Hope you all had a great Xmas

So, Christmas has been and gone. Mine passed in a drunken haze but more about that later. Hope Santa brought you all what you were hoping for and you and yours had an excellent time.
I bought my Wife and Daughter a Wi Fit which had a mixed reaction. My Daughter and I can't wait to get on it but my Missus is a bit put out.
"Are you saying I need to get fit?"
"Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm no".
Sometimes you just can't win.
Stupidly, my Wife and I didn't wrap any of my nippers presents and label them from Santa. She is 11 so we didn't actually think she believed in Santa anymore. She did, up until Christmas morning but all the crap we had bought her soon took her mind off that.
I also managed to drop myself in the shit with my out laws. My Wifes nephew is 13 and has started playing Rugby for his School. We went there for Christmas day so I had rung him a week before to see what he wanted. Whilst we were chatting he mentioned he was playing hooker. For those that don't know, hooker is one of the worst positions to play in Rugby. You're totally unprotected in the scrums and the pressure on your neck and shoulders are huge. I bought him a scrum cap and weights to beef him up a bit. His Mum, my Wifes Sister, took one look at the scrum cap and asked what it was. I explained and her face sank. Neither her or her Husband had been to watch him and were both blissfully ignorant to what he was doing. Much tears ensued whilst I drank myself into oblivion.
That wasn't too hard either as Xmas dinner was scheduled for 7 pm. What the fuck is that about? I was starving by the time it was served and made a right pig of myself.
The Christmas parties have been fast and furious and I've been pissed since the 17th, not a record by a long way but pretty good for recent times.
The 17th was a few lads out for a few beers. I hadn't seen a couple of the boys for a while so it was a good laugh. We reminisced about the good old days, as you do, and moaned about the Wife and kids.
Friday night was one of our works do's. It was held in one of the roughest clubs in Cardiff so that if the shop floor boys got a bit out of hand the damage costs would be minimal. As a side note, where I now work is the only place I've had to sign a letter stating that if I get in a fight I would be instantly dismissed for gross misconduct. Yes, there really is that many idiots working in our place.
It went quite well though, no fights, a free bar and plenty of food. About midnight a few of us headed to the City Centre. I called it a night about two and after failing to find a taxi popped into the Casino. I started playing some three card brag/poker game and immediately was dealt a straight flush which paid 35/1. Lovely. It got to about four in the morning so I headed off, grabbed a McDonalds and jumped in a taxi. When I got home and unwrapped it I couldn't believe my eyes. The baps were solid, burger was black and no cheese or relish. Being that pissed, I rang another taxi and went back, slung the burger on the counter and asked the guy "what the fuck is this?" Eventually I got my money back plus another cheese burger with fries. After jumping in another taxi to get home it cost me £21. Fuckers.
I've just realised that if I go into detail about the rest of the bashes I went on this post would be fucking huge so I wont bother. I will tell you about my mate Dave though.
The pair of us went back to where we grew up and were sat in a bar when one of our mates reminded us about one of Daves finest moments. There's a fountain in the middle of the town centre and one night Dave, who had nicked a five litre drum of washing up liquid from work, emptied the lot into it. At nine in the morning the fountain fired up and by about five past the town centre was under five foot of bubbles. The town centre closed down, people thought the end of the World had started, traffic ground to an halt. It took five hours to sort it out.
Hope you all had a great Xmas and here's to a fantastic 2010. All the best folks and thanks for reading.
Later.

A day with Mo

Went out for a meal with Mo and his Wife last night. Must admit I felt a little bit sorry for him. He had gone Christmas shopping for a pair of camouflage trousers in the afternoon but couldn’t find any. His Daughter wanted a pet so he went to a buy a Goldfish. The pet shop owner asked if he wanted an aquarium and Mo replied that he didn’t care what star sign it was.
We met up at Houston train station. While we were there he went to buy a couple of tickets to go to Paris with his Missus.
“Eurostar?” the guy behind the counter asked.
“Well my blogs quite well read but I’m no Will Smith” he replied.
He also had to pop to the Doctors.
“Haven’t seen you for a while” the Doctor said.
“I know I’ve been ill” Mo replied.
“What’s up?” asked the Doctor.
“I’ve hurt my arm in several places” Mo told him.
“Well don’t go to them anymore” the Doctor retorted.
“Have you got anything for wind?” Mo asked him so the Doctor gave him a kite.
The Doctor started giving Mo an examination.
“You’re going to have to stop masturbating Mr Stoneskin” she said.
“Why?” Mo asked quite alarmed.
“Because I’m trying to examine you” she answered.
After the examination she told Mo that he had quite a serious illness.
“I want a second opinion” Mo informed her.
“Okay, you’re fucking ugly as well”
After that we had to go to the Dentists.
“Say Aaaaaaaahhh Mr Stoneskin” the Dentist told him.
“Why?” asked Mo.
“Because my Cat’s just died”.
Most Dentists chairs go up and down. The one Mo was in was going backwards and forwards. Finally the Dentist asked him to get out of the filing cabinet.
We had to cut short that little visit though because Mo’s Wife rang him extremely upset.
“I’ve got water in the carburettor” she cried down the phone.
“Where’s the car now?” Mo asked.
“In the Thames”.
On the way back to the house we popped in London Zoo. There was this Monkey in the enclosure with a tin opener.
“You don’t need that to open bananas” Mo told him.
“I fucking know that” said the Monkey, “It’s for the custard”.
We spotted a guy trying to chat up a Cheetah.
“I think he’s trying to pull a fast one” Mo commented.
We were watching the penguins when one walked over to us.
“Have you seen my Brother?” the Penguin enquired.
“What’s he look like?” Mo answered.
“Get all your money on Liverpool this weekend” the Penguin told us.
One of the Zoo keepers was walking past so Mo grabbed him.
“That Penguin just spoke to us” Mo screamed at him.
“Which one?” asked the bemused keeper?
Mo pointed out the Penguin.
“What did he say to you?” the keeper asked.
“He told me to have a bet on Liverpool” Mo replied.
The Zoo keeper shook his head.
“Don’t listen to Trevor” he told us, “he knows fuck all about Football”.
Finally Mo and his Wife got themselves sorted and we went to the Restaurant.
“Can I take your Order?” the waiter asked us.
“I was just wondering” Mo replied, “How do you prepare your chickens?”
“Oh nothing special” the waiter said, “we just tell them straight out that they’re going to die”.
After reading the menu Mo ordered the food in fluent French. This came as a bit of a surprise as we were in a Chinese.
The food arrived and Mo started complaining straight away.
“This chickens cold” he informed the Waiter.
“I should think so” he said, “It’s been dead for three days”.
“And it’s got one leg shorter than the other”.
“Are you eating it or dancing with it?” the waiter enquired.
This Duck walked up to Mo’s Wife.
“Your eyes sparkle like Diamonds” he whispered to her.
“Waiter”, shouted Mo, “I asked for A R O M A T I C Duck”.
On the way home the Police stopped Mo.
“Can you blow in this?” he offered Mo.
“Why?” Mo fired back.
“Because my chips are cold” he said.

Tommy Cooper R.I.P.

Sex, drugs and sausage rolls or Xmas parties will never be the same now I'm an old bastard

