 3 in the afternoon and having to stick me headlights on in my car at a similar time. If I had my way, I'd never have to put my headlghts on...though that could problems for other motorists. Though I cause enough problems with them on, well apparently so anyway - I think my driving's faultless, always has been, always will be and every bump along the way is just part of the experience and ride. Anyone without a driving license is, unfortunately, not allowed an opinion. Sorry to Kev and Jez.

Oh, I've been threatened to mention Dan Hackett in this blog, by a bloke called Dan Hackett. So there you go Mr Hackett, I've mentioned Dan Hackett in my blog.

The hair wax incident

Picture the scene. I'm standing in an aisle at Tesco in Durrington, surrounded by the zombie extras from Shaun of the Dead who are the braindead, airheaded single mums who generally frequent the store on a Wednesday morning. All I'd gone in for was a pot of hair wax, and I fancied trying to try something different. I ambled around the store for a while looking for where I might be able to find the wax, it's amazing what you see in supermarkets if you look close enough, I saw someone slip a chocolate bar into their pocket whilst someone else was getting through a bunch of grapes in fruit'n'veg - but perhaps that was just Durrington's ghetto culture. Anyway, I finally found myself staring at the Shockwave's, V05's and Brylcreem's and started picking up and looking at what I wanted. I wanted a wax or clay that was nice and thick. I opened one or two pots to see how thick they were and gently touched them to see what they were like.

In true Hollywood fashion, I turned round to be blinded by a white light, a 8 foot shadow appeared from the light and started marching my way. A Tesco supervisor, looking distantly related to Margaret Thatcher and Shrek, but with glasses, had spotted me 'interfering with stock' and asked me to stop picking up the pots. "Could you please stop that please, it will put other people off buying them if they see fingermarks in them", "But how am I meant to know what to buy?", I replied. "If you don't stop, I'll have you removed from the store", she snapped. I didn't react too kindly, told her she was being unreasonable and totally ridiculous and stomped off out of the store, without my hair wax. "Shit", I thought, I can't go back in and buy it. So I went to Boots and got the stuff I wanted, for a cheaper price. So I had the last laugh, shove that in your jaxxy Mrs Tesco Hitler Whore, and shove your hair wax right up your arse.

Talk about power going to someone's head. She's probably sitting at home now, stroking a white cat, looking at Tesco security tape and seeing who she should have chucked out. She probably has a quota of people she needs to throw out every day. The old bag needs a slap.

Speaking of crazy people - I've got no idea what Britney's been smoking (probably coke) but why the hell has she shaved her hair off? If it's to enter into a Kevin Pietersen lookalike contest, fair enough - she's a nailed on winner for that, but otherwise - she's a good round of sandwiches short of a picnic. And now she's started wearing a wig. I wonder if she's still a virgin though, hmmm.

Following on from Sunday's stories of amusing questions posed by Haskins customers - I was approached by someone at work on Tuesday morning who began to ask me loads of questions about hanging baskets imagining that I knew everything about them, when they should be watered and what kind of bedding plants are good for them. Rather than fobbing them off onto one of our 'experts', I decided to lead them on a wild goose chase around the shop, picking up the plants and baskets that I thought would look rather good together. Then came the dilemma of the right compost - who'd have thought there were so many different kinds of mud?! Anyway, they headed away happy, so that was my good deed for the day....I'd be interested to see how the baskets came out though.

Finally, I've developed a rather unhealthy obsession with Chicago Town pizzas, I had three for lunch today - still, at least I'm not a size zero stick model person who resembles nothing more than a breadstick.

