Monday, 29 June 2009

Headline news

Farah Fawcett dies and is immediately relegated to two paragraphs on page 10 because Michael Jackson dies on the same day. How Unlucky is that?
I've been reading all the stories about Michael Jackson and frankly I don't know what to make of it all. Was he the King of Pop or a paedophille?
In 1994 Jordan Chandler, then 14, was paid $22 million in an out of court settlement. I wonder if a now 29 year old Jordan Chandler will ever spill the story of what happened at Neverland? In all probability, with a settlement that large, it will be a story he takes to his grave as well.
It also appears that Jacko is going to be buried in Neverland. Sounds like a Gracelands enterprise is rising out of MJ's ashes. $10 a head would certainly take a big chunk out of the rumoured $300 million he owed. And that in itself is one of the biggest stories. At the height of his career and on the back of selling 75 million copies of Thriller, Jacko was spending $30 million a year more than he was earning. How the fuck do you manage to do that? To put it into perspective, I would have to be spending $30,030,000, he was spending $75,000,000 a year or $1,500,000 a week. One and a half million dollars a week. And this was over several years not one year.
Furthermore, it's now rumoured he has a back catalogue of 200 songs that have never seen the light of day which will nett his kids $60,ooo,ooo. Whether that's each or between them hasn't been clarified but it will certainly keep them in masks for a good few years.
Another thing I've read is that when he was taken to hospital he was five foot ten, weighed eight stone and was bald. When I read this I immediately rang my grand dad. You'll be glad to know he's okay.
Madonna and Angelina Jolie are reputedely in an adoption battle for Bubbles according to one paper. Another reckons Gary Glitter has bid £1,000,000 for Jacko's hard drive.
Anyhow, in death as in life, nothing with Jacko is black and white if you know what I mean.
The press coverage got me thinking of who would have to die to knock Jacko off the front pages? I guess the Queen or David Beckham in Britain which is quite sad to admit. In America I would imagine the President popping his clogs would relegate “the king of pop” to the also ran section.
Worldwide, well that’s a different ball game. I can only think of two people who would dominate world headlines, Nelson Mandela and Mohammed Ali. Maybe Amatay leaving this mortal coil would send the blogasphere into meltdown, what with his burgeoning advertising and porn enterprise. Is there anything he hasn't got his fat little fishy fingers in?
Of course, it was quite refreshing to buy the Wales on Sunday, with the front page dominated by Gethin Jenkins and Adam Jones being hospitalised after late tackles from Bakkies Botha and Brian Habana. For those who don’t know this was the British Lions v South Africa Rugby match on Saturday. Good to know the Welsh press don't give a fuck about anything other than Rugby.
It has made a welcome distraction of not having fucking Jordan and Peter Andre on the front pages as well so God bless Michael Jackson for that at least.

Tuesday, 23 June 2009

The Daily Wit part deux

1. the miracles of the credit card
2. the bulls the bears and the skunks
3. why did the zombie cross the road
4. 1001 ways to buy shampoo
5. should relationships have a black box of post-destruction feedback?
6. chemical castration
7. baby oil
8. Chicago style pizza
9. pudding
10. motorcycle jumps
11. sand in your bathing suit
12. stroking your ferret
13. packing tape
14. the subtle difference between zucchini and cucumbers
15. charity

The list above is the latest literary challenge from the Daily Wit. Yet again I’ve lucked out has it fits in nicely with last weekend. It’s also quite cool because lots of people have been asking me what Cardiff is like and more specifically, where I live. Read on.

