The Law is an ARSE

Yesterday I nipped home from work at lunch time. I ride a bike to work, and a very nice bike it is too - it's a Carerra Subway. No suspension, no fancy bells or whistles, but it does the job and does it well. But this ain't a bike review, oh no. It's a review of the type of week I'm having: a fucking bad one.

So, like I said, I rode home from work at lunch time. So I'm cycling along a deserted street and get to the traffic lights. No cars behind me, none infront. Not even any waiting at the junction ahead to turn. But the lights are red, so like any dutiful cyclist I stop and wait for the green. I wait for another 5 MINUTES for the bastard lights to fucking change, still perched there like a bell-end on a deserted street, with no pedestrians anywhere in sight; waiting for the lights to go green.

Enough. I proceed across the deserted junction at a leisurely pace...only to spot a bright yellow blob in my periphery accompanied by "EXCUSE ME, SIR."

The fucking filth. On extremely expensive-looking mountain bikes. There was no way I could outrun them on my Subway. FUCK. They booked me for contravention of some traffic law and gave me a £30 on the spot fine for going through a red light. On a deserted road. On a fucking push-bike. What makes me even more annoyed is that at the time this jobsworth cop was writing me a ticket, a group of about 5 (obviously unemployed) scrotes shuffled past on the other side of the road clutching bottles of alcohol and jeering at me.

Justice always prevails, eh.

Self Improvement

I recently booked myself onto one of those courses that teach you how to teach other (non-English speaking) people how to speak English. It's going to cost me close to £300 when it's all paid for, but it's something I've been interested in for a while so thought "fuck it," and rang them. The actual course is called TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language - er, I think), it lasts for 3 days and it basically shows you how to construct lesson plans and give people with a basic grasp of English a bit of tutoring on how to improve their skills. The main thing about this course that interests me is the opportunity to travel to the Far East and Europe to teach once you've gained the qualification - something I'd love to do.

One of my friends has a brother who did this and he now lives in the heart of Tokyo, teaching fit Japanese birds dressed as schoolgirls and Jet Set Radio characters (I'd imagine). My jealousy can hardly be contained.

You may think this is a bit strange, what with me being in the Royal Navy and all, but to be honest I'm probably going to leaving the service in the near future. Tried it, (really, really) didn't like it - nothing more to say on the subject really...apart from "roll on freedom."

And to be frank, the fact that I'm going on this TEFL course and that I've got plans for the future is the only thing keeping me going through these dark Navy days.

In other news, I think I'm going to skip the gym and do something enjoyable tonight - like drink a few beers and play on the 360. Possibly. There's only so many times you can spend an evening waiting for the treadmill or queuing up for a go on the peck deck whilst a load of moronic Marines grunt and flex around you. Last night was just like this, and as I sat there surrounded by guys pumping their impractically large forearms in mirrors, a line from Fight Club popped into my head: "self improvement is masturbation. Now, self destruction..."

At that point I left the gym, downed a bottle of Smirnoff and cooked up a hit...

...I wish.

Adventures in Newcastle (Brown Ale)

Well I finally moved into my new gaff at the weekend, and to be honest it all went pretty smoothly. It only took me two car journeys to haul all my shit across town from my previous abode to my new place, so after I moved and sort of arranged my effects into some sort of coherent 'pile,' I went down the gym. And that's where I lay the downfall of the rest of my weekend...

Later on Saturday (after getting up at the crack of dawn, moving house, slogging it out in the gym and practically eating nothing all day), I went into town to meet some friends who were out celebrating a birthday. I started drinking Newcastle Brown Ale at 2pm. I was back in my living room, unable to walk or talk by 10pm that night after being put in a taxi by mates who were drinking such piss as Budweiser and Foster's - by the 330ml bottle I hasten to add. So to them I say this - YOU were drinking minute amounts of piss-water. I, on the other hand was downing pint bottles of Hell's own beverage. Newkie Brown - separates the men from the boys.

Apparently, I rocked up to the house with a bottle of wine (where I got it from, I still don't know) and drank it with one of my new housemates. I have vague flashbacks of this and I must've looked like a complete fuckwit spouting forth all kinds of incoherent shite to the guy. Bear in mind that this was the first time we'd met since I moved into what is effectively his house and you can see my concern. Unbeknown to me until the following afternoon, I'd also knocked over a rather large glass of the aforementioned vino tinto. All over the spotless beige carpet.