This is a long one so make yourself a cup of coffee, get out the hob nobs, relax and hopefully, enjoy.
I’m no oil painting to look at, more of a train wreck. I also get pissed pretty quickly although I can drink through that and last longer than most. These two setbacks mean that I always struggled to chat Women up because most of the time I was too pissed to talk and didn’t have the looks to overcome that obstacle. But what I lack in those departments I more than make up for by being intelligent, having a great sense of humour and endearing personality.
These traits come to the fore when you interact with the opposite sex over a period of time. Luckily I’ve spent most of my working life in offices and therefore have had plenty of opportunities to win Women over. Normally their first impressions are “what a prick”. After a couple of weeks its “he’s sweet” and a few months down the road after much joking, opening doors, making them tea and listening to all their problems it’s “Rubbish is brilliant”. You might say I’m a bit of an acquired taste but eventually I’ve had most of the Women I’ve worked with eating out of my hand. And that’s why I love Xmas works parties.
My first job was in an Accountants as a wages clerk. Having gone to an all boys Grammar School, I hadn’t really spent much time in the company of the opposite sex. I’d had a few girlfriends but I was very much one of the boys, playing sport and getting pissed. The Chief Accountant or whatever they’re called was a raging alcoholic and would turn up at eleven in the morning and be in the pub next door by half past. It was a pretty wild office to work in. The Daughter of one of the Secretary’s had just come second in Miss Wales and she clearly had inherited her Mothers looks. I was smitten with her, the Mother that is. She only had to snap her fingers and I was by her side like a little lap dog. The receptionist, a twenty one year old stunner called Rachel, hated this. I think it was because I paid her little attention and followed a forty year old Mum of three around, hanging on her every word. I was in the kitchen one day, early in December and Rachel followed me in and whispered in my ear “come the Xmas party you’re having it”. I thought she was threatening me being quite young and naive.
As it happened I couldn’t go to the Xmas do for reasons I can’t remember but Christmas Eve was on a Friday and we were due to work. One of the Accountants, an ex pro gambler called Mike, told me to catch the bus in because we were having a few drinks. I turn up at nine and there’s a can on my desk. By twelve we were in the pub. Rachel was wearing a tight little cocktail dress. She was quite tall and had lovely long legs. With her stilettos on she towered over me.
My favourite Mum disappeared quite early, though I did get a little peck on the cheek and this was Rachel’s cue to move in.
“Right Rubbish, now that she’s gone you have got five minutes to start paying me a bit of attention or you’ve had it”.
Mike leaned in to me “you jammy little bastard”.
Finally the light turned on and I realized what “you’re having it” meant.
There was one problem though. I lived miles away and if I didn’t catch the last bus I wouldn’t get home. Mike had landed a decent win on the horses so the beers were flowing. My last bus came and went. Finally Rachel grabbed my arm and informed me that we were leaving.
We got to her house and she disappeared upstairs whilst I slumped on the sofa. Five minutes later she reappeared to tell me that her Mum who was a nurse was working Xmas morning and would give me a lift. Sorted.
We went into the kitchen for a night cap and I noticed that her cocktail dress had ridden up ever so slightly giving me a tantalizing view of her stocking tops. Ten seconds later she was bent over the kitchen table and I was going like a little jack rabbit when her Mum walked in to make a cuppa. Time stood still. Her Mum froze in the doorway, chin on the floor before turning around to beat a hasty retreat. I almost mumbled “Merry Xmas” but thought better of it.
Rachel’s Mum woke me up the next morning and I suffered the most excruciating car journey ever. The drive of shame. She couldn’t really ask me if I had had a nice evening knowing I had been shagging her Daughter and I just couldn’t think of anything to say. It was purgatory. Welcome to the World of the Office Xmas party.
Fast forward a few years and I was working for a Finance House. The Office was situated on the top floor of the tallest building in Cardiff. On my first day I walked in and asked the Commissionaire where the office was and he pointed to the lift and told me it was the 23rd floor. What he didn’t tell me was that it was an express lift which didn’t stop at the first 15 floors. I was later told it was the fastest lift in Europe at that time although I’m not sure how true that was. I got in the lift and pressed the button and the fucking thing took off like a rocket. About ten seconds later I collapsed out of it a gibbering wreck. I never used that lift again.
Every day I would walk the twenty three flights of stairs to work. I’d wander up and down them for dinner and then walk down them to go home. It became a standing joke amongst all my colleagues.
And what a crew I worked with, Ian, the Branch Manager was the oldest and he was only thirty two. Other than two Zone Managers who were hardly in the office I was the only other male there. One girl, Liz, had taken a shine to me. She was dark haired, quite petite with a dirty laugh and nice rack. Most of the girls were of similar age and would gossip about everything and everyone. Their main topic of conversation was this punk girl who worked with us called Jo.
Jo used to turn up to work with different coloured hair every week. Bright orange, shocking green, you name it she dyed it that colour. She used to wear baggy tops and camouflage trousers years before they became de rigueur for the masses. Her make up was a mess. Black eyeliner and lipstick which made her look like one of the undead. That said, she was a lovely girl and had something about her.
On the day of the Xmas do everyone turned up with their glad rags on. All the girls looked the business in little black numbers and I even wore a suit for a change. We were sat around chatting when Jo walked in. The silence was deafening.
She had dyed her hair blonde and had slicked it back instead of its usual spiky style. Her dress was a tight yellow mini dress a bit like the one Liz Hurley wore to that film premiere but not quite as daring. A shapely pair of pins was revealed in a pair of fishnet stockings and a lovely pearl necklace highlighted a stunning cleavage. Not forgetting her punk roots she topped it all off with a pair of Doc Martens boots. The traditional war paint had disappeared and replaced with a flattering pinkish lipstick and understated eyeliner. She looked stunning.
Steve, one of the Zone Managers, turned to me and said, “Fuck me son, who would have guessed?” And he was right. Sara, the biggest bitch in the office let out a whistle, “Christ alive Jo, you look gorgeous”. Jo blushed which only made her look more attractive.
Not a lot of work was done in the morning and at twelve we all headed to the pub. Two hours later Ian and Steve nipped to Marks and Spencer’s to get some booze and we all strolled back to the office. I had a quick chat with Terry the commissionaire before walking to the stairwell. Jo was waiting for me in the lift.
“Rubbish” she called “get in the lift with me now and I’ll shag you stupid”.
With that she hitched up her dress to reveal she wasn’t wearing any knickers.
As much as I wanted to I just couldn’t step into the lift and mumbled some excuses before tackling the 23 floors on foot, berating myself every single step of the way. When I walked in the office all the girls were laughing. Jo had told them.
An hour or so later Steve gave me a wink and we sloped off onto the roof to smoke some weed. This was a regular occurrence and hey, we were on the roof of the tallest building in Cardiff so it wasn’t as if anyone could see us. Jo joined us and as we sat there smoking she slipped me a pill and said “take this now”.
Twenty minutes later I felt indestructible. We were all quaffing Champagne and playing stupid games and I excused myself to go to the toilet. When I walked out Jo was again in the lift. This time, probably because of what she had slipped me, I managed to grow a pair and got in the lift with her. We went down two floors before she pressed the emergency stop and got my dick out. A minute later Terry’s voice came over the intercom.
“Is anyone in there?”
“Yes Terry, it’s me Rubbish”.
“Fucking hell Rubbish what you doing in the lift?”
“I’m with someone Terry”.
“Who?”
“Can’t say”.
There was a slight pause followed by a snort.
“Okay mate, don’t be long and don’t make a mess”.
I’m not sure if it was talking to Terry or the fact that he had mentioned the lift but I started having a panic attack. Sweat was pouring out of me and I was shaking like a leaf. Within seconds I was the one on my knees begging Jo to get me out of there. The look of disappointment on her face would have given Shakespeare enough material to write a trilogy. Reluctantly she started the lift up and I fell out, straight into the toilet to puke my guts up. I walked back into the office to be greeted by everyone shouting “fore” at me. Everyone that is except Jo who was standing by her desk slowly drumming her fingers and Liz who looked like she was going to burst into tears.
“What the fuck is that about Steve?” I enquired.
Not even trying to mask his amusement Steve told me that Jo had walked in and casually told the entire office that she had enticed me into the lift and had started blowing me only for me to start crying like a baby and pleading with her to let me out. The fore was actually “four” relating to how many minutes I’d managed to last in the fucking death trap.
We all went for a meal in the evening and then hit a few clubs. I then experienced one of the most surreal moments of my life when Jo wanked me off in the middle of a MacDonald’s. I took her back to my place and made up for lost time and was quite pleased to find out in the New Year that she’d given me an 8.5 out of 10 rating for my performance between the sheets. Liz wasn’t so pleased as she spat out that bit of information. Jo left a few months later and Liz and I hooked up for a couple of years before parting ways when she took another job in London.
For twelve years I was fortunate enough to be employed in my dream job. I ran the ticket office for a famous sporting body and had, at times, fifty people under me. The Christmas parties were wild.
When the new Stadium was built we relocated offices and ended up in an office block with HSBC bank amongst others. I was quite friendly with one of the guys there and we decided on having an office block party. This was made easy because in the basement there was a pub. I talked the Manager into laying on a buffet and we all met up at three in the afternoon. It was a cracking day, socializing with people from other offices and the Manger made a small fortune.
I was seeing a girl called Mandy at the time who worked in a different Department. She was a bit of a Liz clone but barking mad as well. At the end of the evening the pair of us were sat at the bar talking to this Australian girl. Most people had fallen by the wayside at this point and I was flagging so we made our excuses and left. Oz followed us out and while we were waiting for a taxi asked us where we were heading. Has luck would have it she lived quite near to Mandy so we shared a taxi. When we got to Mandy’s house Oz jumped out and came in for a nightcap. We sat around the kitchen table drinking wine and Mandy started rubbing my balls with her foot. It wasn’t too long after that we were heading up the stairs, telling Oz to slam the door on her way out.
Not long later I’m lying in bed whilst Mandy did what she did best and the bedroom door opens. We both look around and Oz is stood there.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
I looked at Mandy who had her mouth full and she just shrugged so I willingly agreed and with that she stripped off and jumped in with us. A few hours later she climbed out of bed and stated that she was off home. Looking back it was quite bizarre but I wasn’t complaining.
When we got back to work I visited every office in our block making small talk with people I knew. “How was your Christmas, what did you get up to for the New Year, have you got an Australian girl working with you?” No one knew her. Fuck knows who she was but she’ll always have a special place in my heart.
Congratulations if you’ve got this far, hope you enjoyed my favourite Xmas party experiences. Feel free to share any of your own.
Later.

Decembers Poker post - back to normality tomorrow

Been a decent weekend but could have been superb.
Played a load of PLO STT's on FT and cashed in 50% of them. Was up at 70% at one stage but had a few coolers. I've also satellited into a couple of the FTOP's events. Played the £50 PLO on Saturday night with $100k guaranteed.
Card dead for the first hour but managed to get a few hands after the first break. Got up to $27k and was going along nicely when I got involved in a hand I should have just folded.
Had JJ67 in the BB and first to act raised. Folded around to me so called. Flop came 8h9h10d. Checked and guy bets half pot so call. Turn is 4d and we both check. At this stage I've got him on AAxx possibly double suited and with two Jacks in my hand I'm thinking I'm ahead. River blanks and I check. He makes a shitty little half pot bet so I raise him all in. He insta calls with QQJJ. That crippled me and went out in 500th of 2300.
Played the Bloggerment last night, only a disappointing 13 others showed up. It never ceases to amaze me how one person just seems to run away with these. Last night it was Ter"Mair"nator who demolished the field. The tourney lasted 75 minutes which is a record. I bombed in 5th when my AQ was no match to Mairs 67. Mik was the funniest when his JJ was insta called with K10 for a K10X flop. You just knew that Mair could call with any two and hit. Heads up against her Hubby, Stan, it lasted one hand. Stan goes all in and Mair calls with complete air and hits a nut straight. It was Mairs birthday yesterday as well so congrats Hun, spend your winnings wisely because you wont run that good on Stars again for another six months.
I'm in another FTOP's event on Saturday so run good you twat one time. I'm also out on a works do on Friday so will be struggling big time.
Love works Xmas do's, big post coming up next which may or may not involve Copious amounts of alcohol, drunken fumblings, drug fuelled shennanigans in a lift, the drive of shame and threesomes.
Later.

Wrong place, wrong time, story of my life.

Beads of sweat slowly raced down my back. Nothing unusual there as it was well over 100 degrees in the pub. Not bad for three in the morning. And I use the term “pub” in its loosest term. There were only two walls, either side, nothing at the front or back and a corrugated roof. The lack of walls and doors at the front and back was alleviated by the fact that the place never closed. The furniture looked like a three year old may have constructed it and probably had. The bar was inside a cage where the barman passed your drinks through the Steel bars. For the neighbourhood we were in though it was a classy joint. It could have been the Viper Lounge or Mahliki seeing as it was ideally situated directly in front of a shanty town.
Samba music blasted out of a make shift DJ platform, the bass ramped up so high that it reverberated through your body. Not so much as listening to the music but feeling it. Two girls danced topless on a table in the middle of the room, quite brave of them in my opinion as the table looked like it was held together with blue tac.
Five of us were sat on what could only be described as a picnic table made out of Lego. I can’t recall what Lager we were drinking but it was some bottled shite. I do remember the Cachaca chasers, a particularly nasty little shot peculiar to that area. The Lager was poured into plastic glasses, bottles not allowed. And it wasn’t poured in the traditional manner of holding the glass at a 45 degree angle and slowly emptying the bottles contents into the glass. The glasses were slapped on a table and poured as quickly as possible. There was a perfectly logical explanation for this as the barman only used his left hand; his right hand had a permanent tight grip on a shotgun draped over his right shoulder. The shotgun served two purposes as far as I could see. One was to detract undesirables which had obviously failed and the other was to camouflage the fact that his right ear had been cut off which also didn't work.
And the clientele were a real motley crew. Glasses weren’t allowed but every guy in there had a knife, machete or gun. I was waiting for some guy to walk in with a bazooka. There were probably thirty people sat about and apart from the two girls dancing I would say that the only other people not packing were Dave, Tony and myself. It wasn’t hard to spot either as most of the people had their weapon of choice placed on the table next to their drinks. Hardly any of the men were wearing tops, come to think of it neither were the women. I guess it looked like the inside of a plastic surgeons operating room there were so many scars on view.
Conversation was nigh on impossible because of the music which was okay because I was so pissed I couldn’t talk. Incredibly, behind the bar were hammocks with about half a dozen people sleeping. How they managed that I can only put down to the copious amount of drugs freely available. One dark haired beauty had caught my eye. She was quite tall, olive skinned, wearing a bikini top incasing breasts the size of small planets and intriguingly had a denim mini skirt on which barely covered her ten inch dick. I couldn't take my eyes off her/him.