The sun was streaming through the kitchen windows of Rubbish Manor. Unsurprisingly, for a Saturday morning, I was nursing a monster hangover. The swingers’ party at the Clintons who live at number sixteen had turned into all nighter. Brad and Angelina had tried to do a deal with Mrs. Rubbish and I as per usual but quite frankly the pair of them are starting to worry me. I know Ange had popped out a few kids but the first time I ended up in bed with her was a real eye opener. When she opened the conversation by explaining the subtle difference between zucchini and cucumbers I knew I was in trouble. I’m no slouch in the trouser department but I might as well have stood in the Channel tunnel waving a chipolata.
Luckily Bill had shipped a load of beers in and the pair of us settled down for the ESPN Chicago sports evening extravaganza. Six hours of the bulls the bears and the skunks. I admitted to never hearing of the Chicago skunks which upset Hilary who reliably informed me they were Chicago’s premier Lacrosse team which she had once played for. They lost 26 – 0 to the Texan Torquemedas and absolutely stank. Not sure if that’s how they got their name and to be truthful, I didn’t give a fuck.
The last I could remember of the evening was Hilary placing a plate of Chicago style pizza in my lap and taking the opportunity to give my love spuds a swift tickle. Bill reliably informed me the toppings were Magic mushrooms, oysters and ketamine. I hazily recall talking with Jordan and Peter from number twenty two regarding should relationships have a black box of post-destruction feedback? Beyonce from number nine piped up that she had a black box and that was the end of that conversation.
The sound of Bob next doors girls playing in the garden stirred me from my daydreams. I glanced out of the kitchen window to see the three of them squirting each other with hose pipes. Peaches and Pixie were ganging up on the least known of the three sisters, Pudding Margarita Truck Stop. They noticed me watching and stopped to blow me a kiss. Their lithe young bodies in skin tight wet vests immediately made me think of life in jail and chemical castration. Don’t know why? If you laid out each dick they’d sucked, end to end, it would be long enough to build a safety rail around Antarctica. I blew them a kiss back and put the kettle on.
Bill and Hilary’s goodie bag they had given each guest as they left was by the kettle. I peered inside before spreading it over the kitchen table (a similar experience to what I had done with Ange a few hours before). Ten grammes of coke, a dozen strawberry flavoured condoms, love beads, one litre of baby oil and two invitations to a charity auction on behalf of Robbie Williams now his career was finally down the pan. I cut some coke with my Platinum Amex card and rolled the invite up for a quick snort. The miracles of the credit card, I thought. You can cut your drugs with them. You can spray them with lacquer and use them to get into any hotel room in the world with a magnetic lock. Bill had even told me a story that the US Government had issued all their foreign diplomats with worthless Royal Bank of Scotland ones in case they were posted to third world countries that had no toilet paper. I’ve never had that confirmed but I think someone might be able to.
The sound of the kettle boiling helped me focus on the task in hand. I opened the fridge door and groaned. No fucking milk again. What was Mrs. Rubbish doing with it all? I looked at the plywood and knew I should have paid extra to have Thor stand guard. He wouldn’t have let her nick all the milk.
I threw on a vest and tracksuit bottoms and slipped on a pair of Adidas Sambas to walk down to Madonna’s corner shop and sex emporium, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Pausing at the front gate to light a spliff I caught sight of something weird. Why did the zombie cross the road and start animatedly waving at me? I immediately reached an arm over my shoulder, just below my neck. Thank fuck I was packing. Tape was holding my Glock under my vest. I was just about to draw and blow the mother away when I realised it was that Posh bird from number two.
“Hi Victoria” I greeted her, “you’re looking well”.
“Hi snake hips, how’s it hanging?” she greeted me back.
“Yeah, I’m fine babes. Just nipping down the shop, you want anything?”
“No thanks, got to run” she replied and she actually did.
Fuck me, I thought, what’s her problem?
I watched her disappearing down the street at a rate of knots and turned to walk down to the shop. It was then I realised what had made Victoria flee for her life.
“Hi Paris, how are you love?” I asked through grimaced teeth.
“Hi Rubbish, watcha doing?” she enquired in a way that made me want to reach for my gun and do the whole world a favour.
“Why are you stroking your ferret?” I thought out loud, “Aren’t they vicious little fuckers?”
“It’s not a ferret” she implored, “It’s a pedigree Chihuahua. I bought it from Mr. Nixon at number thirty two”.
“Who, Dick?” I asked, “I hope you didn’t pay too much for it”?
“£97,000 grand but that’s cheap. Mr. Nixon assured me of that”.
I bet he fucking did I thought.
“What you doing today then Paris?” I asked in a small talk, take the hint and fuck off sort of way.
“I’m shooting a new TV programme. It’s called 1001 ways to buy shampoo and today I’m taking Daddy’s Lear Jet down to Tesco’s and paying in Kruggerands”.
“Well I won’t keep you then”, I interjected, seeing my opportunity to escape. “All the best”.
“See you Rubbish”, she whined.
“Lucky escape there Rubbish, you jammy bastard” a voice from high said.
I looked up to see Mr. Jagger the window cleaner polishing number tens bedroom windows.
“Yo Michael, how’s it going mate?”
Mick expertly slid down his ladder, reached over the garden gate and pinched my joint out of my mouth. He took a deep drag.
“Nice shit”, he spluttered.
"Where's Keef, Mick, I haven't seen him for a couple of days?"
"Jeez Rubbish, haven't you heard, that mad cat is in hospital".
"Yeah", I said, not really surprised, "What's he done?".
Mick took another drag and passed the spliff back to me. He savoured the taste for a second then went off on one of his rants which always brings a smile to my face. If there was any gossip then Mick knew it and boy, did he like to share it.
"You know the track at the back of the street, well Keefs down there totaly out of his head. He's had about fifteen Neptune's bollocks and five grammes of Thorazine and he's watching all these cool young cats going over the motorcycle jumps on their BMX bikes. So he goes home and gets his Kawazaki ZR Ninja and fires it up. The eye witness reports reckon he hit the first jump doing about 165 mph. They found his bike 400 yards away in a mangled wreck on the bank of the Taff. Keef washed up about thirty hours later in Swansea Bay. Over half the bones in his body are broken and they've got him drugged up on Haldol, Prolixin and Clozaril. He reckons he'll be back in work on Tuesday".
"Wow", was about all I could muster.
"Yeah wow", Mick continued, "You heard about Mr. Blunkett in number nineteen?".
"No Mick, what's he done?"
"Well, you know he's our MP?", I nodded and Mick continued, "He's only been sent to prison. He's been fiddling his expenses and he's only claimed for parachute lessons, a motorbike and a pair of binoculars. Six months he's got".
I mustered another "wow".
"Yeah and that old bat in number twelve".
"Mrs Thatcher", I offered,
"Yeah her, she's in hospital as well. Broke her arm whilst hanging out her washing. Word is something fell out of the sky and hit her. Could have been Keefs baffler so keep that under your hat because I've heard she's got friends in the BNP".
"You sure about that?" I asked.
"Well I haven't seen what hit her but Keefs baffler hasn't been found yet".
I shook my head and passed Mick the joint.
Mick took another big hit and went on.
"I went around that new birds house, you know, the one that's moved into the end house. Lady mental as fuck".
"Gaga", I interupted.
"Too fucking true she is Rubbish. Got me pissed on those cocktails, sand in your bathing suit I think they're called".
"Sand in your shorts I think you'll find they're called actually Mick".
"Yeah them, twenty seven of them I had. Absolutely wankered I was. Anyhow, she kept on asking me to poke her face so I did and then she flipped and started hitting shit out of me. Fucking crazy she is Rubbish".
By now I could feel my will to live ebbing out of every pore.
"Mick, I really need to jam mate, you have a good one".
Mick offered me the joint back but I declined. It was eight a.m. and I needed my pit. Fuck the milk I thought. As I headed back to the house I could hear Mick singing. It sounded like he was saying "I know they're only sausage rolls but I like them".
I couldn't agree more.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Fathers day

