This following is my written submission to Derby City Council applying for a bigger blue [recycling] bin.
Hello,
I currently live in a terraced house that has been converted into two flats. I live upstairs with my flatmate while a girl/woman/female occupies the flat below. The problem is that we’re basically two different households producing too much waste to fit our bins.
You see, the major problem is down to the fact that me and my flatmate/spiritual adviser/life-partner drink large quantise of alcohol; some say it’s a stigma from our university days, I personally think we’re unwilling to accept reality and do whatever we can to avoid it. We also have girlfriends and when they come over we have to ply them with enough alcohol to find us sexually attractive. The girl downstairs also likes the occasional two-day drinking binge too, taking all this into account you can begin to paint a mental picture of how much recyclable waste we are creating!
If you can’t, I’ll tell you; it’s loads. Right this instant [Wednesday 19th Sept] our blue bin is maxed out and won’t be emptied until Tuesday [25th Sept] and I have a massive bag of bottles and cans in my kitchen. This is our catch 22, although in the eyes of most we’d simply be lazy, beer drinking weirdoes, we do quite like doing our part for the environment but when our blue bin is full where should we put our recycling? In the black bin? No, of course not, that then goes about creating a situation in which the black bin is constantly full and we have black bin bags filled with rubbish all over our flat. I understand that there are recycling centres in this wonderful city we inhabit but without a car I’m unable to reach them and while I do care for the environment I don’t want to be that guy that gets on the bus with massive bags of recycling!
The main tactic I’ve been employing recently to combat this problem is hoisting myself in the bin and stomping down tin cans and glass bottles in the hope of creating more room for the same. Yet when I attempted this last week I banged my knee on the brick wall and it really, really, really hurt. I had to come inside instantly and have a little lie down as I thought I was going to throw up.
All of this fighting a loosing battle against the amount of waste we produce and physical injuries on myself has made to turn to you for help in the matter.
Wednesday 19 September 2012
Monday 10 September 2012
The Fuck Buddy Complex
After the dust had settled on my previous relationship and my brain was again able to finally form actual real thoughts instead of replaying an endless loop of “our best bits” like a lazy sitcom episode, my initial thought was; “well that’s my sex life over with… for the time being”.
I knew I wouldn’t be jumping straight back on the horse [probably could have picked a better metaphor for sex to be honest], but then at the same time I knew it wouldn’t be long. You may see that as being a little egotistical, but I have a tried and tested method; get into a relationship, get out of a relationship, have sex, get into a different relationship… I’m not trying to claim I invented this method, but it’s always gone this way for me. I’ve never really had a long ‘draught’ – apart from the time I lost my virginity, it took me another two years to have sex again… but I’d be practicing over those two years [you think adolescent males pick on each other for being virgins, try and be the one in the group that had sex then didn’t for two fucking years]. Since then, the flow of gash has never subsided for too long. I’m not trying to portray myself as some sort of player, when comparing figures [of women desperate enough to sleep with us] with numerous friends, I’m some where in the middle, between virgin and man-whore, which I’m more than content with [so content in fact it’s the first sentence on my covering letter I supply with my C.V.].
You see, the thing is I’ve been lucky enough to secure myself fuck buddies over the years; this is what’s kept me my figures at a medium and purchases of tissue low. I don’t know who came up with the brilliant concept of fuck buddies but I’d love to shake his hand [I presume it was a man, seems like the kind of thing WE’D do] after he’d given it a good wash first, mind you.
When you’ve been in a long-term relationship, sex almost becomes stale, it becomes the same rigmarole, you both know what to expect; nothing new, nothing exciting. Towards the end of the relationship it’s simply a loveless act, hollow of any emotion, just one of those things you do, like saying “I love you” every once in a while to break the awkward silences in between television adverts. Then you have sex with someone else, then you realise; “Oh yeah! This is why humanities obsessed with sex… because it’s fucking amazing!”
You fall back in love with sex; it’s great, a rush of endorphins to the brain and a rush of blood to your member, then a rush of sperm onto her thigh, then a rush of apologies from your mouth. It’s a rush!