Welcome to Rio de Janeiro Mardi Gras 1985.

In one of the greatest ironies the World has ever thrown up, My mate Dave had gone to the biggest Footballing Nation on the planet to coach Rugby for nine months. Big Tony and I had flown out for the Mardi Gras and what an eye opener that was. Luckily the team Dave was coaching had some of the most vicious bastards ever to take a Rugby field playing for him. One guy, Santo R.I.P. an extremely violent little cunt, had taken Dave under his wing and introduced him to the seedier side of Rio.
Dave had picked us up at the airport and by the time we reached his gaffe we had been held up twice. You could't stop at a red light without someone prodding a gun through the window and demanding cash. After a few days I was handing out £10 bills to anyone who approached me, regardless of whether they were holding me up or asking for directions.
People would be waving guns about like you would wag a finger when talking to someone and after a few days there you were so used to it that you became oblivious to the danger you were in. Until the night described above.
In all probability we would have been skinned alive had we not been with Santo. We certainly wouldn't have gone to that area of town by choice and would probably have left in a body bag. The cheap drugs and Cachaca had kicked in and the bird with the dick was looking like a Goddess. Santo was egging me on whilst Dave was screaming something about standards and gayness. Suddenly Santo sat bolt upright and grabbed his gun. Three guys walked in and casually gunned down the DJ. The barman opened fire, straight over the top of our heads and I hit the floor in double quick time. Within 30 seconds six people were dead.
After the gunfire had stopped and I opened my eyes, Dave, Tony and I just stared at each other. I lifted my head over the table and Santo and his mate were sat there still drinking as if nothing had happened. I do not think I've ever been so scared in all my life.
I mention this because Dave rang me yesterday. One of the boys who played for him has organised a 25 year reunion next year and Dave has been invited. "Fancy coming?" he asked.
"Go fuck yourself Dave", I replied, "once was enough in this lifetime".

It could be worse, I could be Mo.

I came home from work tonight to find a Plumbers van outside the house. I actually sat in the car and said a prayer. God wasn't fucking listening though. The guy was sat in the kitchen dinking a cuppa. I said, "please tell me you're here because you've been shagging my Wife"? "No luck sorry Rubbish", he replied, "Your boilers fucked and it's going to cost you £1500".
That's just fucking typical.
And has my Missus a kiss and tell story regarding Tiger to sell. Has she fuck. I feel like dropping him an e-mail asking what's wrong with her because she's the only Woman in the Northern Hemisphere he hasn't boned, alledgedly.
Pokers going shit as well. Played one tournament on Stars the other night that summed it up. Four hours in and I make the final table of a $4.40 PLO tourney with 740 runners. I've beaten 731 people and for that I make $39.45. Not even $9 an hour. I've been getting e-mails from filipino street urchins taking the piss out of me for earning so little.
Played yesterday and I'm going along nicely when I get involved in a pot which would have given me the chip lead. I've got 10 10 9 8 on a A 10 6 flop. Guy bets, I raise, he re-raises, I go all in, he calls. He turns over A 9 8 7 for top pair and a gutshot straight draw. Turn A, river A. Fuck Stars.
I ran a quick poll last week to see why people don't comment. 53 of you are lazy twats which is fair enough. 64 of you think I'm a twat. I was a bit worried about that until I looked into it further and found that 63 of those came from Mo's IP address. The other one was my Mother.
On to my favourite fuckwit, Mo. He rang me up last week in a bit of a state. After calming him down the conversation went like this:
Me; "So what's up Mo?"
Mo; "Well, I found a young homeless girl out by my bins last night. She was dirty and didn't smell too good but underneath the grime I could see she was pretty and had a good body".
Me; "You didn't did you Mo?"
Mo; "Well, I brought her into the house and gave her a bath. As I was towelling off her naked body I became aroused and one thing led to another".
Me; "Tell me you didn't take advantage please Mo?"
Mo; "I couldn't help myself Rubbish. Before I knew it I was making mad passionate love to her. I was banging her so hard that a couple of times you'd have sworn she was still alive".

Later.

Lemmy - a hero?

Lemmy from Motorhead once said "I know I'm gonna lose and gamblings for fools". Never a truer word said.
In my late teens a gang of us used to go to concerts at least once a week. Motorhead, AC/DC, Thin Lizzy, Black Sabbath, all the usual heavy metal suspects. I remember reading once that Motorheads back stage rider was 10 bottles of Jack Daniels, assorted sandwiches and a Brunette. Good forward planning I suppose. If there was a quiet night on the groupie front there was always the Brunette to fall back on, literally. Bet she earned her money the hard way.
I saw the Blue Oyster Cult at Sophia Gardens. We'd travelled down on a mini bus and one of the boys had got his hands on some Morrocan Black that was floating around. Ten of us smoked and drank a couple of bottles of Jack and some cans of Red Stripe. I remember sitting at the back of the hall and the opening chords of Don't fear the reaper starting up. I turn to my mate Dave, "Fucking hell, they're opening with this?"
He slowly shakes his head "This is the third encore Rubbish, you've been out for the count since we got here". Good shit that Morrocan.
After a while we started going to see loads of different bands like Sister Sledge and stuff like that. A couple of us even went to see a few Operas. Nothing wierder than watching an Opera jacked up on hard booze and cheap drugs.
One of my favourite bands in the 80's were the Stones when Keef was alive and Mick didn't need a hip replacement after he sang Jumping Jack Flash. Looks like Wild Horses could now be the biggest seller of 2009, sang by that ageing rocker Susan Boyle. How did the World become so fucked up?
Anyway, back to the great man and that immortal line, "I know I'm gonna lose and gamblings for fools".
A couple from Newport in South Wales won £45 million on the Euro Lottery about a month ago. The guy's birthday was a couple of weeks ago and he booked a floor in the St Davids Hotel for family and friends. Who was staying there but Motorhead so he invited Lemmy and the guys to the party because, like me, he was an aging metal head. Not sure if he had to supply a brunette for the boys to agree to turn up but I'd like to think that was one of their stipulations.
I've knocked up a poll alongside this post. I have 400-500 people a week read this crap and about a dozen people who leave comments. If you read this, click a button to let me know what you really think. Cheers.

Degenerates.com

So the biggest and most wildy anticipated match up in Poker history as fizzled out in double quick time. After 32 minutes of outlandish bluffing, bad beats and cold decks, Joppa and Would be called it a day with Would be holding a $5 lead. Would be then proceeded to spunk it all off on a cash table therefore handing the win to Joppa. This situation is now escalating into the largest bitch fest since Jordan and Peter Andre split up with both sides claiming the win. I'm siding with Joppa but the jury is still out.
Now, don't think I'm being disparging by calling them both degenerates, that's their discription of themselves. And who isn't a degenerate these days, be it poker, gambling, shoes, chocolate pudding. Every blog I read has degenerate tendancies whether the writer realises them or not. I'm no exception but I'm ten times better than I was.
Five years ago my mate Dave and I are walking to a club when we turn a corner to see five guys kicking the shit out of some poor sap. We look at each other and give a resigned shrug before diving in. Dave takes two of them out and I floor another one. One guy starts unloading punches at me and I'm desperately trying not to get tagged when someone grabs me from behind. I quickly lean forward and then jolt my head backwards catching the guy flush. I quickly turn around to finish him off and stop in my tracks. It's only a uniformed copper doubled up with blood pissing out of his nose. Another copper comes from nowhere and takes me out with Dave protesting our innocence.
We get to the station, Dave and I plus the five pricks, ironically the guy we had jumped in to help had scarpered at the first opportunity. I'm charged with affray, GBH and assaulting a policeman. Dave and I are given a phone and told to make one call. Dave rings a mate of his who's a Barrister. I ring Betfair and have £150 on Arsenal unquoted at 4.8.
As it happens we were only in the cells for an hour. Daves mate turns up and raises hell. A couple of witnesses had also come forward in the meantime, one basically told the Police that we were heroes and should have got a medal. All charges finally got dropped against us but Dave still brings up my choice of call even now. My rationale was I was going to be in clink for a good few hours and the Arsenal game was an early kick off. They won 5-1.
What can I say, my name's Rubbish and I'm a fucking degenerate.

Quick update - the Challenge part two is up and running after Would Be admitted defeat. Interesting pic on his blog, stop by and have a gander.

Not well

My Daughter's had the flu which now means my Wife and I have it.
Played the bloggerment last night but I had such a migraine I ended up bombing out in double quick time so that I could go back to bed.
Went to work today but was back home and in bed by 11.00am.
My birthday tomorrow and I'll be in bed all day again but not in a good way.
Back later in the week when I'm hopefully migraine, chesty cough, runny nose, free.
Later.
Edit:
My Wife and Daughter have come up trumps with series 3 and 4 of the Sopranos. This has only reminded me of a previous post though about that sanctamonious twat Christian O 'Connell and the theme tune World Cup. I was driving into work two weeks ago and he is on about the Final which is between Knight Rider and the Professionals. What a fucking joke.
Where was the Sopranos? "Woke up this morning and got myself a gun". How cool is that for an opening line of a theme tune.
Also, Hawaii five O? I bet you're all humming that one in your head now? And Miami Vice? How are these not in the final?
And of course the best theme song ever. The Bannana splits. How the fuck isn't that the best one ever?
Anyhow, thanks for all the get well soon comments and Mo, your blog's fucked mate, Karma.