Not sure why it's called Fathers day, just any normal day in our household. No breakfast in bed, no nice Sunday dinner (not true, was a nice Sunday dinner but I had to cook it as normal), no nice presents. Well that's another story in itself.
My wife suffers from Arthritis normally when it pleases her. For example, when she found out that Doctor Who was being filmed in the park opposite our house she spent two solid days painting the front of the house, windows included, just in case the camera panned onto it. Of course, this exertion means that she cannot iron a blouse or hoover for the next five years. So every morning I get up, iron a shirt for work and also iron my Daughters school uniform and whatever my Wife leaves out for work. Last year there was much muttering from the two of them because there were a few creases appearing. I get up last Fathers day, make the pair of them breakfast and my little Princess gives me my present. I shake the box and think maybe a dozen Titelist Pro VI golf balls. I open it up and find a new Iron and not the type you play Golf with. To say I was miffed would be an understatement. The reason, they thought the old one might be broken and I needed a new one. Fucking witches.
I wouldn't mind but for Mothers day, birthdays, Christmas etc. the pair of them leave post it notes all round the house with what they want. And being the mug I am I fucking buy it for them. Anyhow, I decided to play them at their own game this year and left notes with what I wanted. The pair of them paid no fucking attention whatsoever. I ended up with Quantum of Solace (already got it), two new shirts (pink) and a pair of trousers (not bad but one size too big).
My Daughter did come to the car boot sale with me today though. I bought a belly putter for four quid and spent another thirty quid on shit for her. Bearing in mind most things only cost a couple of pounds I'm not sure how I managed to spend so much.
Whilst writing this crap I'm watching Grosse point black. Great film which includes Motorheads "Ace of Spades". "You know I'm going to lose and gambling's for fools but that's the way I like it baby, I don't want to live forever". Superb lyrics.
I listen to loads of music and sometimes wonder where people get their lyrics. More to the point, why don't they ask me to write them. Take "Rockstar" by Nickelback. Fantastic song but one line does my head in. "I'm going to trade this life for fortune and fame". Surely "I'm going to sell my soul for fortune and fame" is more rock n roll. Hints of Devil worshiping and all that. Likewise, "too hard to handle" by Otis Redding, I always thought it was "too Hot to handle" because that's what I would have written. Another one that pisses me off is Robbie Williams, Let me entertain you. Cracking song and if I ever had a band, which I never will, then this would be the song I'd open a concert with. But, "He may be good he might be outta sight, but he can't be here so come around tonight". What was Guy Chambers thinking. I would have gone with "God may be good he might be outta sight, but he can't be here so worship me tonight". Much more megalomaniacal and more in suiting with Robbies persona.
I'm sure there's lyrics you'd all change. Leave a comment with which one's you would.
There's two songs that I think are lyrically perfect, You're so vain by Carly Simon and Boys of Summer by Don Henly. Feel free to add yours.

Thursday, 18 June 2009

Chat up line

One of the boys rang me this morning and I immediately remembered this conversation from Saturday night. The scene - sitting outside Smokie Mo's about ten thirty in the evening. I'm sitting on the end of a picnic style table talking to someone on an adjacent one. One of the boys (ootb) and a random blonde girl (rbg) are sitting together on the other side.

RBG - "What do you do for a living then "?
OOTB - "I work with killer whales"!
Me - (Pricking my ears and leaning closer), Mmmm interesting opening gambit, wonder where he's going with this?
RBG - "Wow, where do you work)?
OOTB - "Cardiff aqua marine park".
Me - No fucking way does he get away with this shit.
RBG - "I never knew they had an aqua marine park in Cardiff. How did you start working with Killer whales"?
OOTB - "I did my apprenticeship with sea lions then moved onto dolphins and now I'm in charge of the killer whales".
Me - That sounds almost logical shame you're a carpenter
RBG - "That's awesome, I love sea lions. If I came down to Cardiff would you show me around"?
OOTB - "No problem as long as you bend over and bark like a dog for me"!
RBG - "Pardon"?
Me - Time to go