Two of my close friends had been in fuck buddy relationships [they’ve asked me to point out that it wasn’t with each other] just before I re-entered the single life and once I was finally single those relationships had blossomed into … well … relationships. I was foolhardy enough to think that I wouldn’t let that happen to me. “Pfft… emotions are simply a creation of conglomerate greeting card companies to help sell their products” I’d tell myself as I sat alone in my room while my friends went out and formed meaningful connections with those they loved. I tried to convince myself I had that Barney Stinson swagger… although my boy never suits up, yet I’m still disease free.
The thing is meaningless sex is easy to have with someone that doesn’t mean much to you [I may never have meaningless sex ever again after that sentence, although most women I’ve had meaningless sex with can’t read… so I may be OK]. The ‘problem’ arises when those emotions you previously discounted begin to surface and you’re fuck buddy starts to do things that encourage those emotions to grow like turning up at your house with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Then in between all the sex you start to realise you have plenty in common, then before you know it you’re in a predicament.
That predicament is; although you both agreed this was strictly sex [Shameless Plug; watch out for my new Strictly Come Dancing spin-off; Strictly Cum Sex pilot episode ‘cumming’ to BBC in the winter], you start to think; “Wow, this girl’s pretty amazing, so much better than any other fuck buddy I’ve had before, plus we have tons in common AND I’m not ashamed to be seen out with her in public!” but is she thinking the same thing? Then you begin to catalogue your own qualities as to how they compare against hers and you fall short; an obsession with rap battles and drinking until you pass out doesn’t appeal to most women. You look at what she’s done for you; treated me great, laughed at my shitty jokes [and my Amateur Abortionist rap] and bought me that bottle of SoCo [yes, I’ve mentioned that, but Southern Comfort is a necessity] against what you’ve done for her and somehow; “well… I give her the dick” doesn’t quite measure up [short penis joke implied]. With all this in mind you try to contain those emotions, because if you let them out you’ll ruin the fuck buddy relationship and back to spraining your wrist on a daily basis.
But eventually it gets too much like the guilt you feel from murdering a younger sibling [my lawyer wishes me to point out that that was a “wacky simile and has no connection to me or any court case I’m currently involved in”]; you have to blurt it out. Then you wait for her response, those seconds feel like really long seconds, then she doesn’t respond but that’s fine because she’s asleep and this whole saga was simply a ‘practice run’ so you know how it’s going to happen when she’s conscious. Then finally, with enough Southern Comfort courage you ask her out, then she says “Yes”, then you’re happy, then she inspires you to write again, then you write a blog about it, then you hope she doesn’t kill you.
I knew I wouldn’t be jumping straight back on the horse [probably could have picked a better metaphor for sex to be honest], but then at the same time I knew it wouldn’t be long. You may see that as being a little egotistical, but I have a tried and tested method; get into a relationship, get out of a relationship, have sex, get into a different relationship… I’m not trying to claim I invented this method, but it’s always gone this way for me. I’ve never really had a long ‘draught’ – apart from the time I lost my virginity, it took me another two years to have sex again… but I’d be practicing over those two years [you think adolescent males pick on each other for being virgins, try and be the one in the group that had sex then didn’t for two fucking years]. Since then, the flow of gash has never subsided for too long. I’m not trying to portray myself as some sort of player, when comparing figures [of women desperate enough to sleep with us] with numerous friends, I’m some where in the middle, between virgin and man-whore, which I’m more than content with [so content in fact it’s the first sentence on my covering letter I supply with my C.V.].
You see, the thing is I’ve been lucky enough to secure myself fuck buddies over the years; this is what’s kept me my figures at a medium and purchases of tissue low. I don’t know who came up with the brilliant concept of fuck buddies but I’d love to shake his hand [I presume it was a man, seems like the kind of thing WE’D do] after he’d given it a good wash first, mind you.
When you’ve been in a long-term relationship, sex almost becomes stale, it becomes the same rigmarole, you both know what to expect; nothing new, nothing exciting. Towards the end of the relationship it’s simply a loveless act, hollow of any emotion, just one of those things you do, like saying “I love you” every once in a while to break the awkward silences in between television adverts. Then you have sex with someone else, then you realise; “Oh yeah! This is why humanities obsessed with sex… because it’s fucking amazing!”
You fall back in love with sex; it’s great, a rush of endorphins to the brain and a rush of blood to your member, then a rush of sperm onto her thigh, then a rush of apologies from your mouth. It’s a rush!