I awoke on Sunday morning with a raging hangover, unable to recall: a) how I'd got home; b) whether I'd eaten a kebab (something I plan never to do again after hearing about the recent investigation into the nutritional values of said post-pub lard-a-thon); or c) if I'd done/said anything to offend my new housemate.

You know that feeling where you can't remember if you've done something terrible whilst drunk? That's how I felt for most of Sunday. I had this disgusting knot in the pit of my stomach that was hinting that I'd carried out some heinous act of ignorance and stupidity whilst intoxicated the previous evening...but I simply couldn't recall what. It didn't help that my nose hurt (had I been fighting? with my housemate? Surely not!) and upon texting various friends about my activity I hadn't had a single reply by 6pm that evening. It must've been bad - whatever it was that I'd done.

Imagine my relief when my housemate called me saying that Saturday night had been a top laugh and all I'd done was spilt some wine. It was akin to a scenario in which the Grim Reaper opens your bedroom door whilst you're having a wank and tells you your time is up, before looking at his Blackberry, explaining that there's been a mix up and that you can carry on bashing one out over the lingerie pages of last season's Argos catalogue in peace. I was that relieved.

Oh, and I didn't throw up, piss or shit in my new room either - which is always a bonus.

Bale us out, Christian

Like most people dragging their ass though life seemingly at random, I have little to look forward to at the moment. Obviously, there's the move coming up - but apart from that the only thing in my life that takes the form of a 'goal' is the long overdue repayment of my overdraft.

I've been overdrawn with the bank since I graduated from University in 2003 - that's nearly SIX YEARS of being nearly two grand in the red with Barclays. I don't blame Barclays for this - on the contrary, unlike most people who are in debt, the only person I blame is MYSELF. I'm the one who spent a £2,000 overdraft on booze, kebabs, computer games and shit I didn't need. I honestly think more people should adopt this attitude, but I digress. Last month though, after several months of saving, I managed to pay off one of those grands and it feels like a massive weight has been lifted off my shoulders. There's still the small matter of the remaining £900 to go, but that'll wait another 6 years. Why am I telling you this? Just to give you some sort of background to the tale of uber-anger that engulfed my this morning, to be honest.

It's like this: I'm skint and £900 overdrawn. It's the end of January and it's always fucking raining. Imagine my face when I opened a letter from O2 this morning to discover that I'd been billed £180 for internet useage via my crappy dongle - when it's only meant to be £20 per month. Apparently, this extra £160 on top of my usual £20 charge is for 'downloads and useage outside of my 3Gb quota.' BOLLOCKS!

You don't pay £180 per YEAR on some proper wired broadband deals, so how the fuck can O2 justify charging me this amount for looking at my hotmail and surfing Youtube on occasion? Apparently, they're meant to send you a little text alert when you're nearing your data limit...an alert I never received. I'm currently in the process of getting this charge refunded, but if - as I'm expecting - the cunts turnaround and say "no," I'll be straight down the small claims court faster than you can say "cancel my direct debit."

Going back to the start of this diatribe, I have actually found something I'm quite looking forward to, although there's going to be quite a wait for it: Terminator: Salvation. Here's a shot:

"He's behind you etc..."

Yep - that's Batman himself, Christian Bale, playing a grown-up John Connor battling against Skynet's finest. It's almost guaranteed to be better than Terminator 3 simply because it won't feature a half-arsed performance from Arnie California or (hopefully) feature any gaping paradox-based plot holes. Terminator 2 style, ass-kicking action-o-thon? I certainly hope so...

...Roll on July.

Oh Yeah...

Ever heard of a Rube Goldberg Machine? No? Neither had I until today. Well, actually I had - I just didn't know that that's what it was called.

A Rube Goldberg Machine is one of those things that has loads of bizarre events going on (like a candle burning through a piece of string, that in turn makes a spring-loaded boot kick a ball, that in turn turns on a fan that blows over a box that releases a balloon...etc etc etc.), but ultimately results in a rather mundane and simple task being carried out. We've all seen them in adverts for cars, dynamite and tampons* etc.

But check this awesome example out:

It's amazing isn't it?! Some of the processes involved look a bit suspect to me, but you have to applaud the inventiveness and patience the creators must have had to get it all together. If it'd been me doing it, I'm pretty sure I'd have lost my temper when the CD cases wouldn't stand up and smashed it all to bits. That's because I'm an angry twat with Satan's own temper. But enough about me and my massively and irretrievably flawed 'personality'...click here for more info on this intriguing art form.