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

Friday onwards

Took six hours to get to Liverpool Friday afternoon when the M6 shut down for some serious accident. Here's a little known fact for you, if there are 500 cars in a traffic jam and the 1st car pulls away, it would take 1 hour for the last car to start moving.
Anyhow, get to Aintree for the fourth race and have £20 on a 5/1 shot who romps home. It must have been Ladies night there and some of the women were absolutely stunning. After the racing Status Quo played a set and in fairness it was a great atmosphere. Unfortunately, it shut down about 11 ish and has Aintree is quite away out of Liverpool by the time we got back into the City centre, we ended up going in different directions. When I say we, I mean the women went one way and I ended up dodging puke and glasses in some Irish bar.
Another Irish bar on Saturday at 10.30 for the Aussie v Italy game and the Lions match. The highlight was when the story from the previous post surfaced. That and a 11/2 winner on the gee gees which paid for the weekend. Ended up in a bar called Smokie Mo's on Saturday night which was a good laugh. Plenty of women about and I ended up chatting to two nice girls. One was on a hen night and headed off about 10 ish, the other was there for the night and I put on a charm offensive. I am of course happily married though and as is often the case I end up going on some sort of death wish just when things are getting interesting. By interesting I mean bedroom bound. So come two in the morning I'm staggering back to the hotel on my lonesome wondering what I've said for her to fuck off.
Sunday was a few pints before heading back to Cardiff for a quick couple in my local and home.
Got up for work on Monday feeling like shit and just thought that I was getting to old for 16 hour drinknig sessions. I've gradually got worse over the last few days and I'm now coughing like an eighty year old ashmatic. Could be swine flu and fuck knows I've been with a few pigs in my younger days.
Been trying to bust my Full Tilt bank with no success. In actual fact I've doubled it over the last few nights. Go figure.
Am going to have some money on Tiger Woods for the US Open. He's won on the course before and is going into it after a win last week. Odds are shite, luckily he isn't.
Big thanks to everyone whose been commenting recently, catch you all soon.

Monday, 15 June 2009

What goes on tour

Stays on tour. Right?
Well, not this one because there comes a time when someone does something so galactically stupid you have to share.
Friday night in Liverpool and we've all split up and ended the evening in different clubs. Two of the guys are in this place and the one is on the dance floor with this woman getting on famously. There's a bit of kissing going on and a lot of arse grabbing and groping. At two in the morning the club ends and this guy asks the woman "where we off to now love"? She looks at him and replies "I've got to go home to bed to get some sleep, I am seventy five you know"!!!!
What the fuck was he thinking?
I wish there was photos but there aren't. I wish I had been there but i wasn't. I wish, for his sake, I was making this up but I'm not.

Friday, 12 June 2009

The Daily wit

The Daily wit is one of these guys I enjoy reading because his mind works in the same way as mine. Totally off the wall. Recently, he asked his legion of followers to come up with a story including the fifteen words and phrases below. This was quite easy for me because this actually happened on Sunday. Hope you enjoy.

1. Toothpicks
2. Revenge
3. Bears
4. Glue
5. A fifth of Jack Daniels
6. Neptune
7. A tarantula
8. Micro-lending
9. Ugandan coffee
10. Torquemada
11. Blowing bubbles
12. 12 step program(s)
13. Some college sport
14. A vacant lot
15. Radioactive isotopes

It was your average Sunday afternoon. I was sitting on the edge of the Emperor bed in the penthouse at the Dorchester. Megan (Fox) and Jessica (Alba) were cuddled up together, deep in sleep, the way you are after a ten hour sex session with yours truly. The 80 inch plasma was showing some college sport match from America. It could have been the Nashville Neptunes against the Texas Torquemedas but that would be far to fucking easy. The gentle wails of Cheryl (Cole) singing drifted in from the bathroom where she was showering. I reached for the Toothpicks. There was something in my mouth that was really starting to irritate me.
My i phone rang causing Megs and Jess to stir. I looked at the receiver and grimaced. That little dwarf fuckwit, Tom (Cruise) ringing me again. Hadn’t that short arsed twat got the message yet after he fucked me over on the Micro Lending venture when his platform shoe abomination went tits up? Chance for some revenge, I thought.
“Hi Tom” I answered, “how’s your wife and my Daughter”?
There was a brief pause before Tom went apoplectic with rage.
“Now listen to me you fat little…”.
“Yo Tom” I interrupted, “the only reason I’m fat is every time I fuck Katie she gives me a biscuit”.