Bloggerment - 15th November - the true version of events

This is what happened. Don't believe anything else you might read, those RTR bastards make it all up.
Fifteen of the greatest Poker players and Dd assembled last night for the return of the greatest Poker Tournament outside of the WSOP. If $80 in prize money wasn't enough incentive, the knowledge of winning an event not even Ivey, Hellmuth, Antonius or Yorkie Pud has won in the past was surely motivation enough for the assembled Poker luminaries.
After a tense opening exchange where players jockyed for supremacy, 2008 APAT Champion, Mair
made a massive play, re-raising DoV (donking obliterates variance) pre flop with AcKc. DoV re-raised Mair all in with 6 4 off and hit quad 4's.
Next out was No Cash who jammed with Kings only to lose to DoV who hit runner runner 5's whilst holding 5 2, a fact made more incredible as they were on different tables.
Zagga exited next when DoV flopped a full house on a non paired board.
Unlucky thirteenth was Al Eleven, an American fish who commented in fluent Scottish.
Twelth was Kronsdat who, short stacked, went all in with AA to lose to DoV's 6 3 off when he made a river straight.
The big Boss went next overplaying QQ against DoV's 7 4 off.
The most remarkable performance of the evening went to Mik who finished in tenth, his highest finish since June 2001 when he managed a credible 8/17. Rumours that Mik had eight accounts on the go at that time are as yet unproven.
Weegem bombed in ninth when his flopped quads ran into DoV's fifth straight flush in a row.
Maybe the biggest surprise was Amatay reaching 22.00 without falling asleep. Another rivered straight flush, this time by Joppa, saw the wankmeister scuttle off to his pit early. This was quite a pleasing moment for yours truly who had a little side bet that JR would finish higher than the Watford Wank machine. A nice little $10k for moi although if the fish had won I would have been in to him for a years supply of tissues, a damn sight more than $10k I can tell you.
The Cloud departed next when his top set was no good against DoV's 4 high straight.
1tripz1 (whom I'm sure has a blog but I can't find it) crashed in sixth to a DoV 5 2 special.
Dd bombed next to your favourite blogger, when his AQ suited was no match to my 22 on a AQ2 flop (raise pre next time Dave and I might fold). This landed me another bounty, deep fried of course, from Scotlands finest.
Joppa bubbled in fourth, a remarkable achievement since he was 97 tabling at the time.
I went out in third when my raise on a AcKc x board was called by DoV with 2c3c for a standard 3 high rivered flush.
That left DoV and Kev heads up. The final hand was a corker. Kev, holding AcAd raised all in on a AhAs10h flop not realising he was miles behind. DoV snap called with Qh2d for a Jh turn and Kh river and an elusive Royal Flush, his 47th this week.
Notable absentees were Cogs, the Brighton badger, who has now taken over from Amatay as Britains laziest man and is hibernating until March 2010. Snake and Ant1966 were also missing allthough I'm still convinced they're one in the same (have you ever seen them in the same room)? Mr O , the only pussy whipped scouser, was another who failed to appear. No excuses next week fishies, RTR expects.
If anyone who reads this shite fancies a game, feel free to join us next week. Only thing you need to know is, if DoV raises, fold.
Later.

Another mad week

So much for a recession. Work is so busy it's beyond a fucking joke now. Our order book is full right up to Xmas break and that's with us working between 10 to 20 hours overtime per person every week. Madness.
My Daughters 11th birthday yesterday. Can't believe how quickly the time has passed. My Missus is only 4 foot 10 (same size as Kylie by all accounts)and had quite a difficult pregnancy. Obviously, this meant I had quite a difficult one as well. Anyhow, she was in hospital for four days before my Daughter was born and I was starting to worry. Thankfully my Daughter came into the world on a Tuesday afternoon which meant I could go to Wembley on the Wednesday for Wales V New Zealand on the Saturday. Needless to say Wales lost but not even that could dampen my spirits and I finally came home on the Sunday, pissed as a rat, to a mouthfull of abuse. And that was just my Daughter.
Every Birthday since then has coincided with a Welsh match because of the Autumn Internationals so I've ended up missing loads of her parties because of work. Now that I'm out of that game though we've had a couple of great times the last couple of years and had a brilliant night yesterday. My Missus and I plus a few of my Daughters mates went to a Chinese called Cosmos. I mention this because it was absolutely superb and there is a chain of these places across Britain. If you fancy a great night out with amazing food try it out. I suppose I have to make the most of the next couple of years because it wont be long before she's down the pub dropping a few E's and downing Vodka red bulls.
Tonight is going to be quite a sad night as our neighbours for the last thirteen years are moving tomorrow. When we moved in Sharon and Barry had three kids in their late teens to early twenties who were a great laugh. Since then we've been to three weddings, six Christenings, countless Birthday partys, stag nights and hen do's and sadly one Funeral. Sharons Dad, Pat, had lived with them for years and was a true Gentleman. He had served in the Special forces during the war and had won a VC for his deeds. He died two years ago and since all the kids had married and moved out Sharon has wanted to move. Barry, in my opinion, hasn't, but someone has made them an offer they can't refuse so they're off to the sticks tomorrow. We're going around tonight for a few beers which could turn into a massive session. I'll be sad to see them go.
Wales play Samoa tomorrow night and I've got to take my Daughter to ballet rehearsals so wont get back in time to go to the match. Might give my new neighbour a knock and take him up my local. Just hope he isn't fucking English! Watch this space.
Later.

Please God

Let Wales run good one time. Let us crush the mighty All Blacks with a vengance. Let Stephen Jones boot be true and bless Shane Williams with the speed and guile to dance around those Maori twats.

Guide me o thou great Jehova
Pilgrim through this barren land
I am week but thou are mighty
Lead me with thy powerful hand

Bread of heaven
Bread of heaven
Feed me til I want no more
Feed me til I want no more

Normal service returns next week.

Amen.

Off for a few days

Been working six day weeks for ages now and then snoozing on Sundays. To be honest I feel like I'm in a bit of a funk and can't be bothered to do anything. But I'm off now until Monday with my Daughter so crazy Golf, ten pin bowling and doing my bollocks for two hours in a cinema watching some crap film beckons.
It's Halloween on the weekend which I'm sure you are all aware of. Halloween doesn't really mean much to us Brits, certainly not as much as it seems to do in America. My Daughter though, having watched Disney Channel for ever and a day, loves it. I'm guessing it's all the Scooby Doo, Simpsons and latterly, Witches of Waverley etc. that has fuelled her imagination.
Personally, I can't stand all the trick and treating so the first time my Daughter asked me to take her I wasn't overly eager. I think she was about five at the time and I'd got home from work to find her waiting for me dressed up as a witch. She had a pumpkin which she and my Missus had made a mask out of in one hand and a bucket for all the sweets she was going to get in the other. I told my Wife that there was no way I was dragging her around houses where I didn't know anyone and we agreed that I would take her to houses in our block.
We started off by knocking our neighbours doors but no one was home. There's eight houses in our little block and I know everyone quite well so we visited everyone of them. If anyone was in they were definitely not answering. I could see the disappointment in my Daughters face so we jumped in the car.
"I'll take you to the boys houses babes, they'll have loads of chocolate."
Not one of the fuckers was home.
I started ringing them.
"Where are you?"
"In the pub, where are you?"
"Outside you house."
"Why?"
"Got my nipper with me, we're trick or treating."
"that's why I'm down the pub!"
After an hour I gave up and drove to Tescos. By now my Daughters bottom lip was trembling and I could sense a full scale breakdown was imminent. We walked down the sweet aisle and I told her to have whatever she wanted. By the time we got to the checkout she had about £20 worth of sweets in her bucket. As we queued she looked up at me, tears welling up in her eyes and exclaimed for everyone who cared to hear,
"This is the worst Halloween ever Dad!"
I couldn't help but smile since she was only five and this was the first time we had been trick or treating. The Woman in front of me burst out laughing but soon stopped when she saw the look on my little ones face. I quickly explained that we had been around loads of houses but no one was home.
"Don't worry love", she said to my Daughter, "let me get you something."
And with that she gave my Daughter a box of chocolates that she had just bought.
I protested but she was adamant.
Next up, the cashier walks off and comes back with a big bag of Halloween sweets, rings them through and says, "my treat babes".
The woman on the next checkout reaches over and places a Galaxy bar in my Daughters bucket, "happy Halloween", she offers.
Finally the Woman behind us says "Can you ring this through please", and gives my Daughter a big bag of Haribo lollys.
By the time we got home she had about £40 worth of sweets. I tell her not to say anything to her Mother about where we got all the sweets.
The next year My Wife takes her out and she immediately stands next to her car. My Missus looks at her and asks what she's doing? My Daughter says, "After last year Mam I think we're better off going to Tescos first".

Played a little poker last night. Won a few small buy in SNG's before bubbling on a $30 one. Hoping to play a bit this week seeing has I don't have to get up at redic O'clock for work.

I'm also halfway through my literary masterpiece. I'm hoping to finish it by next month so that I can post it throughout December.

Off to play Mario Kart on the Wi with my Daughter for an hour, little does she realise that her pocket money is at stake and I've been practicising.
Later.