Beware of the crispy aromatic duck

They're everywhere. Of the world's 6-point-something billion population, over a fifth of them come from China. You can't turn around in a town without seeing a Chinese bloke. You can't walk down a road without seeing a Chinese takeaway, which sells chips btw - you know, that fine Chinese side-dish which you have with fish - it's all Chinese, at least that's what Kim Il Fat Shung Dong will tell you. You can't go 10 minutes without using something made in China. You catch my drift. And now they're fast-tracking their production plants to produce more stuff, more chips, more microchips, more trainers - and in the process, accelerating global warming, raising the ice caps and trying to kill everyone in the process. They're hellbent on taking over the world these people - it wouldn't be so bad if there wasn't so bloody many of them. I wouldn't be surprised to know that each grain of rice they export is in fact a cell of HIV to infect whoever eats it, killing them off so they're one step closer to getting control of the earth. There again, I may be paranoid, though those scheduled missions to let people live on the moon can't come quick enough, though that's probably being industrialised by China as I type this.

Kim Jong-Il of North Korea, Osama Bin Laden - sod the pair of them, it's those other Asians we need to watch out for. Nuclear war isn't even enough to stop them. Unfortunately.

I say all the above with tongue firmly in cheek (well, kind of).

As you can see, I've had the decorators in to rejig about this blog, now on a red background with white writing which I think looks rather snazzy. Note the addition of a picture of part of my 'mazin ticket collage on the right hand side which currently sits on the wall above my bed. I wake up to look at it every morning and just think of the moment when Jobi McAnuff's sweet strike nestled into the corner at Withdean, or the moment when Shipps' shin condemned W.HAM! to Division 1 for another year to put us in the Premiership and also the day I travelled to Sheffield Wednesday for a 0-0 draw. Can't beat it. Also underneath that, as you'll see (I sound like a (un-camp) tour guide) a list of my 5 last played songs on iTunes which kind've speaks for itself which I'll update whenever I update this thing. And that's the new look blog, which really doesn't look particularly different at all.

Bizarre question asked to me at work today was whether we sold stamps. Yes love, a garden centre sells stamps to go with the writing paper, envelopes and other stationery and post office related goods we don't sell. Crikey. Still, not as good as the time someone asked whether we could give them Nectar points. Or the time when someone asked where she could pay, and she was at the till. Or the time when someone broke the automatic doors when pushing them down when they were locked. It's a great laugh at Haskins Garden Centre, Roundstone Bypass, Angmering, near Worthing - we currently have a special offer on primroses, 10 for £6.90. Bargain if you ask me.

Oh, and Hot Fuzz is a pretty funny film if you like a policeman bringing anarchy to a small village trying to combat a spate of murders. All in aviator sunglasses, Vauxhall Astras and using ridiculously hardcore machine guns. Smashing.

Bloke in poncho + Balloons = Shite

As the rain lashed down in Brighton on Sunday evening, OK - probably more of a drizzle, but hey, "lashed down" exaggerates it all. Anyway, water fell from the sky on Sunday evening as I'd made the mistake of paying to park in central Brighton for a gig when I could have parked right outside the venue for nothing. The night didn't start well, got to the Concorde 2 nice and wet - paid £1.50 for the privilege of having some scary looking druggie woman look after my coat, half-expecting to get the coat back with a rock of crack cocaine in my pocket. All was going less-than-excellent. The first support act, who shall remain nameless because I didn't actually find out who they are, were really rather good, bit samey, but good enough. The three of us, Challis, Jez and I took to the bar for a drink, Challis had no form of ID whatsoever but we got him a drink anyway as he looks about 25 so the likelihood of him being asked was pretty minimal. But heck, the way the evening had already gone, some Mrs Hitler security-lady asked him for ID and took his drink away.

We ambled back into the gig where the second support act came on. F*cking hell. If you like a guy in a poncho prancing around the stage like some schoolgirl on LSD, this band were probably your thing. I knew they wouldn't be any good when their opening consisted of the poncho-man opening a black binliner full of about 10 balloons - what the bloody feck is that meant to mean?! But anyway, 30 long minutes later, they disappeared off the stage and I went to a toilet which was an experience in itself. Being in a male toilet in Brighton is scary at the best of times, but when it generally resembles a bombsite, only plastered with posters everywhere - I had to piss as quickly as possible otherwise I think I'd have been in trouble....But anyway. Larrikin Love came on and were excellent. Having started in the middle of the venue, I found myself at the front by the end of the second song and didn't really look back (hey, I didn't need to!). A couple of stage invasions later, the gig was over and some drunk/coked up bloke approached me to help him out the door, I rejected him and he stumbled elsewhere, thank f*ck, he could've wrecked my hair.