Luckily Tom knows fuck all about Cricket so the put down had the desired effect. I hung up on the midget fucker and continued probing. Finally the offending article came free. I held it towards the light to inspect. A single light brown wisp of hair. I pulled the black silk sheets back on the bed to reveal the lithe naked bodies of the sleeping girls. Yep, it was definitely one of Jess’s pubes. God, that girl’s pubic region was as hairy as a bears arse. I really was going to have to give her a good waxing one of these days.
Cheryl glided in from the bathroom, naked as the day she was born. A goddess glistening, no glowing, from head to toe from moisturizer and hard sex.
“Fancy a quickie, pet” she enquired?
I entertained the thought for a mili second and declined.
“Sorry babes, I’ve got stuff to do”.
Cheryl looked genuinely miffed and who could blame her but I really did have stuff to do.
“How about a drink” she asked?
Now that did sound like a plan.
“Yeah, I’ll have a Neptune’s bollocks please babes” I replied.
“What the fuck” she retorted, “is one of those”?
If I’d explained it to her once I’d explained it four times.
“Okay, you boil some glue and catch the vapour in a tumbler. You then add in equal measures a fifth of Jack Daniels, Pasion Azteca Tequila, Diaka Vodka, a 1923 Macallan Whiskey and Babycham. Shake before pouring onto a Table spoon and snort”.
“I’ll help you make it” said Megan who was now awake. She slinked her way over to Cheryl and kissed her, cupping her right breast with one hand and gently fondling her bum with the other. Something caught my eye.
“What’s with the tattoo of a Tarantula on your shoulder Megs” I asked?
She looked over said shoulder at me, a frown appearing on her face.
“That’s not a spider that’s Snoop Doggy” she answered in a wounded sort of way.
Jess was also awake now and lent across me to pick up the remote control. She started flicking channels whilst her tongue expertly started flicking up and down the shaft of my dick. She paused on the news but not on my bell end.
“The main story today” some bird in a nice Versace jacket with little else on started, “Sophie has walked out of the Big Brother house. In an unprecedented move, Sophie packed her bags and fled in tears after Kris told her she was the worst shag he had ever had. Also in the news, Gordon Brown has resigned, the Queen has abdicated, Barack Obama was assassinated and a Nuclear warhead fired by the North Korean Army has gone into the stratosphere and exploded into the moon deflecting its orbit and it is expected to crash into the Earth some time next Saturday causing total destruction of everything on the planet. Now, back to the Big Brother house………”.
“Turn this shit off babes” I pleaded with Jess.
“But I’m watching it” she mumbled.
I patted her on the back of head, “be a good girl and don’t talk with your mouth full”.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmm” she replied and pressed mute on the gadget.
I watched the goings on in the zoo that is Big Brother. What a vacant lot of twats I thought to myself.
Cheryl passed me a spoon with a globule of Neptunes bollock on it. I took a deep breath and snorted. Immediately, tears came to my eyes and my brain fuzzed over. Megan, who was standing in front of me, had already had a snifter herself. She was coughing and wheezing and I noticed she was blowing bubbles of what looked like sperm out of her nose. I found this strangely erotic.
Cheryl rolled a joint of the finest Ugandan coffee and passed it to Megan who sparked it up. £16k a quarter but fuck me it's grade A shit. She passed it to me and I took a long drag.
Cheryl slipped on an exquisite Chanel black cocktail dress and a pair of Manolo Blahnik alligator boots.
"Going commando Cheryl" I enquired?
She gave me a dirty smile whilst hitching up her dress and inserting a couple of love beads. My dick grew an extra inch which took Jess completely by surprise.
"Got to go Rubbish" she said, quite mournfully in my opinion, "filming the X factor today".
"Usual crap"?
"No" she said "We've got this group called the Radioactive Isotopes who are incredible musicians. In fact, their music holds some healing powers and several members of the audience have commented on how their afflictions have been cured just by listening to them. Simon is a bit worried though has he thinks they've only got a shelf life of one World tour and after everyone is healed they'll disappear the same way the rest of pricks do. That might not matter mind if the World is going to end next week"
I nodded in agreement. I think Jess was as well but whatever it was she was doing it felt great.
Megan took over from Jess who immediately started quizzing Cheryl about Simon Cowell.
"What's Simon like? Is he tall? has he got a big dick? What's with those trousers he wears? What car does he drive"?
"Shut up Jess for fucks sake" I interrupted, "you're like Torquemeda on speed".
Cheryl grinned, "same time next week Rubbish" she asked?
"I can't sorry babes I've got an AA meeting to go to. Have to start my 12 step program".
"I thought the World was going to explode next Saturday and we'd all be dead" Jess asked?
I snorted another Neptunes Bollock whilst simultaneously shooting all over Megans face. "That's why I'm starting next Sunday".