My Daughter the genius part two plus the things you do for your mates

My Daughter is now in the last year of Primary School and the Comprehensive we are hoping she will get into had an open day last week. What an eye opener.
The School is in the top twenty in Britain and had a 99% pass rate last year in “A” levels. What really knocked me sideways were the extra curricular activities it offers. We pitched up a little early and the School orchestra were playing a few tunes. They kicked off with a medley of Blues Brothers tracks which were awesome. This girl then gets up with an acoustic and bangs out “Wonderwall” which was absolutely incredible. These three boys, maybe 12 or 13, get up on the stage and play “Don’t stop me now” by Queen which was also spot on. The whole lot of them then play The Verves “unfinished symphony” which, Richard Ashcroft’s attitude aside, was so good that if you closed your eyes you could picture him walking down the street barging people out of the way.
The Head Master then stood up to say a few words before the Head Boy and Girl also addressed everyone.
The Head Boy was about six foot two and had played Rugby for Welsh Schools. In the last two years he had been on tours to Australia, France, Spain and Italy. The Head Girl was clearly more academically inclined but was part of the School choir who had toured Canada the previous year.
This spotty little oik then gets up. He was about fifteen and after droning on for five minutes he mentions that he is a member of the debating society. I’m thinking so fucking what before he then mentions that last year he had represented the School in Washington and the year before in Athens.
Lastly, this young girl stands up to say a few words. She had been the only kid from her Primary School that had gone to this School so had started on the first day not knowing anyone. She told us all how friendly everyone was and how she had joined the after school clubs to make friends. She was a lovely kid and emphasised just how friendly the school is.
After this we were all given a guided tour. The School was fucking huge. They had a purpose built trampoline area where these fourteen year olds were giving a demonstration. Some of them were incredible. I got talking to the PE teacher who I sort of know from Rugby who told me that he would be disappointed if none of the children in his class didn’t get a shot at the Olympic team in three years time.
By the time I left this place my head was spinning and I was wondering who I would have to bribe to get my Daughter in there. She’s definitely got a great shot though and I’m 99% certain she will be given the go ahead in February.
Last night there was a parents teachers evening in her Primary School. My Missus and I were sat talking to her teacher who was very complimentary about her. After about five minutes she said “you must be very proud” which sort of threw me a bit. My Wife and I agreed that we were to which the teacher said “it’s a great opportunity for her”, which really confused the shit out of me. After a few glances between my Wife and I we both asked “what are you on about?” The teacher shot us a puzzled look and said “Hasn’t she told you? Four pupils from year 6 have been selected to go to Comprehensive School one afternoon a week to study with year 7 pupils in English and Maths. Your Daughter is the only one who has been put forward to do both. From the first week of November she’ll be going to Comp on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons”.
My Missus and I looked at each other before blurting out at the same time “Which Comprehensive School?” to which the teacher made my entire year by saying the one we are hoping she’ll get into next year.
Proud, I hear you say? Damn right I’m proud. In fact I’m so proud I bought her a laptop this morning for her Birthday next month which I’ve just given to her. Obviously, this now doesn’t count as a Birthday present but I don’t fucking care. This School is so good it’s almost criminal that it’s a state School and not Private. With one foot already in the door she would really have to do something stupid to not get in there and I can’t see her doing that.
Anyhow, onto other business.
Mo rang me in tears last week. Turns out his Wife hasn’t had an orgasm since they’ve been married. They went to a Doctor who suggested they had a fan in the bedroom which would cool his Wife down and relax her. Being a tight bastard, Mo asked me round and gave me a beach towel. So, I’m standing there swinging this towel above my head and Mo and his Wife are getting jiggy but I can tell there’s not a lot happening from her point of view. After about twenty minutes Mo stops and asks me to change places with him. I’m not adverse to this has Mo’s Wife is quite tasty. Within two minutes she’s screaming the house down and is well on her way to her fourth orgasm. I allow myself a wry smile and turn to look at Mo who says;
“And that Rubbish my old Son is how you flap a fucking towel”.
Later.

Stuff I hate

First off stuff that has been pissing me off recently or more to the point, one person. Every morning I drive into work and listen to the Christian O'Connell (from now on referred to as COC) breakfast show on Absolute Radio. A couple of weeks ago he did this thing where he invited listeners to ring in with their favourite TV show theme music and the top 32 went into a World Cup play off to find the best. The usual shows featured, Only Fools and Horses, Benny Hill, Grandstand etc. Anyhow. COC keeps on going on about how people are telling him what a great idea this is and how unusual it is and he laps it up saying it's how his mind works. No it isn't you fucking COC, Loaded have been doing this stuff for years.
I can remember Loaded doing a World Cup of biscuits with the final ending up between a Bourbon and a Chocolate Digestive. They also did one for bottled beers with Magners doing quite well.
Now COC is running the top 100 songs of the decade and you would swear he thinks this is the most amazing idea ever. No it fucking isn't you fucking COC, just flick through the MTV channels and that's all they do. 100 best songs of the 80's, 100 best rock songs, 50 best R and B songs. All programmes on now.
As you can tell I fucking hate COC with a passion but the musics good.
Now on to other stuff.
I don't watch much TV has it's so predictable and shit. One programme I do like is N.C.I.S. which now has a spin off, N.C.I.S. L.A. FFS, doesn't anyone have a decent idea these days? Law and Order has about a 1000 spin offs as does Star trek. CSI has two, Stargate has one. Life on Mars was brilliant but they had to spoil it with Ashes to Ashes. Doctor Who has Torchwood and the Sarah Jane Chronicles and if my Daughter was still up she could probably name another couple of spin offs.
Every cop show has the same tried and tested routine. Depressed, alcoholic, divorced cop tracking down a serial killer. Fuck me, not even COC could manage a top five serial killers of the 2000's as we've only had two yet every TV show has one a week. If TV executives are going to recycle shows can't we have the Sweeney in Space. Now that would be worth watching.
One other thing that's really pissing me off is work. It's now got to the stage where I dream about it. Last night I dreamt I was in Amsterdam with a prostitute. It was the middle of the afternoon and we're walking back to an hotel and I apologise to her and say "I have to pop into work for a minute". So there I am walking around our shop floor with this Thai bird and I go up to our factory supervisor and ask "how many doors we made today Mark?". I then start introducing this girl to everyone and then tell my boss "I'm staying in the Ibis but you can get me on my mobile if there's any problems", before walking off with this lady of the night. What the fuck is that about?

Missing in Action

Haven't been about much due to work which is doing my fucking head in. I've sort of read a few blogs this week but haven't been able to leave comments. Promise to catch up this weekend although I do have to go into work tomorrow (Saturday) for 6 am.
Played absolutely no poker this week so I'm level which makes a change. Not had a pint for two weeks which is unusual. Got one more mad week and then should be back to normal.
Will post about it all next time.
Later.

Poker v Golf

A few people have asked if I intend to write a post about poker. Well, I’ll let you all into a little secret known only to poker players. Poker is boring as fuck.
Furthermore, reading about poker is even worse because there’s very few ways of making the posts interesting especially if you don’t play poker.
Your average MTT (Multi table tournament) may take four hours to play and for three and a half odd hours of that you’re folding junk. That equates to one hand every eight minutes. Compare this to a round of Golf that takes four hours and if you shoot an eighty that would equate to one shot every three minutes. Plus you have the added attraction of pleasant scenery, a bit of banter from your playing partners and some exercise.
Take Saturday for example. The weather wasn’t particularly great but then again, when is it in Britain? Four of us tee off at eight in the morning and the 1st hole on our course is probably the toughest. 440 yards with a slight dog leg to the left and out of bounds on both sides of the fairway. Small lake in front of an elevated sloping green with out of bounds continuing on the right. The ideal way to play the hole is a drive up the left leaving no more than a six iron to the green. Anything longer makes the chances of holding the green non existent. Otherwise, you need to lay up on your second leaving a wedge in and hope to make your putt.
I nail a three wood into the perfect spot and have 165 yards left. I’m into my downswing when a rabbit runs straight across the fairway distracting me to the extent that I’m watching it as I hit the ball. Disaster. My ball bobbles about fifty yards up the fairway as my playing partners piss themselves whilst I throw my six iron at the offending fucking runt. Trying to regain my composure, I walk up to my ball and visualise my next shot. I have this pre shot routine where I stand directly behind the ball and pick a spot a couple of feet in front of it which is on a direct path to my target. It may be a clump of grass, a Bluebell or a divot. I then line the club head up with this spot and after a couple of practice swings I’m ready to do some damage.
There’s a split second when the club head makes contact with the ball which instantly allows you to recognise what the ball is going to do. A hook, slice, thin, fade, top, each shot has its own feeling. On this occasion, when my wedge struck the ball, I instantly knew I’d flushed it. My gaze followed the balls trajectory and there’s another split second when the ball starts falling out of the sky where the ball and its intended target merge into your plane of vision. It’s at this exact second that you know if your shot is any good. Mine was looking fucking awesome and the only thing that comes into consideration now is whether you’ve judged the distance correctly.
Okay, that’s not exactly true because when the ball pitches the green it can do a number of things. It can take a few bounces and roll twenty yards past where it landed. It can spin backwards, stop dead, kick to the left or right. A pro will know exactly what his ball will do. A hack and thrash merchant like me has no idea. Mine pitched, took a hop forward before stopping dead, two feet from the hole with a nice straight uphill putt for par. Shots like that make your round. The ball rolls off the green and you’re looking at a six. Leave it short and you’re in the water and looking at racking up a monster.
I make the putt and life’s good. No more thoughts of my fluffed second shot but a jolt of confidence from my superb third one.
Three and a half hours later I’m in the bar looking at a decent card and all’s well in the World. My mate Dave, notice a trend with my mates names, is one of life’s funny guys. If something stupid is going to happen to anyone then it’s him. The subject of first jobs comes up and Dave slowly starts shaking his head. Dave worked as a doorman for years and is, as we say in Wales, warm as toast.
“Have I ever told you about when I worked the doors at Barry Island?” Dave enquires. We all shake our heads.
To paint the picture for you all, Barry Island used to be a massive holiday camp. There were hundreds of chalets, several bars and restaurants and a couple of night clubs. To compound matters, it wasn’t really an Island but perched on the end of one of South Wales’ roughest towns. In reality it was a time bomb waiting to explode. Dave was there to make sure it didn’t.
Dave continued, “I’d only been there three days and my mate and I are on the door of the club when the night manager comes over the radio saying that someone is breaking into the rooms. My mate and I leg it down there and just as we arrive this guy comes flying out of a first storey window, which wasn’t open, and lands right next to us. We’re standing there with glass flying everywhere and this guy picks himself up, takes one look at us and is gone. We chase the fucker and finally catch him. He starts throwing punches and you can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s drugged up to the eyeballs so I get him in a choke hold. The more he struggles the tighter I hold him until he eventually passes out. So this twat is sparked out on the floor and my mate puts him in the recovery position. We’re just about to radio in saying we’ve got him when my mate looks at me and says “fucking hell Dave, he’s not breathing”. I bend down and take his pulse and there isn’t one. So I’m standing there, three days into the job, 20 years old and I’ve killed someone. I’m looking at my mate saying I don’t fucking believe this and he says to throw him in the pool and tell everyone that he’s drowned. I consider this for about a split second but realise no ones going to buy that shit and I’m going down for several years so I walk up to the twat and kick him as hard as I can in the stomach. Fuck me, he starts spewing everywhere. My mate and I jump back and are just staring at this fucking clown who suddenly springs to his feet, chins me and starts legging it down the road. I was so fucking relieved I burst out laughing. The cops caught him three blocks away and it took eight of them to arrest the fucker”.
By now the whole bar is listening to Dave’s tale, most of them with tears running down their cheeks.
Fast forward seven hours and I’m watching the Football in the front room. I fire up the laptop and enter a PLO MTT on FT (keep up with that did you?). After the first hour I’m doing OK. I haven’t had to re buy and don’t need an add on. Second break sees me with a below average stack. Third break is a similar story. Leading up to fourth break is where the tourney starts to hot up. I’m 34th of 50 with the top 27 getting paid. I scrape into the money in 24th place and then into the top eighteen in 15th. Four hours into the tournament I make the final table, 9th of nine. I’ve got $27k in chips and the next lowest has $110k. And here’s the crux of it all and the reason why I don’t post about Poker that much.
I can’t remember one fucking hand of note from four hours of play.
I eventually finish in fifth for $485 which is a decent sum but not as good as the $2k the winner had.
And here’s another thing that maybe is solely experienced by myself but, I’m guessing, probably shared by a lot of other poker players. The high of winning a few dollars lasts for a few seconds before the stark truth hits home. Tomorrow night you’re going to be doing the same fucking thing. And the night after, four hours of boredom for three seconds of happiness.
Give me a 125 yard wedge to two feet and Dave holding court in the bar afterwards any day of the week.

