Chillax. Do You See?

There's a couple of things I want to talk about today. Or should that be 'blog' about? I don't really like using that word, even though this is essentially a 'blog,' simply because it sounds so disgustingly middle class. Its the kind of word an angsty teenager uses when they're ranting online about how misunderstood they are and how much they hate their parents. Whilst sat in a bedroom housed in the west wing of a small mansion, typing on brand new Macbook Air that daddy bought them a month ago to apologise for not coming to their sixth-form production of Romeo & Juliet (with a modern emo twist). What hypothetical spoilt little cunts these teenagers are, eh? Gah.

So. Item the first: Pepsi Max. I love Pepsi Max. It is, without a doubt, my fizzy beverage of choice. I don't drink normal Pepsi (or Coke for that matter) simply because it contains the equivalent of 24 bags of sugar per 100ml (or something similar), and I know that Pepsi Max is probably no better for the human soul...but it's sugar free. And that's why I choose it over normal Pepsi. Now, the reason I bring up Pepsi Max is this: why is it so fucking hard to find it in 330ml cans?! You can buy it in most newsagents and corner shops in those massive 600ml bottles that recently appeared, but what if you don't want that much? And what if you prefer it from a can because it always seems colder and fizzier from a can? I walked around town the other day searching high and low for a shop that sold Pepsi Max in a can, but could I find one? Could I bollocks. Every shop had Coke, Diet Coke and Coke Zero in cans AND bottles (and some even had that pointless creation Diet Caffeine Free Coke, the cola equivalent of a nicotine-free cigarette), but not a single one stocked cans of Pepsi Max. Why is this? Is Coca Cola secretly paying Britain's corner shop owners a fee not to stock it's rival's drinks? After visiting five different corner shops (and a supermarket) and still drawing a blank, I'm inclined to question whether there is some kind of Coca Cola-powered conspiracy afoot. Just like when they ordered the assassination of JFK. To that end, I'm currently in the process of writing to Pepsi Co. to ask whether they're aware of the horrifying situation faced by Pepsi Max loving can-fans. More on this subject to follow.

Item the two: I attended the Great Dorset Chilli Festival over the weekend. It was more like a big market than a festival to be honest, but it was still quite good. As the name suggests, it was devoted to our friend the chilli. The vast majority of the stalls there were being run by local chilli farmers and they all had free samples available to punters who were brave/stupid enough to try their wares. The first thing I and my girlfriend did was head to the 'tasting' tent where we were presented with a vast array of chilli sauces ranging from 'mild' to 'hot,' and encouraged to taste them all and vote for the most flavoursome. The term 'flavoursome' stopped having any meaning after I got halfway through the 'medium' selection of sauces though, as they all tasted like fire and I couldn't tell what I was eating due to the tears blurring my vision. To my credit, I did make it around the whole lot and by the end of the ordeal my tongue felt as if it had taken the full brunt of the Tunguska blast; but it felt strangely satisfying to have tested them all - even the stuff that looked like a grizzly bear had devoured Satan's spice rack and then taken a shit in a bowl. Attempting to douse the inferno ripping it's way toward my sphincter with a pint of chilli & ginger-flavoured real ale probably wasn't the most intelligent thing I could have done at that point, but I forged on regardless.

As you would expect, I also made a few purchases. The first thing was a little jar of 'chocolate chilli curd,' which for all intents and purposes is Nutella with a few bits of chilli in it. Actually a lot tastier than it sounds, especially on hot toast. The second thing I bought was a little bag of Dorset Naga chillies. For those who don't know, the Dorset Naga is consistently rated as the world's hottest chilli. I haven't actually tasted one yet, but there's still time before they shrivel up like tiny green penises and die. The last thing I bought was what I like to call The Motherload. Its a bottle of hot chilli sauce the likes of which I have never come across in all my days of loving hot food. It's called '10 Minute Burn' (see picture below) and features the tag line 'Another bottle of pure pain.' The most accurate description of a foodstuff yet? Possibly. This stuff is horrifyingly spicy - three drops in the curry I made last night was enough to almost send the whole lot in the bin, even though it clearly states on the label 'do not ingest directly - use only in cooking.' Cooking what, exactly? A fucking isotope pie? So yeah - it's hot. Stupifyingly hot. I can't think of any more stupid metaphors to describe how hot it is, so just take my word for it.

Note the skulls. They are relevant in this case.

And now that you've read all that, have another look at this post's title. Do you see? Eh?! Chilli. Pepsi Max.

I'll get my coat.