Right, off to Liverpool for a weekend of debauchery. Rang the girls but they can't make it. Might play some poker next week and actually write a post about it. All the best.

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

Leeds - a City of culture

I had a comment from Pud yesterday questioning why I liked Leeds so much.
Well, in a previous job I had the great pleasure of working for the Millennium Stadium. I regularly went to Leeds for meetings with the Rugby League regarding the Challenge Cup. The first two times I went there I stayed in the Hilton by the train station. The guy I was dealing with was a really good laugh and on the third occasion of going up there he suggested I stay in his house.
Now, even though I had a top job I wasn’t a snob so I gave up my room in the Hilton for his settee. I always arranged to go to meetings on a Thursday so I could stay overnight and have a few beers, work a few hours on the Friday and then head off home.
I drove up on Thursday and did whatever. Not sure if you know where the Rugby Leagues office is Pud but it’s a place called Red Brick Hall and is a stately home type place which I believe was left to the RL by some rich benefactor. They’ve converted it into offices but it is an impressive place.
My “go to guy” in the Rugby League, Steve and I left about fourish and headed to his gaffe near Headingley where I dropped my car and gear off and made our way to his local. We ended up in Leeds City Centre in a couple of clubs before getting a taxi home.
I woke up in the middle of the night with a sore throat so chucked a T shirt on and wandered into the kitchen to get a drink. One second I’m peering into the fridge for some squash the next I’m coming to on the floor with a searing pain in my head. The only thing I can really remember is trying to focus my vision on the skirting boards. I passed out again and when I regained consciousness the second time I was aware of voices although I couldn’t register any words, just sounds. After maybe twenty seconds or so my hearing adjusted and I could hear Steve saying “Rubbish, Rubbish are you okay”? I tried to get up onto my hands and knees but couldn’t so rolled onto my side. My vision was blurred but I could make Steve out and some other guy. Steve was crouched over me and I could hear him saying “There’s an ambulance on its way, just lie there”. He lifted my head to put a cushion underneath and a shooting pain went straight through my whole body and I passed out again.
The next thing I remember is being in an ambulance with a medic shining a torch in my eyes. I was aware that I was strapped into a harness and could hear voices. A couple of hours later I came to in a hospital bed. There’s a couple of Doctors standing around and I’m thinking, shit I’ve got a brain tumour. The one Doctor starts asking how I’m feeling and crap like that. I answer a few questions then blurt out “Am I dying Doc”? He looks at me reassuringly and says “no, you’ve got a fractured skull and you’ll need to stay here for a few days but other than that you’re fine”.
I lie there for a couple of minutes thinking about this and then ask him how it happened?
Turns out that Steve hadn’t mentioned to his to lodgers that there was someone staying the night. One of them hears me rummaging about in the kitchen, thinks I’m a burglar so sneaks up behind me and twats me as hard as he can with a cricket bat! Fucking fool.
About two months later I’m back up there again, this time with reinforcements. Two of the boys who work with me come up for a spin and we stay at Steve’s who this time informs his two lodgers not to try and decapitate anyone.
The four of us hit the City Centre on the Thursday night and come closing time we’re still up for a few more beers. Steve mentions that he’s heard of this club that’s open all night so we jump in a taxi and head off. When we get there we find that it’s a Snooker club. We pay a couple of quid each to get in which I found strange and then walk through a maze of corridors before we walk into the bar area. There’s a stunning girl behind the counter and maybe it was because she was so attractive that I didn’t take in what was going on around me.
I’m stood at the bar and this girl smiles and I look along the bar and there’s no pumps. Undeterred, I ask for four pints of Cider to which she sighs and points to a vending machine and says “£1 a can”. I walk over and this vending machine, the same type as you would use for cans of coke or mars bars, is full of booze. Strongbow, Carling, Guinness, you name it; there’s a can of it in there. I chuck £4 in and get four cans of Bow and we sit around this coffee table on these low slung leather chairs. The room we’re in is quite small with a bar along one wall and two vending machines along the other. There’s a door where we’ve come in and a staircase leading up to the next floor against the back wall and the other wall has an alcove leading into the Snooker room. There are a couple of other tables in this room, one occupied by a couple of guys deep in conversation the other empty.
Steve’s talking Rugby and we start chatting about an upcoming game when these two girls walk down the stairs, slink their way past us and into the hall. Not sure how attractive they were because the four of us just stop talking and are sitting there, mouths agape, staring. The two of them had the skimpiest dresses on and had bodies to die for. We all look at each other and peer around the alcove into the snooker hall. It was only then that we noticed that half the guys in there were playing snooker wearing nothing other than towels.
I sit back in my chair and am about to say something when I notice the two guys who are sitting buy us have stopped chatting and are both staring at us. One is counting a wad of cash, maybe £10k worth; the other is nonchantly cleaning an Uzi machine gun.
I guess it dawned on us all at more or less the same second that not only were we sitting in a brothel but we were all suited up and if any four people looked more shifty in this place other than us, then we hadn’t seen them as yet.
The guy with the Uzi stands up and strolls over to us. The four of us are sitting opposite each other and he places one hand on one of the boys shoulder and the hand with the gun in on the shoulder of the one sat next to him. The gun is menacingly pointing in my general direction. He leans into the middle of us and snarls in an accent I can’t quite place “I hope you four aren’t going to cause any trouble has I’d hate to fuck your evening up”. We all nod enthusiastically and agree that we’re not going to cause any trouble and we certainly wouldn’t want our evening fucked up by his good self.
Has he stands up to walk away, one of my mates says “got any dope here mate”? I groan. This guy shakes his head, walks over to the table he’s been sat at, picks something up and walks back to us. He casually tosses a couple of joints onto our table and growls “on the house”. Has he walks away Steve says “seems like a nice guy” to which he pauses mid stride and we all flinch. After about a second he carries on to his table and sits down but not without shooting us a look which would have had an SAS squaddie shitting his pants. The rest of the night comes under the “what goes on tour stays on tour” banner but needless to say, I’m still alive so things didn’t get too out of hand.
Thinking back to Puds question about why I liked Leeds so much, after recalling these two events, I’m not quite sure now.

Monday, 8 June 2009

Liverpool, here we go again

Off to Liverpool on Friday for a stag weekend. If I had a top ten list of City’s to go out on the piss in, Liverpool would be top of the pile. Oh what the fuck, here’s my list, UK City’s only.