Random Rubbish again

"ONE pound a week will supply water for an entire village in Tanzania", says Oxfam. So how come Welsh Water charge me twenty pounds a month for my four bedroom semi? The fleecing bastards.

How come rap artist Dr. Dre can use the 'N' word on his multi-million selling albums and win a MOBO award, yet when I used it at my Daughter's football match I was asked to leave the park? Once again, it's one law for the rich and another for the poor.

I was shocked to hear Home Secretary Jacqui Smith say that Britain's prison population has been ballooning for the past ten years. My God, has the world gone mad? Those people are there to be punished, not to be given 'thrill of a lifetime' experiences that most law abiding citizens can only dream of.

What's all this nonsense about that 66-year-old Romanian woman being the world's oldest mum? My mum's 77. Beat that!

Why is it that pubs won't serve me if I'm drunk, but McDonalds continue serving them fat fuckers? It’s hardly fair.

The person who coined the phrase "as different as chalk and cheese" obviously hadn't tasted Tesco's own cheddar.

They say football is a game of two halves. Not for me it isn't. I regularly down eight or nine pints whilst watching a live game on Sky TV in my local.

If, as Freddie Mercury claimed, fat bottomed girls make the rocking world go round, isn't it about time that the city of Newcastle received some recognition for its contribution to astrophysics?

Davina McCall says that dangling off a helicopter over the Grand Canyon on a 700 foot bungee rope was the most terrifying and dangerous thing she has ever done. She must be forgetting that she went out with Stan Collymore.

Avoid arguments with the missus about lifting the loo seat by simply pissing in the sink.

Housewives: When nipping out to the shops, remember to carry a stiff broom in the boot of your car. Use it to sweep the broken glass to the side of the road every time you have a minor accident.

Never leave home

Without your wallet, watch and wits. Can't remember who told me that but they should have added mobile phone as well.
Sunday before last I'm sitting in my local with a couple of mates watching Man Utd v Man City. It's 3-2 in the dying minutes and I make the brave statement that Man City would equalise. This was met by a few snorts of derision and a "fuck off". So. I reach into my pocket and pull my Mobile out. Except it wasn't my Mobile it was my Wifes.
One of my mates asks what I was going to do with the phone so I explain that I was going to put my money where my mouth was and lay Man Utd. Unfortunately, as this wasn't my phone I couldn't because my Wife isn't a degenerate like me and doesn't have Betfairs number on speed dial. I then went on to explain that Man Utd would probably be trading at 1.1 which meant that I could lay Man Utd for £50 to win £500 if Man City equalised. One minute later they did.
After the laughter subsided one of the boys asked if I would leave the bet as it stood. I then went on to explain that I would now lay the draw for £100 to guarantee a profit. By this time we were in the 94th minute and the odds would easily have been 1.01 which would have got me £400 for the draw and £10000 for Man Utd or Man City.
For those that don't know, Man Utd scored in the 96th minute to win 4-3.
I've been on life tilt ever since.
So, to recap, never leave home without your phone. You can thank me for this piece of advice by sending donations to rubbish@fuckingeverything.com
In other news my Internet has been down for a week after my wife kindly downloaded a virus which has killed everything. I'm off work with the Flu which my Daughter has kindly given me. I've spent the last half hour trying to catch a mouse my cat has kindly brought home.
Will catch up with everyones blog tomorrow, promise.
Later.

A short story for you all

Dave was your average 40 year old guy. Married, Daughter, decent job, mortgage, liked his Friday nights out with the boys and watching sport on a Saturday. He also liked his holidays.
He wasn't particularly enjoying Egypt though. 120 degrees in the shade was slowly wearing him down. Mustapha, the tour guide from hell, was absolutely killing him. There was obviously some race on amongst the tour guides as to which one could drag a pack of Westerners around the Valley of the Kings the quickest. Mustapha was determined to win in Dave's view as that was the only logical explanation for the speed they were going at.
His group were currently in a tomb with hieroglyphics on the main walls from the ceiling to the floor. Dave marvelled at the colours and the workmanship that had gone into producing something so spectacular. Mustapha was having none of it and was herding people on to the next room. Dave hung back and when the last person disappeared breathed a sigh of relief.
Quickly taking a bottle of water from his rucksack, Dave sat in the corner of the room and studied the drawings. The main wall was estimated to be over 3000 years old and the attention to detail was incredible. How did people from that civilisation ever create such fantastic artefacts Dave wondered.
A young boy walked in, maybe 12 years old, smiled at Dave and sat next to him. He pulled a sketch pad out of his bag and after studying the wall for a few minutes started drawing. Dave took another sip of water and offered the bottle to the boy who took a drink and carried on drawing.
Curiosity got the better of Dave and he peaked at the boys drawing. Whatever it was it didn't resemble anything on the wall. The boy carried on drawing so Dave tried to engage him in conversation.
"Hi, I'm Dave".
The boy looked at Dave and smiled, "I'm Frank".
Dave smiled back, "What are you drawing Frank?" Dave inquired.
Frank stood up and held the drawing to an area of the wall which had what appeared to be 4 slaves raising somthing off the floor using sticks with 2 cobras watching them. What Frank had drawn was a series of strips which resembled helicopter blades. Dave shrugged, "Can't see that sorry Frank" he replied with a degree of honesty.
Frank smiled again and sat back down to continue drawing.
And draw he did at a furious pace. Pages upon pages of intricate drawings, none of which resembled anything on the wall in front of them. Finally, after an hour or so, he stood up and showed Dave the drawings in the pad. They were of an incredible standard, something a Draughtsman or Architecht would come up with. Dave looked at them all in awe. Finally he asked, "What is it Frank?".
Frank smiled yet again, "It's a time machine".
Dave's jaw dropped an inch and for a second he was speechless. And then he laughed.
"Nice one Frank, you had me going then".
Frank grinned, "No really it's a time machine, can't you see it?". And he held the pad against the wall pointing at his drawings and the hieroglyphics but Dave couldn't see it. Not at all. Frank smiled yet again and handed Dave the pad.
"For you" he said and with that he turned and walked away.
Dave sat there for another few hours looking at the drawings and then at the wall but he couldn't fathom out how Frank had come to interpret them the way he had. Finally, Dave placed the pad in his rucksack and left.
Fast forward two weeks and Dave was back home. He'd spent the remainder of the holiday thinking about Frank and the sketch pad. Everything about Egypt would make sense if time travellers or aliens had been there 3000 years ago. Dave was fortunate to work for a Manufacturing Company. He had started out at the bottom and ended up as the Production Manager. Luckily this meant he knew how to operate all the machinery. With sketch pad in hand, Dave went to work on Saturday when no one was in and started making all the pieces from the drawings. Some were easy, straight lengths of Stainless Steel which he could shear on a guillotine. Others he had to program on a Turret Punch and manufacture out of Titanium. Others had to be folded on a Press Brake. Finally after 28 hours of non stop work Dave had everything done. Every drawing and diagram Frank had given him was complete apart from the last drawing of all which showed the completed machine. Dave loaded the Company lorry with all the gear and drove home.
It took another three hours to get everything into his garage after which Dave decided to have a rest before assembling it. Dave lay on the settee and imagined what he would do. A trip back to Egypt maybe but this time Egypt 3000 years ago so he could watch the pyramids being erected. Possibly a quick jaunt back to the beginning of the Universe to see if there was a big bang. Or even Christ's cruxifiction or would that be a bit to gross. Finally Dave realised he wouldn't get to sleep so he headed back to the garage.
Everything slotted together perfectly. 1000's of pieces of metal effortlessly joining without a screw or nut in sight. Dave imagined it was a bit like doing a 3d jigsaw. After only 30 minutes the time machine was complete. Dave sat in it and hundreds of little circular components, a bit like washers, merged together and formed an instrument panel in front of him. Dave pressed one and another hundred odd pieces floated out and formed into a replica of the Solar System. After a bit of playing about Dave managed to comprehend what most things did and finally after another hour he was ready. Dave turned the time settings back one day and quickly checked he had some money in his pocket so that he could go down the bookies and place a twenty team accumulator on the previous nights football which would net him a cool hundred grand. Just as he was set to go he looked up. Directly above him was one empty space, cog shaped, about 2 mm in Diameter. Dave glanced around the garage but couldn't see any components left. Dave shrugged and pressed the button and a gentle whirling sound started. Strips of Stainless Steel started spinning around in a arc and the garage became a blurr as thousands of Galvanised plates twisted at incredible speeds. Dave held onto a convenient arm rest that had popped out and just at the split second when he imagined the machine was going to transport him back in time there was a massive clank and within another split second he was sat on the garage floor surrounded by 1000's upon 1000's of mangled pieces of scrap metal.