Cakes

Did another half marathon last Sunday. It was the Sturminster Newton half marathon, more affectionatley known as the 'Stur Half,' and I must say that it was a really good event. My previous half marathon was the Plymouth one, and whilst the Stur Half was on a much, much smaller scale it was every bit as well organised. In case you give a toss, I finished in 50th place, which I don't think is too bad considering over 400 runners took part and I started quite a way back from the starting line. I'm not sure how the organisers got their timings, as the Stur Half didn't employ a chip timing system like Plymouth did, but I'm happy with my 01:31:09. Slightly dissapointed that they didn't award medals to all finishers, but I suppose that as it was only a small, locally run event I shouldn't complain too much (and I did get a free cake and t-shirt on completion).

The next race in my less-that-hectic schedule is the Bristol half marathon in September and I'm also considering the New Forest one later in the same month, but the only thing that concerns me about that one is that you aren't allowed to wear headphones/listen to music as you run. This is a bit of a problem for me, as music blasting through my lug holes is one of the only things that motivates me when I run. Have you ever tried running or jogging without music? It can only be described as horrendous - the only sound the desperate rasping of your own laboured breathing broken by the occasional clearing of the throat...it makes a pretty unpleasent activity even more unbearable. To that end, I'm not sure if I'm going to enter the New Forest one. I suspect I'm not the only person who will give it a miss either as several people I've asked about doing the event have also complained about the same ban on aural entertainment. Maybe I'll look at some other, less stringently managed races instead.

London's Burning

What the fuck is going on in the capital? I've been watching the news for the past couple of days and all I'm seeing are reports about groups of feral youth smashing up branches of Debenhams. It's like a scene from that Clive Owen film Children of Men. Which is actually a pretty good movie, incidentally. It doesn't feature ferral youths smashing up Debenhams, but it does paint a picture of near-future London where people are out of control and the police are prety much powerless to stop acts of random violence. I'm drawing comparisons here, people.

I've also seen a few TV interviews with Theresa May, the Home Secretary. What fucking planet does this woman live on? The scumbags running amok on the streets of London clearly don't have a modicum of respect for the police, so how she expects 'robust policing' to stop them from smashing up Debenhams is a mystery to me. The only example of 'robust policing' that has been evident thus far has been a copper with a megaphone telling feral youths to stop smashing up Debenhams from the relative safety of an armoured car. Whilst other policemen, clad in armour and carrying shields, watched from across the road. Very robust policing, that.

Furthermore, what has Debenhams ever done to deserve being smashed up? Fair enough, some of their Jasper Conran t-shirts are a bit expensive, but does that warrant having the perfume counter demolished by a Nike Air-clad foot?

The whole rioting/burning/looting business appears to have stemmed from the killing of a young black teenager by Met officers a few days ago, and I'm not well informed enough to comment on that incident, but how this event leads to the setting alight of a carpet shop, the destruction of an Italian restaurant and the continued smashing up of Debenhams, I don't know. People keep saying "send in the army!," but what good will that do? Instead of police offers just standing there and being powerless to do anything because of the ridiculous laws of this fair land, we'll have soldiers in there doing the same.

Can you imagine if this kind of shit happenned in America? or Turkey? or anywhere where you give the police a wide berth because if you don't they'll smash your face in? Or shoot you? Quite. Anyway, David Cameron's cut his holiday short to come back and sort shit out. Kind of smacks of a mum telling her naughty little twat of a kid "you wait till your dad gets home" dunnit? I bet the feral youth smashing up Debenhams are quaking in the aforementioned Nike Airs now that Cameron's back in his pastel shirt and chinos.

Well, there's my two penneth. I'm off to Debenhams for some free stuff.

An Ode to Audi

Time to use your imagination. Picture the scene: you're driving down a country road, windows down, music up. It's a lovely warm day and the sun is high in the deep blue afternoon sky. The subtle scent of cut grass blows through the car as you pass a field, and the rolling hills beyond create a magnificent vista not seen since the Riders of Rohan took to their horses to administer a knuckle sandwich to the baddies in Middle Earth. Quite simply, amazing driving conditions.

That is, until this fucking thing appears in your rear-view:





Right up your arse with those ridiculous little lights on that (to me at least) scream "let me past - I'm a fucking cock and I've got a fast car!"


I despise those little lights that most new Audi cars have. They're something of a mystery to me: are they 'always on,' like the sidelights on old Volvos? And if not, why do Audi drivers feel the need to pierce everyone else's rear-view mirror with the horrible little things? If I'm driving along - and not just in a situation like the one described above - and I see those cunting things appear behind me, I just know that within a few minutes they'll be right up behind me, growling in my mirror and making me feel like I'm driving Miss Daisy, no matter how fast I'm actually going. The other day, I was going at a fair old whack down some sleepy A road, and one of these Audi twats just 'appeared' behind me trying to make me speed up. I'll be honest, I don't think my Proton Impian could travel much faster than I was going, and it'll easily do 100mph, so you can kind of appreciate the speed we were travelling at...yet this absolute CUNT with his stupid little LEDs still wanted to go FASTER! Eventually, the bell-end overtook on a corner (!) and disappeared into the distance (hopefully slamming into a wall a few miles later).