I’d obviously include Cardiff but has I live there I’ll give it a miss. London scrapes in at number 10 purely for weekends when Wales beat England at Rugby, though I have had some cracking days there. I’ve also had some shit times in London but who hasn’t?
Had my stag weekend in Liverpool which was a real blast. A lot of my mates were playing 1st class Rugby at the time and one of the boys in their team was getting married the week after me. Needless to say we joined forces. I should probably point out at this stage that although I play Rugby I’m very much a short arse. Before we went out on the Friday one of the boys decided that being only five foot six, I ran the risk of getting lost in a crowd. To that end I was presented with a pair of flip flops with a wedge of wood glued to the bottom. These transformed me to Six foot three but as a few of the Moms will back me up on, not very easy to walk on. I discovered this the painful way when I managed to go down the stairs in the Cavern club quicker than if I was in a bobsleigh. Luckily the bouncer saw the funny side has did a couple of young ladies who spent the rest of the evening soothing my aching bone(s).
On the Saturday myself and the other poor sap getting married strolled into this pub at eleven in the morning. The barmaid casually glanced up from reading the paper and asked what we wanted. “Fifty two pints of Cider please” was the reply. She stared at us for a few seconds and then the bar doors opened and the rest of our crew started walking in. By the time she had finished pouring the fifty second pint the empty glasses were starting to fill up the bar. For the next two and a half hours all this poor girl did was pour Cider. It got so bad they were rolling barrels up the street from the next pub. Of course, when we moved on they had to roll the barrels back down the street.
My best man couldn’t make the Friday night because of work commitments so come the obligatory drinking games on the Saturday, he was getting fined double everyone else. About nine in the evening he speed wobbled over to me and said he was going for a shower and would meet up with us in the Adelphi. We all split up and strolled on down there about tennish where the bouncers turned us away saying that they knew there was fifty of us and didn’t need the hassle. Fair point I suppose. We all ended up in different clubs where I finally collapsed and a couple of the boys took me back to the hotel around two in the morning. Sitting in the bar, pissed out of his skull is my best man. He’d gone to the Adelphi before us and they had this policy at the time where you could pay whatever you wanted to get in and they would exchange it for tokens to spend behind the bar. He paid fifty quid and then told the bouncers that there were fifty of us pitching up and they couldn’t miss us has we were all six footers other than me. What a stupid twat.
By elevenish, he realised we weren’t getting in and with fifty quid of tokens to get through he started hitting the shorts big time. Because he had come up on the Saturday he had ended up in the worst room in the hotel, a shitty little box room with nothing in it apart from a bed. Halfway through the night he woke up busting for a piss so staggered into the hallway to use the communal toilets on his landing. When he woke up in the morning he realised something was wrong when he spotted a cupboard by the side of the door. His worst fears were confirmed when some mans voice said “finally woken up have you”? My mate turns around and there’s this guy, nothing to do with us, and his wife in bed with him. The idiot has only walked back into the wrong room and collapsed on the bed. This guy had tried to wake him with no luck so they had left him there all night. Not sure I would have been so charitable had it been my wife and I in bed and some drunken fool trying to crash out with us.
A year later my mate found out just how lucky he had been. A famous Welsh Rugby player had his stag do in Liverpool and one of his friends did something similar. Unfortunately for him, he clambered into bed with a woman who was on her own. She woke up to find this guy, snoring away, with his arm around her. Naturally, she screamed the place down. The Police arrived and this guy explained what had happened. There was a bit of banter, the Police were quite cool that nothing had happened and it was all a misunderstanding. The woman, who was a lawyer, didn’t see it that way and pressed charges of attempted rape. The guy was married with kids and a decent job so, foolishly, he tried to forget it had happened. When it went to court he hired a cheap lawyer and armed with a high profile character witness turned up for what he expected to be a formality. He got sentenced to two years and his mate had to ring his wife to explain what had happened.
Luckily, his mate got the solicitor to issue an appeal straight away and then spent a small fortune on a Barrister who got the case thrown out of court in a matter of weeks. I guess there’s a moral to this story which is never do the decent thing and piss in a toilet, just piss in the corner of the room and do a runner in the morning. Either that or spend the money and get en-suite and never skimp on legal fees.
I suppose the male readers of this will think poor twat and the female readers will think he got everything he deserved and was lucky to get off on appeal. Funny old world innit?
Hopefully nothing like that happens this weekend but you never know.
Many thanks to all who left a good luck comment yesterday. With hindsight, there were a couple of hands that I should have grown a pair and got involved in.
We’d been playing about thirty minutes when, with QQ, I put in a small raise to be then re-raised all in. I had been dealt QQ the hand before and although I guess this isn’t the case, I always seem to get the cards I need one hand later. You know the scenario, 66 and the flop comes JQK then the very next hand the flop is 6 3 A. I thought long and hard before folding but now in the cold light of day I should have just pushed and prayed to Poobah the God of gamblers. Never mind, there’s always next year.
All the best folks and catch you later.

Sunday, 7 June 2009


Was going to write a long post about Liverpool which I'll probably do tomorrow. The reason for putting this off, well I've just found out that I'm in a Tournament of Champions on Full Tilt tonight. Turns out that winning one of the Brit Blogger tournies puts you into an overall tournament where the top two win $10k Vegas packages and 3rd and 4th win $2k.Game is tonight at 1am so I'm going to chill for a while and pray to the Gods to run good this one time.
Big thanks to Littleacornman for letting me know about it because no one else had.
Not feeling too confident has I don't run good on Full Tilt. In my last two blogger games I've gone out with QQ on a QJJ flop when called all in against A10 who then hit runner runner Aces. My last one saw me hit a nut fush with AdKd on a 7d8d9d board to see my opponenet turn over 1010 and hit runner runner 10's for quads.
Anyhow , will post later with the gory details, including stag do's in Liverpool and top ten cities to get pissed in.
Wish me luck.
Fucking Full Tilt. QhJd on Q Jh 5h flop. oppo bets $250 I call, 9h giving me flush draw he bets $500 i raise to $1000. Any card and I go for it other than a 10. River 10. Fuck my luck.
Gone. Stack crippled, thought one guy was trying to buy a pot when I hit middle pair so went over the top of him. He'd hit two pair. Out in 40th after 1 hour 15 minutes. Why couldn't this game be on Stars or Betfair where I do run good.
Later gators.