And that was that.

Anyway, Valentine's Day tomorrow. Smashing, a day designed for Clinton Cards to make an extra few million quid and for restaurants to mug couples out of more money. Yeah, I'm single (and cynical) by the way...

Went to see Blood Diamond on Saturday with the old man Jim - a bloody good film if you ask me and certainly a real eye-opener as to what goes on in the third world with commodities as valuable as diamonds. I'd recommend it myself. Though what really pissed me off in the evening is the tossers who insist on using their phones during the film. I don't care if they're on silent or not, the glare from the screen practically lights up the whole cinema when they're texting their mum to ask them what's for tea. Just turn your phones off for crying out loud, otherwise I'll shove them up your arse.

Isn't global warming a right old pain in the arse? The poor British weather can't make up its mind what to do, as indecisive as a pensioner in a Nissan Micra pulling out of Sainsbury's, one minute sunny, the next - pissing it down. Then it's windy. Give us our seasons back!

Meh, I like complaining about things.

Northern monkeys

Flippin' heck, what a week!

Firstly, the bird flu crisis is here again. The tabloids are going into panic-overdrive with their talk of "it's only a matter of time before humans get it", last time I checked, humans neither had wings, nor do we fly - no matter how much Red Bull we drink, or heroin we inject into ourselves. Sensationalism's big business, it sells papers but it doesn't half bring out the worst in people. Spare a thought for Bernard Matthews who's had lots of his turkeys 'destroyed', though it is a triumph for Jamie Oliver and his crusade against Turkey Twizzlers though, isn't Jamie getting a bit porky himself though? Fat bastard. I heard a northerner on the radio the other day saying they won't eat bacon because of the bird flu epidemic - if ever there was a case for a wall being built across England, just above Watford, preferably destroying Luton in the process, I think that was it. Northern monkeys.

So we're all going to die from bird flu, but at least there's snow to play in to kill the time eh? All 56 feet of it that the weathermen predicted. Again, the UK ground to a halt this morning because everyone was staring at it blankly, like we'd never seen it before. Not to mention being ill-prepared to cope with it. America can cope with truckloads of the stuff without batting an eyelid. Britain gets a small layer of it and everyone goes nuts, running around with their arms in the air, wondering what to do because their car has snow on it. This results in everything being cancelled and closed and the UK comes to a standstill. Unfortunately, the weather barrier that is the South Downs put pay to any chance of sunny East Preston getting any of the white stuff. I blame global warming.

Something's pissed me off this week, and it's those f*cking trainers with wheels on them. Heelies I think they're called. Jesus Christ, what a load of crap - I just don't understand the point in them. Barring the fact that it makes all the kids wearing them look like smug tossers, slide round past you, knocking into you and just being a general irritance. I'd like just one kid to fall over, just so I can point and laugh. Harsh? Probably. Fair? I think so, the £40 or whatever they pay for a pair probably justifies a bit of humiliation for those wearing them.

Steve McClaren's quest to destroy England international football is going along swimmingly. A combination of Phil Neville at left back, Shaun Wright-Phillips getting tackled by his own shadow and playing hoof-ball to a beanpole striker who, despite being 6 foot 7, can't win anything in the air without fouling someone. Cracking work. I could rant all day, as people know, about this, so I'll save you the bother.

Saw Air Traffic with Jez on Saturday night. Good gig which contained a support act whose lead singer seemed to engage in an epileptic fit everytime he wasn't singing. But there again, he was from Manchester so he probably did have something wrong with him. Air Traffic will make it big this year, they're on MySpace - worth checking out.

Oh, and I know prisons are overcrowded, but can we please stick Jade Goody in a cell - the annoying, ugly, talentless, pigshit idiot, no reason for it really, do I really need one?