Frank was sat in a office with his Mother and Father. In front of them was an empty table and chair. An elderly guy walked into the room carrying a huge file which he slammed on the table. He sat down and opened it, flicking through a few pages at a time. Finally Franks Father, who was also called Frank, spoke.
"Why are we here?".
They guy looked at them with undisguisable contempt. He slammed the file down on the table yet again and spoke.
"Do you know what Frank did two weeks ago? I'm guessing you don't so let me fill you in on recent events. Frank has broken just about every law imaginable"
Franks Mother, who was also called Frank, started to cry.
The guy, ignoring her, continued.
"Firstly Frank created a worm hole to the planet Earth. Have you any idea how catastrophic this could have been?"
Frank Jnrs Father, Frank went to say something but the guy waved a cursory hand at him and went on.
"The last question was rhetoric. When on Earth he then passed to an Human Being" he literally spat these words out and just to emphasise how much he hated Humans he spat it out again. "An Human Being, of all creatures in this Universe, your boy Frank gave one detailed diagrams on how to construct a time machine".
Franks Mum, Frank, started to sob hysterically at this notion.
"Do you realise the implications of this? A Human with a time machine which incidentally was also a space transporter, would cause unlimited damage to the Universe as we know it. In no time at all countless planets would be at war. Entire Systems would implode. Humans would try to take over everything. The Galaxy as we know it would be finished".
Frank Jnrs Mum fainted. Frank Jnrs Dad buried his head in his hands. The guy continued with his rant.
"When the worm hole was discovered we dispatched personnel but they arrived too late. The Human, whose name was Dave, can you believe that?"
Frank Snr shook his head.
"Well this Dave had actually managed to assemble the machine and had fired it up".
Frank Snr started to tremble.
"He didn't use it did he?"
The guy shook his head.
"Fortunately young Frank had left out the transjigamondo which as I'm sure you are aware meant the Time Machine not only wouldn't work but actually disintegrated. Our personnel stole the diagrams back whilst the Human was sat on his arse scratching his head and I think it's fair to say, saved the Cosmos."
Franks Dad nodded, Franks Mother regained consciousness and young Frank breathed a huge sigh of relief.
"You do realise what this means though don't you?" the guy asked Frank Snr. Frank Snr nodded as did Franks Mum. Young Frank didn't have a clue what it meant.
"As your Sons Headmaster and also career advisor I must advise you that Frank is a retard and his career options now seem limited to B & Q or Ikea".


Yes you've guessed it. Spent three hours trying to put a chest of drawers together for my Daughter only to find that the fucking thing hasn't got any runners for the drawers with it. Fucking bastards.

Favourite things cont.......

Here's a couple more of Mo and my favourite things.

3. I'm a constant dayreamer. From the moment I wake I'm away with the fairies. Take today. Wake up and stand in the kitchenete making a cup of coffee while studying the trailer park. Of course I'm dreaming about gazing at the great pyramid of Giza or surveying the statue of Zeus at Olympia or marvelling at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff. Quick shower where I pretend I'm standing under the Dunns river falls in Jamaica or the Angel falls in Venezuela or even the pissing down rain in the Brecon Beacons.
Quick wander down to the bus stop avoiding the chavs and tramps whilst dreaming of sauntering down Sunset Boulevaud or meandering down Magnolia Way or strolling along Swansea Bay. Bus journey, front seat taken by gimp couple in matching Japanese Emperor outfits, to work takes me past Council Estates with burnt out cars and boarded up kebab shops. How I long to take a bus past the Taj Mahal or maybe a boat trip past the Lighthouse of Alexandria or even a rickshaw along the river Taff.
Work sees me at my daydreaming peak. Today, for some strange reason, I've been singing Catatonias "International Velvet, Every second of every hour I thank the Lord I'm Welsh", to myself.
On the way home I dreamt of hiking in the Himalayas and safariing in the Serengheti and even snowboarding in Snowdonia.
My Wife has just made Welsh rarebit for tea which seems quite apt although I haven't a clue why?

When you list your favourite things you have to include porn dont you? Okay, I know I'm married and everything but that's the reason why. I believe sex is a bit like custard. I had 90% of my lifes custard intake by the time I left school and I think I probably had 90% of my lifes sexual experiences before I got married. That's not to say my Wife and I don't get all hot and horny anymore just that the gaps in between seem to get slightly longer each time. That's why porn is one of my favourite things.

4. Pubs. I love pubs. I could sit in them all day and quite often do on weekends. I have a couple of local pubs which I frequent. My favourite is a big Footie pub. It's awash with characters and there's never a dull moment.
After the game on Sunday I'm sitting at the bar reading the paper and one of the locals turns to me and says "What's it like to be able to read"? I thought he was joking but he wasn't. He then went on to tell me about how he left school at nine! His Dad made him work with him in a scrap yard. When his Dad died he got various jobs as a labourer on building sites all around Britain and now works on the roads. He's a superb guy and a great laugh.
And that's what I love about pubs because where else would I meet someone like that.

Another dinner time, another pub.
That's the best thing about a pub. They're not like your Wife where you get married and overnight become a one Woman Man. You can have a local pub but you are allowed to whet your appetite elsewhere.
Today I was in the Shotgun and Pellet. Dave the barman looked up from his wank mag and stretched a welcoming hand towards me. I declined to shake just in case he had declined to wash and pondered whether a bottle might be the best option. I settled for a cheeky little Babycham for starters and sat at the end of the bar.
"Long time, no see" Dave offered as an opening gambit.
He was quite correct, it was.
I'm lucky enough to work in an area with 126 pubs in a 200 yard radius. This allows me to visit each one twice a year. And that is the crux of the matter, pubs are not my favourite thing, stealing from them is.
"I think I'll have a pint of Stella and six shots of Tequila please Dave" I replied.
Dave shot a quizzical look, "all six for you Guv"?
"Yes please Dave and can I have them in those quaint Tequila glasses you have on the top shelf".
Dave reached up for them and placed them in a row infront of me. I could sense him eyeing me suspiciously. Could he possibly remember the last time I was in and half inched the yard of ale? I glanced about and spotted a sickly looking Yukka plant not two feet away from me. Quickly, I opened my laptop case, sans laptop, whilst fumbling in my pocket for my mobile. Dave finished pouring and stepped back to get a better view of proceedings. What he failed to spot was me dialing the bar phone number. The phone rang and Dave turned to answer. Quick as a flash six Tequilas acquainted themselves with Mr Yukka and six glasses acquainted themselves with the inside of my laptop case.
As I marched through the side door I could hear Dave shouting "hello, hello" into the phone. "See you in six months sucker" I silently mouthed as I walked next door to the Stripper and Tissue.

Favourite things

The biggest tease in blog land, Madame Nikki, has asked Mo and I to list our seven favourite things. Mo, who is now down to posting one day a week because he’s a wimp, has asked me to do his for him. I’ve agreed because he’s bribed me with some beer glasses he’s stolen from one of his drinking holes. Here they are. Guess which ones are Mo’s and which ones are mine.
1.Without a shadow of doubt my Daughter is the favourite thing happening in my life. Every evening when I get home we have a conversation that goes something like this:
Me – Alright babes, what’s happening?
Daughter – nothing.
Me – What you get up to in School today?
Daughter – nothing.
Me – So what you’re saying is nothing happened in School at all today?
Daughter – Well (pause for deep breath), Mrs Davies gave us a surprise Maths test and I scored 20 out of 20 in it and Joe and Daniel had a fight and Daniel was crying and Emily isn’t speaking to Sasha who isn’t speaking to Megan who isn’t speaking to Bethan and Chris isn’t speaking to Josh and Debs Mum forgot to pack her lunch so I shared mine with her and we’ve got a School trip next week to St Fagan’s and Sophie and I have to do a project on the big bang theory and did you know there’s a Lab in Helsinki that has an Rhodium bar that is kept at absolute freezing temperature which is -273.15 degrees and it is the coldest place in the universe unless there are aliens that are conducting the same experiment and I was voted onto the School council today and they’ve stopped Spanish class so I’ve started to learn French and Eve had to see the Head Master because she swore and we’ve got a special assembly at Llandaff Cathedral next week and what’s for dinner, I’m starving?
Me – Oh!

I adore Public transport. No. I’ll go one further and tell you all that I love Public transport. Be it a train or a bus or even a tram, nothing can beat sitting amongst fellow Human Beings, taking in the sights and sounds and even the smells. Let me expand.
Today I caught the number 36. I eagerly scampered up the stairs hoping to take my normal seat in the very front row of the double decker. Nothing beats sitting in the front row, day dreaming that you’re actually driving the bus, flicking an imaginary indicator, honking the horn at some pathetic excuse of a taxi driver, carving up some old dear in her Citroen CV 1. Not today though. Two gimp teenagers had beaten me to it.
The Male was dressed head to foot in camouflage gear. Why does every other Male in London dress this way? Is everyone living out some desert storm enactment and I haven’t been informed. The Girl was dressed like a slut.
Across the aisle from me was an elderly Japanese guy dressed in full World War 11 Rear Admiral ensemble. He was furiously speaking into his mobile phone. My ears pricked as I tried to eavesdrop but I couldn’t fathom out if he was speaking in his native tongue or some form of pigeon English. It sounded very much as if he was saying “white devils on the starboard bow, dive dive dive”.
One stop away from my final destination the gimp couple decided to leave. Typical. I watched in awe as the pair of them sauntered off the bus and straight into the Groucho Club.
A tramp barged past me as I stood up to vacate the bus and fell into the front seat. He was dressed in a German Oberstleutnant uniform and looked like Richard Burton in Where Eagles Dare. He vomited on the floor before curling up to fall asleep.
God I hate public transport.

2. I love sitting in a pub people watching. Today found me in my favourite haunt, The Flick Knife and Crowbar. An hour for lunch only allows six pints maximum, I was on my fourth, casually reading the problem page whilst glancing furtively around the bar. There waas maybe a dozen people in there although there could have been a few more in camouflage gear that I hadn't spotted.
A young couple shared a joke over a bottle of Cotes Du Rhone. She elegantly flicked her hair back a wide smile engulfed her glowing countenance. He gazed lovingly into her piercing blue eyes.
Three skinheads guffawed over some joke, their Cider splattering the marble effect bar.
Two old fellows, their gleaming war medals pinned to their jackets, sipped their glasses of stout, their tutting and furtive glances towards the skinheads telling its own story.
Two professional types sat by the window. They swilled their Gin and Tonics around in their glasses as they quietly discussed some deal or other.
Four Secretarys skipped in giggling amongst themselves. They stood at the bar and ordered spritzers. Dave the barman expertly poured their drinks, sharing a joke with them. They looked at each other and started giggling like pretty Hyenas in lipstick and Prada. They took seats next to me and started talking about Dave. Their skirts rising up to mid tanned thigh. One adjusted herself in her seat giving a tantalising view of stocking top. I could take it no longer. I casually leant across and spoke.
"Oi will you four fuck off, the stripper is on in a moment and you're in my fucking way".