Friday, 5 June 2009

Played a few games of Poker this week and had a mixed bag full of results.
Fired up some STT’s on Betfair and cashed in 8 of 9 for $500 profit. Love these Super Turbos and have a great strike rate on them so fuck knows why I do not play them more often.
Also played a few MTT’s on Stars. Cashed in 3 of 4 for $70 but should have been for a lot more. Played one $11 with 4200 other saps. 680 cashed and was in the top twenty with 500 left. Unfortunately I overplayed 66 and ran into aces and then, on a 222 flop, with four in and $14k in the middle, went all in against a raise from a guy I thought was trying to buy the pot. I had 55 he turned over 77 and that crippled my stack. Finally went out in 220th for $40 when I should have had least made top fifty. Also busted out in another for minimum amount when 66 was no good against JJ.
In actual fact I’ve busted out of all the MTT’s this week with small pairs which have run into bigger ones. Maybe I’m overplaying them, something to think about next week.
I’ve given up on Full Tilt. For some reason I just cannot win on that site. The only cash I’ve had in tourneys has been the Brit Blogger game. Might just blow the remaining $s on a cash game and have done with it or run it up into something worthwhile.
Made the easiest £75 ever when I punted £100 on over 4.5 trys in the Lions match on Wednesday. Brilliant match and there’s only a few places up for grabs to my reckoning after that showing. Not sure if there are Rugby fans reading my blog but if there are what do you reckon on : Byrne; Bowe; BOD; Roberts; ?; Jones; Phillips; Jenkins; Mears; ?, POC; Jones; Croft, ?; ?.
A big game from Shane Williams could see him fill the left wing berth especially since he's had Habana in his pocket the last couple of times they've played against each other. Likewise, Adam Jones has played well against the Boks previously. Openside and number eight could be close. I’d like to see Martyn Williams in the test team but Wallace offers a totally different option in the same position. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.
Big weekend lined up with a leaving do tonight and then a Birthday bash tomorrow. Must pop up my Mums on Sunday has I haven’t seen her in a while.
Hope everyone has a cracking weekend, catch you all later.

Wrote the above in work earlier and was about to post it when I noticed a few things on my blog list. Firstly, Mo "mad dog" has now branched out into the Pokersphere has he gets a mention in Puds blog of the week post. How the fuck has that happened? Is Mo going for World domination? Should he run for Prime Minister now? Puds blog is only in the top 100 poker blogs worldwide and Mo is now going to get even more people reading his crap.
I was just about to post on his blog calling him all the bastards going when I find he's given me a big heads up with his loyal followers. So I repeat again, "Mo is the best geezer in the whole wide world, God bless his little cotton socks".
So, just for all Mo's American followers who might stumble across this piece of crap here's a few stories for you all.
My Daughter, now ten, is like a little sponge. Whatever you tell her she remembers but she then spins it out at the most inappropriate moment. She'd been in school for about a month and as I pick her up her teachers beckons me over. "You'll never guess what your daughter said today" she asks. I cringe and wait for the bombshell. The teacher recalls how she was reading the story of the Three Little Pigs to the class. She came to the part of the story where the first pig was trying to accumulate the building materials for his home. She read, "...And so the pig went up to the man with the wheelbarrow full of straw and said, "Pardon me sir, but may I have some of that straw to build my house?'" My daughters teacher then smiled and tells me that she then asks the class, "And what do you think that man said?" The light of my life turns to her mate and loud enough for the whole class to hear says, "I bet he said 'Bloody hell A talking pig!'" This of course stems from the two sausages and an egg in the frying pan joke I had told her.
Not long after that I get another summons from her teacher. She had asked my daughters class what they had done on the weekend and my babes says "My Dad and I found a dead squirrel in the park". The teacher asks her if maybe the squirrel had been sleeping to which my Daughter says "No, I pissed in his ear". The teacher now pissing herself telling me this says I then said " I'm sorry, you did what"? to which my Daughter says " you know, psst and it didn't budge".
Her finest moment though has been told already but you can read it here

Monday, 1 June 2009


Went to a car boot sale yesterday as is my want and bought another book to add to my collection of thousands. I started reading it this afternoon when I got home from work and just finished it ten minutes ago. Cover to cover in three hours.
Normally I read a book over a couple of weeks because I get bored but not this one. The book in question? Cloughie - walking on water. What a superb read.
A few things struck me though, most notably, of all the years that I can remember seeing Cloughie on TV, I couldn't remember what Peter Taylor looked like. I can remember Forest winning the European Cup, twice. I can remember John Robertson looking like the least likely footballer the planet had ever seen. He still managed to win the European Cup, twice, setting up the winner in the first and scoring the winner in the second. I can remember Larry Lloyd and Martin O'Niell and Roy Keane and Peter Shilton and Archie Gemmill and Nigel Clough but I cannot remember Peter Taylor. Go figure.
There's a couple of great passages in the book and one amazing photo of the Sunderland team photo with Cloughie standing there with a pipe in his mouth.
There's a chapter about Sir Alex and how he hadn't managed to to retain the European Cup, something which rings true even more so now. And also how Roy Keane was probably Man Utd's greatest signing. Cannot help but feel that if he had been playing other than the fuckwit Anderson then United would have won.
All in all it's probably one of the best autobiographies I've read and I wouldn't put anyone off getting their hands on it.
Talking of good reads, was absolutely gutted to read Would Be's blog today where he says he's packing it in. There's a few blogs I read religiously and his is one of them. Hope he changes his mind.
Another blog I used to read all the time was Effin Moms blog but I'm fucked if I can get on it now. It appears to be the only page where I get an Internet connection problem. If you're reading Dani, what's happening?
Played a few MTT's recently with mixed results. Won a few for a few hundred $s and lost a few to rediculous bad beats. Worst was flopping a nut flush only for my opponent to hit runner runner aces to make quads. Shit happens though and I'm up for the weekend so might as well get on with it.
Finally, big thanks to my main commenter, Mad Mo, whom I'm sure would leave a comment if I only posted "fuck off". All the best Mo and some great reads on your last few blogs. Would leave a comment on yours but you get about a million from your legion of fans.