To that end, I have bestowed upon these headlights a new name. One which I hope enters the Oxford English Dictionary along with the abominable 'LOL' and 'WTF.' This name is: Wanker Lanterns.


Wanker Lanterns (noun): The row of LEDs under the main headlights on any new Audi. They always seem to be lit, no matter how bright the sun is on any particular day. They serve no purpose other than to alert other road users to the fact that the driver of the Audi owns an Audi, and that their Audi goes faster than your car. Unless you own a Porsche.

Quick edit: Just reading today's edition of The I newspaper (see previous blog entry) and on page 11 there's a little piece about the rise in cyclist deaths on Britains roads. The story details the death of a cyclist in North London on Saturday, who appears to have hit an open car door before being thrown into the path of a bus. the last paragraph reads (this is absolutely genuine, by the way): 'A post-mortem examination is expected to take place today. The driver of the car, an Audi, was arrested.'

Your honour, the prosecution rests.

Snobbery?

Got to work this morning and someone had bought a newspaper and left it on the side. I picked it up. Inevitably, it was The Sun (inevitably, because most of the morons I work with aren't capable of digesting news written in a style other than that of a Ladybird book). Now, I haven't read The Sun for quite a while because there's now a newspaper published in these fair lands called The I, which is an offshoot of The Independent. It's basically a smaller, condensed version of said broadsheet and is in all honesty one of the best rags I've ever had the pleasure of reading. And it only costs 20p - but that's beside the point. The point is, I read The I. Not The Sun. So, one can only imagine the utter disgust I couldn't help but display when I flicked through the nation's 'favourite' red top this morning. It's fucking full of stories about The X Factor, Rihanna's tits and (honestly) a scan of the sea bed that revealed a shape that vaguely resembled the Millenium Falcon from Star Wars. I couldn't actually be bothered to finish reading the fucking thing - so I threw it at the wall and left it there in a sorry heap.

I can't believe that people pay 30 pence to read such festering dogshite. I'm no snob, but after nearly a year of buying The I (and being labelled as 'intelligent' for doing so (it's meant as an insult in the military, by the way)), I'm shocked that this comic can still masquerade as a legitimate newspaper. Atomic Kitten are not news. Amy Winehouse is not news. Joey Barton's Twitter account is not news. I could, rather depressingly, go on giving examples of subjects covered in today's copy of The Sun that shouldn't qualify as news items. But I won't, for fear that I may projectile vomit all over the computer.

I suppose I shouldn't really be suprised that every single person I observe leaving the shop on the base where I live/work has a copy of either The Sun or The Star (spit) folded up under their arm on a morning - the vast majority of them look as if they have only just mastered the ability to walk in a straight line and/or fashion their own name on a slate with a crushed crayon. And if that comment makes me a snob, then so be it.

Take a Gamble on Giffgaff

Mobile phones. We’ve all got one. And as anyone who’s read the past posts on this blog will attest, I’ve had my fair share. They’ve mostly been top notch bits of tech – The O2 XDA was a nice PDA type contraption; The HD2 was an amazing (if slightly large) iPhone alternative; and the Palm Pre was a pretty damn good Blackberry substitute – until it went tits up a few months ago and was sent to the big phone bin in the sky. After being snapped in half in a fit of furious rage. But that, my friends, is a different post.

I’ve got a Nokia X3-02 Touch and Type now, and while it isn’t a smartphone like the other two were, it’s still a really nice handset that has all the features you’d expect from a mobile that should cost well over £200. Stuff like Wi-Fi, 3G, 5 megapixel camera and a touch screen. All things that you wouldn’t usually expect to have on a sub £100 (well, £79.99) phone. But I’m not really here to talk about mobile hardware today. No, what I want to waffle about is freedom. Freedom from O2, to be more specific. I’ve finally done it! I’ve broken away from the monolithic and omnipresent mega corporation that’s been sucking £50+ out of my bank account every month for as long as I can remember. And it feels good. Damn good.

You know when you think you’ve lost you wallet or your keys and have images of the shit-storm that’s coming your way, only to find them again? Where that wave of nausea and sweatiness suddenly gives way to an enlightened sense of euphoria? That’s how good it feels.