Two of my close friends had been in fuck buddy relationships [they’ve asked me to point out that it wasn’t with each other] just before I re-entered the single life and once I was finally single those relationships had blossomed into … well … relationships. I was foolhardy enough to think that I wouldn’t let that happen to me. “Pfft… emotions are simply a creation of conglomerate greeting card companies to help sell their products” I’d tell myself as I sat alone in my room while my friends went out and formed meaningful connections with those they loved. I tried to convince myself I had that Barney Stinson swagger… although my boy never suits up, yet I’m still disease free.
The thing is meaningless sex is easy to have with someone that doesn’t mean much to you [I may never have meaningless sex ever again after that sentence, although most women I’ve had meaningless sex with can’t read… so I may be OK]. The ‘problem’ arises when those emotions you previously discounted begin to surface and you’re fuck buddy starts to do things that encourage those emotions to grow like turning up at your house with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Then in between all the sex you start to realise you have plenty in common, then before you know it you’re in a predicament.
That predicament is; although you both agreed this was strictly sex [Shameless Plug; watch out for my new Strictly Come Dancing spin-off; Strictly Cum Sex pilot episode ‘cumming’ to BBC in the winter], you start to think; “Wow, this girl’s pretty amazing, so much better than any other fuck buddy I’ve had before, plus we have tons in common AND I’m not ashamed to be seen out with her in public!” but is she thinking the same thing? Then you begin to catalogue your own qualities as to how they compare against hers and you fall short; an obsession with rap battles and drinking until you pass out doesn’t appeal to most women. You look at what she’s done for you; treated me great, laughed at my shitty jokes [and my Amateur Abortionist rap] and bought me that bottle of SoCo [yes, I’ve mentioned that, but Southern Comfort is a necessity] against what you’ve done for her and somehow; “well… I give her the dick” doesn’t quite measure up [short penis joke implied]. With all this in mind you try to contain those emotions, because if you let them out you’ll ruin the fuck buddy relationship and back to spraining your wrist on a daily basis.
But eventually it gets too much like the guilt you feel from murdering a younger sibling [my lawyer wishes me to point out that that was a “wacky simile and has no connection to me or any court case I’m currently involved in”]; you have to blurt it out. Then you wait for her response, those seconds feel like really long seconds, then she doesn’t respond but that’s fine because she’s asleep and this whole saga was simply a ‘practice run’ so you know how it’s going to happen when she’s conscious. Then finally, with enough Southern Comfort courage you ask her out, then she says “Yes”, then you’re happy, then she inspires you to write again, then you write a blog about it, then you hope she doesn’t kill you.
Tuesday 4 September 2012
How to Win Come Dine With Me
Like a large quantity of the British public I love to watch Channel 4’s cookery competition in which 4-5 members of the general public host a dinner party with the chance of winning £1000. But let’s face it, we aren’t tuning in for advice on recipes, we just want to see people from different walks of life let rip at each other with some verbal sparring. Yet, from the numerous hours of watching C4’s primetime show, I’ve developed a list that’s bound to make any novice host/hostess a likely victor in the competition.
Don’t Cook Prawns
I fucking love prawns but there’s always some moaning prick that doesn’t and no matter how you prepare them in the kitchen they’ll always get a grilling at the table; “Did you take out the shit sack [devein it]?” “Are they fresh?” “Why did you leave the head/tail on?” “Why didn’t you leave the head/tail on?” Serving up prawns is basically opening yourself up to the fucking Spanish Inquisition… quite fitting if they’re in a paella.
Don’t Have “Musical Entertainment” in the Living Room
Providing guests with entertainment is more often than not more difficult than serving up the food. A mistake I often see is a host parading out some musical entertainment in their bloody living room, don’t get me wrong on some rare occasions it works well but more often than not it fails. This is probably because a living room is not the natural environment for a musician to play and it leaves everyone uncomfortable. Who wants to be in a situation in which one wrong strum of a guitar could send a plectrum flying into the eye of a dinner guest?
Have a Decent Vegetarian Option
Normally I have no qualms in treating vegetarians like shit, in fact it’s one of my hobbies, yet when it come to Come Dine With Me you have to make a real effort as they could be your key to victory. I don’t know many vegetarian dishes besides beans on toast and cereal so I can’t offer much in advice in what to serve but veer away from grilled mushrooms with loads of shit in it, be inventive and don’t just get a Quorn microwave meal.