Rugby is the greatest sport ever. Rugby tours are even better. My personal favourite is Dublin and guess where I'm going next March. Yes, another tour to Dublin. I could write for hours about all the trips I've been on and maybe I will some day. My favourite though was 1998. First off our hotel caught fire and we were stood in the middle of the street at five in the morning in just our boxers. The firemen wouldn't let us back in so we're freezing our nuts off and this Woman appears from nowhere and invites us into her place. Spookily her place just happened to be a brothel. God, you just have to love Dublin.

More to follow tomorrow.

Is there something wrong with me?

Tennyson ee Hemingway wrote a post a few days ago which got me thinking, is there something wrong with me? Here's the post in question. You should read it before you read the rest of this.
I've read it a couple of times now and also the comments and I'm guessing there is.
Basically, I've probably lived well over half my life (given that I don't take very good care of myself) and have absolutely no Female friends whatsoever. Is this strange?
Before you all answer this let me tell you about my background.
I was born in a small mining village in the Welsh Valleys. My best friend was born next door to me. His Mum is my Godmother. My Mum is his Godmother. I'm his Sons Godfather. He's my Daughters Godfather. I was best man in his wedding. He was best man in mine. I went to a small primary school when I was three. There were ten of us in my class, five boys, five girls. Apart from one boy who moved away during secondary school, I still see all the other boys when I pop home to see my Mum. I haven't seen any of the girls for years. Our school was so small I had to play for the Football team when I was seven. That year we won the school league and I still have the trophy I was presented with.
My best mate and I went to a boys only Grammar school when we were eleven. I played for the schools Football, Rugby and Cricket teams. I was also fortunate to have been brought up next to a Golf Course so have played Golf since I was ten.
During School I also had trials for the Welsh Schools Rugby team and Bristol City Football Club. Needless to say, seeing as I was in an all boys school, all my school friends were male. All my friends I socialised with outside school i.e. Rugby, Football etc. were male.
During my twenties and early thirties I trained four times a week and played Rugby on a Saturday and Football on a Sunday. Spookily, all my friends during this period of my life were Male.
Since I was seven years old, sport has been the biggest single factor in my life. Christ, I even worked for the Welsh Rugby Union for twelve years. I've got countless friends and they're all sport playing, Cider drinking Men.
At this point I suppose you're all wondering whether I've actually talked to a Woman since I left Primary School. And I guess this is the crux of it all.
I'll just point out that I'm not a good looking guy. All the guys from the RTR forum who have met me will vouch for that. But I have lots of qualities that Women like. I'm endearing, generous, witty, intelligent, charming, well read and I have a big dick! I open doors for Women as they walk into a room. I'll listen intently for hours on end about anything they wish to talk about. I'll pay them compliments and actually mean them. I was incredibly good at charming Women into bed. But inevitably after a night or a few days or even a month, I would run out of something to say because all I was really thinking about was who Arsenal would start with up front on Saturday.
And that's why I don't have any Female friends. I'm shallow.
And Men don't mind shallow especially Sports loving, cider drinking Men.
Then one day I met my Wife. I've never worked out why she married me. You'll all be stunned to learn that she is incredibly attractive. She's also very intelligent and has a top job. She's a published poet and an accomplished painter. We have nothing in common other than our Daughter yet we'll probably grow old together, her reading a book, me watching sport until I pop my clogs. She's the only Woman that I've been able to just sit with in silence and not rack my brains for something to say. And if I start talking about sport she nods and feigns interest in the same way that I do when she's talking about shite that I have no interest in. Maybe she's shallow as well? Maybe we're just well suited? Most of you would call her a Saint if you knew us. I count my lucky stars every day that we're together, fourteen years and counting. The only thing I can think of as to why we're still Married is that she must have lost a bet? The one thing I do know is that she's the only Woman I would call a friend.
Anyhow, is there something wrong with me? Feel free to leave a comment. I've got to go out now. I'm meeting my mate Sarah for a pint. I know she's female but she doesn't count because she's Australian.
Later.

Random Rubbish

My Daughter started back to School yesterday, her last in Primary School, thank fuck. The last few weeks have been strange to say the least. She’s been having terrible nightmares where she’s gone to School on the first day and found that she’s had to sit on a table on her own. The poor little mite has been waking up crying and all sorts. I must admit it did start to worry me and it does tug at the old heart strings. Anyhow, first day was yesterday and she ended up on a table with her best mate. Unfortunately, she’s also on the same table as three boys which she now lovingly refers to as pigs.
All summer she’s been doing a project on big cats for her final year project. In fairness she’s had fuck all else to do has it’s been pissing down constantly. She turns up on her first day and hands it in. The teacher skims through it and then informs her that as it is her final year project she did in fact have all this year to complete it. Obviously she’s the only one who has done it bless her little cotton socks.
Off out tonight on a stag do. My mate and I started playing five a side a few years back with these guys who all played Rugby for a different club to ours. We've gotten quite friendly with them and now drink with them most weekends. We're all off for a "Gentlemans" do at their club tonight. I'm worried. There's only going to be two of us who haven't played for this club and therefore we're going to get some stick. Worse still, we're going to be on the stage at some point. Must remember to put clean boxers on.
Tomorrow we're having a drink around Cardiff. I'm going to have to try and get them down the bay at some point. There's a big poker tournament on at the Grosvenor and one of the poker bloggers who I avidly follow is down there. Rob "the Animal" Price is one of these guys who hardly ever blogs about anything other than Poker but I am gripped by his posts because of the amount of dosh he wins. The guy is a legend and it would be a shame, seeing as he is in Cardiff, to not bump into him and maybe have a beer.
I seem to have more American Mom readers now than Brit blokes so I'll big this blog up as well. Jessica at Bernthis has done a video for a company which if you visit will donate a dollar to an ovarian cancer charity. If you haven't read Bernthis then you're missing out on some funny stuff although her last two posts have been a bit eeeeeeeeeewwwwwww for us guys. She's also got some great videos of herself which I'm sure will have Amatay and JR reaching for the kleenex as they click on her link.
My favourite blogger Mo only posts once a week now because he's a sap and his Wife said if he posted anymore she'd cut his dick off. Without Mo's regular shite to read I've had to find someone else and luckily I stumbled across this blog. The Japing Ape writes some of the funniest stories I've read. Whenever I'm bored in work I jump on his blog and read his old posts. If you want a good laugh then he's your man.
Finally, one of the first bloggers I ever read and the biggest pervert on the planet is bragging on his latest post about winning his fifth Gatsby award. Well fish, your blog has been running for four years, mine has been going for seven months and I'm on my third (not that I'm competitive you understand). This time next year you'll be putting Ads up for me.
Later.

Never play sports when you're pissed

I was reading Amatays blog and there was a comment likening him to Teddy Sheringham, he of little pace but quick mind. It reminded me of this.
Picture a cold, wet November Sunday morning. Yours truly had been out all Saturday watching Wales play Australia. A few drinks had turned into a massive session. Our last port of call in those days was a bar run by a mate of ours. At two in the morning we had headed into the downstairs bar to watch the boxing. I can't recall who was boxing but we left at five in the morning and ended up in one of my mates' house where we sat up all night drinking cider. About 10.30 in the morning my phone goes and it's the captain of the team I play for.
"Where the fuck are you Rubbish, we kick off in half an hour?"
My heart sank. I'd totally forgotten I was playing in a charity game that morning. And not any old charity game but one against Welsh Accademicals.
For those of you who know fuck all about Rugby, Welsh Accademicals is a side made up mainly of ex International players and students who play charity matches raising money for various organisations. I've included a link which shows just who has played for them.
I told the boys I had to go to play against the "Accies" and they all, to a man, spat their drinks everywhere.
"You're fucking bollocksed, you're not serious are you?" was the main response.
I went home to grab my boots, all the boys in tow who were busily calling everyone to come and watch, knowing I was going to fuck up big time.
I got to the changing rooms where everyone was already changed and warmed up and stood under the shower for five minutes before throwing up and getting changed. This wasn't actually a rare occurence, in fact it was a weekly one in those days.
We walked onto the pitch on that aforementioned cold, wet November Sunday morning and my heart sank a little more. The "Accies" team had Gareth Davies, Mark Ring, John Deveraux, Gwyn Evans, Adrian Hadley and, opposite me, Robert Jones. Rob Jones had only just retired from Intenational Rugby and had been on two Lions tours. I had been drinking for 24 hours solid. That was just the backs. The forwards had a few Internationals in it as well. There was also a crowd of a few hundred people there, most of them waiting to see me do something stupid.
We were playing on a parks pitch and the rain was coming down in sheets. The sky was eerily dark for eleven in the morning as if God was sharing in my ritual humiliation by setting the perfect apocalyptic scene.
The Accies kicked off and our prop gathers the ball. A ruck ensues where someone comes over the top and the Ref awards us a penalty. I'm stood there with the ball in my hands and the Accies, to a man, turn around thinking I'm going to kick. I think "fuck it", take a quick tap and am gone. I incredibly avoid a couple of tackles and find myself in open space. The crowd rise to their feets as I hog the touchline. I can hear my mates screaming "go on Rubbish" as I cross halfway. Gwyn Evans, another Lions player, was full back and I could see him covering across. Gwyn was probably in his late fourties and probably the oldest player on the pitch.
I pictured in my mind what I was going to do. Gwyn would have me by the twenty two yard line so I would ease up and then accelerate when he was five yards away, leaving him grasp thin air and me stroll over the try line to the acclaim of the hundreds of fans there.
I accelerated at the right time. So did Gwyn. He hit me full tilt, shoulder to shoulder, and sent me flying about ten yards into the crowd who were dispersing a lot quicker than I was as they could all see what was going to happen. As I slid through the mud I could hear a huge cheer. I lay there for a moment struggling to catch my breath and could hear one of my mates shout "Fucking hell Gwyn, you've killed him". A deathly hush fell about the pitch as I was helped to my feet. I slowly walked through the crowd and back onto the pitch where Gwyn was standing. He held out his hand and as I shook it he said, a bit too loudly for my liking, "you know what Son, you're very deceptive. You're a lot slower than you look!"
The crowd erupted in laughter as did the players from both sides. Walking back off the pitch to throw up didn't exactly endear me to the crowd either.
We got absolutely stuffed but it was a fantastic day. Not many people get a chance to share a pitch with their heroes and even though I was pissed out of my head I can still remember all the match. I'm guessing Gwyn instantly forgot it. Can't blame him.