Indeed. So, June saw the expiration of my latest hellish 18 month contract and I decided that rather than go for another 24 months of shite with said demonic network, I’d move my number (via use of a PAC code) to an O2 pay as you go sim. All fine and well…until the number porting didn’t go through on the day it was meant to. And so I waited. And waited. And then on the third day after it was meant to happen I rang O2 customer service again to find out what was happening. The idiot on the other end of the phone rudely told me that there was no evidence that any such request had been made on my account (it had – about a week earlier), and so I politely requested again that it be actioned. Typical O2 uselessness rearing its unsightly head like some hideous clockwork scarecrow. Happily, after waiting for another few days, the number went across to my new sim card and I was finally a pay as you go customer. Success! Or so I thought until a week or so later when I stopped being able to receive texts. I rang customer services again, whereupon an operative who displayed unrivalled levels of arrogance and rudeness proceeded to tell me that I may have a bar on my sim card “just because.” That was his actual reason for why I might not be able to receive texts, I shit you not. At that point, I snapped, and told him give me another PAC code. I was put through to yet another imbecile who tried her best to not let me have my PAC code until I virtually screamed at her to give it to me. So she did.

I looked at the other major networks and weighed up their pay as you go tariffs and bonuses, and I was going to go with Orange due to their network coverage (which is apparently pretty good now they’ve teamed up with T Mobile) and the Orange Wednesdays offer, but that was until I discovered a network that excited me greatly. And that network is Giffgaff.

Giffgaff? Who the fuck are Giffgaff? Exactly the question I was asking myself until I discovered the amazing tariffs they offer. They only do pay as you go sim cards, and the top-up options are nothing short of staggering in this age of ubiquitous customer fleecing. Example: I topped up with £5, for which I received 60 cross-network minutes and 300 texts. For a fucking fiver! Even more breathtaking is the way that if anyone rings me from their mobile, I get an extra minute added to my balance for every minute I’m on the phone! If you choose to top up by a larger amount, you get even more free shit like unlimited mobile internet and texts etc. Remarkable stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree.

So there you go. It is possible to find truly bargainous deals when it comes to mobile networks. I’ve unshackled myself from the burden of the 50-odd quid bill and horrendous customer service of O2, and found a network where customer service is all done via a forum and email and costs virtually nothing to use. The only negative is that Giffgaff kinda runs off the O2 network and was actually set up by some O2 bigwig, but boy am I glad to be free of those cunts.

Moving on to a slightly different subject, you may recall me wanking (not literally) over the prospect of owning a Nintendo 3DS a few months ago. Well, I've finally managed to blag a go on one...and it gave me a monstous headache! It was only one of the display ones in GAME, and the game was Pilotwings or something similar (some cartoon flying game), but it was pretty rubbish to be honest. And the 3D effect was nothing like what I was expecting. When I think about it, I don't actually know what I was expecting, but it wasn't what I played the other day. I felt like I was looking at one of those magic eye things where you stare at a blob of spew for an hour and try to make out a load of dinosaurs. Or how everything looks after one too many ciders, where you start to go a bit cross-eyed. It wasn't pleasant.

I realise that you can turn the 3D effect up or down, or even completely off - but surely that defeats the object of owning a 3D-capable system in the first place. So to surmise: after playing Pilotwings for 10 minutes in a shop, I don't think I'll be investing in a 3DS just yet.

Roll on Playstation Vita...?

I Ran So Far Away

Finally worked out how to upload my running totals from my Forerunner watch to the Garmin Connect website this morning. It's pretty cool to be fair. Not only is it much more detailed than the software that you can install on your PC, but it allows you to share the details of your runs and training sessions. Yesterday I completed a fairly epic 22 mile jaunt around the highways and byways of Somerset and here's the little info pane that relates to the run:

I did another run today, but it was only a ten mile one as my legs were fucking killing me from yesterday's little escapade. Here's the info box thingy:

I'm doing a few more half-marathons in the coming months so this gizmo really helps with the training, and being able to embed the workouts on your own blog is a nice touch. Still on the subject of running, I bought some Saucony Jazz 13 running trainers a few weeks back to replace the bargain basement Saucony Prestige I got from M&M Direct. To be honest, the only real difference I can see between them (apart from the price) is that the Jazz are 'Pro Grid' and have a little window in the heel so you can see the cushioning thing, while the Prestige are just plain 'Grid' and have a solid heel with no window. They're both pretty comfortable, as you'd expect from Saucony, but I'm not sure splashing out on another pair was such a good idea when I'm trying to save money for my impending return to the real world (see previous posts on redundancy for clarification). Saying that though, the Jazz are a lovely shade of electric blue whereas the Prestige are boring old white, so I suppose it was money well spent. Not just an investment in fitness, but also an investment in fashion. Like the Scarlett Pimpernel. Or am I getting that reference confused with something else. Meh.