Don’t Be So Overconfident
Just don’t act like an arrogant cunt basically. You’ve seen them before constantly nitpicking at other contestants methods, recipes, homes, children, pets, carpet choice… All it does is turn everyone against you and make them expect absolute perfection at your night… which is never going to happen, so just keep your fucking mouth shut… apart from when you’re shovelling someone’s overcooked and soggy beef Wellington down your oesophagus.
Ply Them with Alcohol
You sometimes have contestants on, that for whatever reason don’t allow alcohol at their night. More often than not it has something to do with religious beliefs, but hey, if they’re willing to let some fictitious, esoteric guidelines of how to live your life dominate their actions they don’t deserve that £1000. Alcohol is not only vital to dinner parties, it’s vital to life. So when it comes to your night keep your guests’ glasses topped up, the more pissed they get the more fun they’ll have, the higher marks you’ll receive. NOTICE: Don’t ply yourself with alcohol on your own night, you need your wits about you, try to avoid a massive intake of booze the evening before yours too.
Don’t Use Shop-Bought Pastry
I have never made my own pastry, I have never even cooked with shop-bought pastry so this whole pastry debacle that constantly rears it’s ugly head on Come Dine With Me makes no real sense to me. Yet, I do know if you’re going to use shop-bought pastry someone will ask, then will mark you down. Pastry’s shit anyway unless it’s filled with meat from Gregg’s, just avoid it all together so you can avoid that moment where that “arrogant prick/bitch [of the week]” gets a chance to demean you in your house in front of your guest for not making your own pastry.
Practice Your Menu
Whenever some half-witted contestant turns to the camera in their own kitchen and mumbles; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never made this before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, I unleash an ungodly amount of expletives at my television screen for so long I miss the beginning of The Simpsons. This should be a no-brainer; but practice your menu at least three times before your night, just so everything runs a bit smoother. Imagine you’re on a hospital bed, anaesthetic gradually kicking in and as you slowly drift off, the surgeon leans over you and utters; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never performed open heart surgery before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, you won’t be filled with much confidence … or organs by the end of it.
Don’t Cook Prawns
I fucking love prawns but there’s always some moaning prick that doesn’t and no matter how you prepare them in the kitchen they’ll always get a grilling at the table; “Did you take out the shit sack [devein it]?” “Are they fresh?” “Why did you leave the head/tail on?” “Why didn’t you leave the head/tail on?” Serving up prawns is basically opening yourself up to the fucking Spanish Inquisition… quite fitting if they’re in a paella.
Don’t Have “Musical Entertainment” in the Living Room
Providing guests with entertainment is more often than not more difficult than serving up the food. A mistake I often see is a host parading out some musical entertainment in their bloody living room, don’t get me wrong on some rare occasions it works well but more often than not it fails. This is probably because a living room is not the natural environment for a musician to play and it leaves everyone uncomfortable. Who wants to be in a situation in which one wrong strum of a guitar could send a plectrum flying into the eye of a dinner guest?
Have a Decent Vegetarian Option
Normally I have no qualms in treating vegetarians like shit, in fact it’s one of my hobbies, yet when it come to Come Dine With Me you have to make a real effort as they could be your key to victory. I don’t know many vegetarian dishes besides beans on toast and cereal so I can’t offer much in advice in what to serve but veer away from grilled mushrooms with loads of shit in it, be inventive and don’t just get a Quorn microwave meal.
Don’t Be So Overconfident
Just don’t act like an arrogant cunt basically. You’ve seen them before constantly nitpicking at other contestants methods, recipes, homes, children, pets, carpet choice… All it does is turn everyone against you and make them expect absolute perfection at your night… which is never going to happen, so just keep your fucking mouth shut… apart from when you’re shovelling someone’s overcooked and soggy beef Wellington down your oesophagus.
Ply Them with Alcohol
You sometimes have contestants on, that for whatever reason don’t allow alcohol at their night. More often than not it has something to do with religious beliefs, but hey, if they’re willing to let some fictitious, esoteric guidelines of how to live your life dominate their actions they don’t deserve that £1000. Alcohol is not only vital to dinner parties, it’s vital to life. So when it comes to your night keep your guests’ glasses topped up, the more pissed they get the more fun they’ll have, the higher marks you’ll receive. NOTICE: Don’t ply yourself with alcohol on your own night, you need your wits about you, try to avoid a massive intake of booze the evening before yours too.