*-confusing the latter two could be hazardous to health

I'm Outta Here!

Wahey! Only 3 days till I move now! The excitement levels, as you have probably guessed, are approaching something resembling happiness. Not true happiness you understand. No, more like the faux happiness people working in offices display in the run-up to Christmas. You, know - like when someone who has never previously acknowledged your existence suddenly starts speaking to you as you make a cup of tea in the kitchen...simply because it's nearly Christmas?

I'm straying from the point though. Let me explain my situation. As you will probably see from looking at my profile, I'm currently in the Royal Navy and as such live at a shore base. It's really not that bad and I'm sure some people currently serving onboard a ship would kill to live here...but there are a few things that really get up my nose and as such I've decided to eschew the cheap rent and relative security of the base and move into a shared house nearby.

You may think I'm a bit stupid considering the recent onset of a recession, but paying rent to a landlord is small fry when you consider the absence of things you might take for granted living in 'civvy street':

1. On the base, there are minimal kitchen facilities. Granted, there is a 'galley' that provides meals at certain times of the day, but if you'd rather not eat chips and mashed spuds for every meal (washed down with warm coloured water falsely advertised as chilled cordial), you're pretty screwed. That's because the kitchen areas provided only contain a fridge and a microwave and there are no proper cookers or ovens, so healthy eating isn't a viable option.


2. The aforementioned fridge. Because the kitchen areas are communal, everyone has to share a fridge. Put anything - anything - other than milk or margarine into this fridge and you can rest assured that it WILL be gone the next time you go to the kitchen. Once, I put a bag of shopping in the fridge and tied the handles together in a misguided attempt to deter any would-be thief. Silly me. The thief simply untied the handles, went through the food and took the items he/she wanted. Then had the fucking audacity to cook this food in the microwave (it was a microwave lasagne, just in case you were wondering), take one fork-full, decide he/she didn't actually want the whole thing and then tossed it into the goddamned bin!!! What a fucking cunt!


3. I have bought two toasters for the communal kitchen - both of which have been stolen.


4. The security staff on the gate insist that you show your ID card entering the site. Fair enough - it is a military base after all. You also have to show it going out of the gate. Why?! This means groups of people fishing around in bags/pockets/wallets etc looking for ID cards hanging around...when all they want to do is go out! I remember one occasion where I entered the site, got a phone call from a mate asking me to meet him outside, turned around literally in front of the guard...and was ordered to show my ID again before I left! I'd shown it to the guy literally TEN SECONDS beforehand!


5. The shop on the base is about 3 times as expensive as the ones just outside the gates. And the staff all have faces longer than Ruud Van Nistelrooy.

Don't get me wrong - it's not all bad, but after several months these little annoyances start to grate...so It's time to go. And like I said - only four days and counting!

eBastards

You know what really pisses me off? tHIS. wHEN YOU MISS HIT THE cAPS lOCK KEY ON YOUR KEYBOARD AND WRITE AND ENTIRE SENTENCE IN OPPOSITE CASE, LOOK UP AT THE SCREEN, REALISE WHAT YOU'VE DONE AND THEN HAVE TO RE-TYPE THE entire fucking thing!!!

But that's not what I want to bitch about right now. No, another thing that pisses me off (there are quite literally hundreds of thousands, by the way) is the random postage cost of items for sale on eBay. Why does it cost £10 to post a game or cable, yet it costs £2.50 to send a fridge freezer?! I'm exaggerating, naturally, but there's no standardisation on what sellers can charge for postage costs.

As you may have deduced, I do use eBay quite a bit and it really annoys me that people can just state random (and generally over-the-odds) amounts for the postage costs. Recently, I purchased an Xbox 360 game and the postage costs amounted to nearly a fiver, but when the thing arrived, the total cost of the stamps on the envelope came up to something like 98p. I wouldn't have minded if the game had been in a padded envelope, either - but it wasn't, it was just wrapped in brown paper. Brown paper that clearly didn't cost £3.02.

So where did my postage money go then? I'll tell you where - straight into the pocket of the arsehole who sold me the game. Hopefully it'll go towards the cost of a tin of Haze and a bottle of Shake 'n' Vac, because judging by the stench eminating from t'game the house fucking needs it.

A couple of final thoughts: why is is always written as 'eBay' when the actual logo doesn't feature a capital 'b,' and why isn't it called 'eBid'?

Hmmm...