Don’t Use Shop-Bought Pastry
I have never made my own pastry, I have never even cooked with shop-bought pastry so this whole pastry debacle that constantly rears it’s ugly head on Come Dine With Me makes no real sense to me. Yet, I do know if you’re going to use shop-bought pastry someone will ask, then will mark you down. Pastry’s shit anyway unless it’s filled with meat from Gregg’s, just avoid it all together so you can avoid that moment where that “arrogant prick/bitch [of the week]” gets a chance to demean you in your house in front of your guest for not making your own pastry.
Practice Your Menu
Whenever some half-witted contestant turns to the camera in their own kitchen and mumbles; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never made this before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, I unleash an ungodly amount of expletives at my television screen for so long I miss the beginning of The Simpsons. This should be a no-brainer; but practice your menu at least three times before your night, just so everything runs a bit smoother. Imagine you’re on a hospital bed, anaesthetic gradually kicking in and as you slowly drift off, the surgeon leans over you and utters; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never performed open heart surgery before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, you won’t be filled with much confidence … or organs by the end of it.
Monday 3 September 2012
A Well Overdue Wine
It’s been a while since I’ve wrote anything, so I though I’d give it a go and use some of the other letters on my keyboard other than; F, R, E, P, O, R and N. The problem is I’ve had a lack of things to write about and by ‘write about’, I obviously mean bitch about. Maybe I’m settling down in my old age? Or maybe the constant amount of day to day intoxication has dulled my senses, drive and any ambition that wasn’t already crushed out of me by society… either way, I’m back to putting metaphorical pen to metaphorical paper.
To help me make the transition from drinking to blogging, I thought I’d write a blog about drinking; it’s really amazing how my brain works. But instead of lambasting a topic, I wanted to switch it up a little and talk about how great something [besides me] is. My topic is red wine.
Now, I’ve never really drank wine before recently, I’ve been in contact with it the majority of my life as my mum puts away a bottle or five a day. The only time I remember drinking wine is a few years back when I got a free bottle from work and had no other alcohol in the house, so I downed it while watching a Cantonese gangster film [Yes, I am THAT cultured]. It was ok, but it never really appealed to me that much. Yet now, I’m turning into a bit of a wino [I mean that in both wine-liking and hobo terms]. I’d just like to clarify that I only drink red wine. White and Rosé still taste like elephant piss to me and if you want to argue it out, I’d be more than willing to bottle you with a fruity yet robust Australian Shiraz [check the terminology bitches!].
You see, while red wine is nice, it’s not the flavour that attracts me to it so much, it’s a real alcoholics drink. What makes it so great is the fact that it’s served at room temperature, no need to make space in the fridge for those three bottles I’ve just got from the shop. Plus it’s a tipple you can drink at your own pace; it doesn’t go flat, get warm and if you pass out late at night with half a glass left it’s still there in the morning for you to finish off before you set off to work [you may need to scoop out any dead moths first, mind you].
Of course, as with anything, there are some minor problems. As I’ve just started out drinking wine, I’m a little uneducated in the different types although my taste buds are sincerely fucked from years of smoking so the country of origin or grapes used means nothing to me and I highly doubt I’ll ever learn how to differentiate between them. Plus the names are fucking fucked! Whoever came up with Merlot, well done on making a decent wine, but at least fucking proofread the name, it should end in a ‘w’ not a fucking ‘t’ you stupid wtaw*!! As for fucking Cabernet Sauvignon … what the fuck is that? That may as well be written in pissing Arabic, I think I’d have more chance at pronouncing it correctly. But aside from the stupid names, red wine’s got a lot going for it, so why not have a bottle tonight and forget about your troubles/bills/children/responsibilities.
And that’s it. Not great, but trying to get in the habit of writing again, next one will be better I promise, it’s entitled; The Fuck Buddy Complex… that just sounds good, so come back for that when I’ve finally get around to finishing it. Peace.
*That got added as I proofread the piece, best fucking joke in there.
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