Monday, February 27, 2006

Life is like a bowl of chips

I am back from a few days in Turkey (which was lovely). At the airport I saw a copy of Jodie Marsh's autobiography "Keeping it Real". Although it was almost £20, I couldn't resist and read it all cover to cover on the plane. Then I made my fella read out the best chapters every night while we were on holiday - he did the voices and everything.

As with Jodie's web log, I can't recommend this book enough. It's opened up a whole new, almost mythical world to me - the world of Essex, and particularly Brentwood where Jodie lives, is populated (I imagine) by girls with large breasts, long white finger-nails and blonde hair extensions, while "fit lads" roam the streets and the "paps" (papparazzis) lurk behind every car, waiting for a photo-op. It is a place of huge Footballer's Wives-style mock tudor mansions, and every other shop is a Pizza Express, Tanning Salon or B&Q. In short, its utter mundanity is what makes it so exotic. I intend to go on a pilgrimage to Brentwood...

Anyway, back to Jodie's book - which is amazing - a kind of break-neck roller-coaster through the desperate, clawing world of minor British celebrities, their bed-hopping exploits and their excesses. I recommend three chapters in particular - first, the appropriately titled "The Worst Mistake of My Life" - which describes in detail Jodie's disastrous relationship with Fran, a nightclub owner. Jodie dishes all the dirt - including Fran's alcoholism, his addiction to Viagara, the weird bumpy spots on his back and shoulders that never go away (she thinks it's down to drink, but it sounds more like anabolic steroids to me), his "disgusting" foreskin, which means she won't give him oral sex, the skirt he keeps hidden away as a memento from his former girlfriend (she surmises that he wears it in private), his infidelities and his poo-stained underwear - which she uses to humiliate him publicy. This chapter also contains reference to a rumour that Jodie used to "lick the bumhole" of one of her ex-boyfriends. Jodie never denies or confirms the rumour.

If you can stomach all that, the following chapter - "The Decision" - sees Jodie discovering she is pregnant and then deciding to have an abortion once she realises that Fran isn't interested in her. The first few pages of this chapter are very harrowing and upsetting, but turn the page and it's all forgotten and she's off to Dublin, hand-picking a male harem for the night (and then sending them home when she's bored). This chapter then goes on to detail her bizarre relationship with James Hewitt - it's all very "I've danced with a man, who's danced with a girl, who's danced with the Prince of Wales." When she kisses him, all she can think is that this man has kissed Lady Di. They send each other dirty text messages and photos - and have a night out at the posh Lancaster Gate Hotel (James has French cuisine - Jodie has a bowl of chips). Then there is a description of a mad car chase through London - terrified Jodie and James are pursued by a huge fleet of paps - who are driving dangerously close to her car. She doesn't need to say it but this is JUST LIKE LADY DI AND DODI!!!!! However, it doesn't result in an horrific accident, but instead ends in a whimper, James gets bored and leaves the club that night with another woman - Jodie realises that Chelsea and Brentwood are very different worlds and she is more comfortable table-dancing at "Funky Buddha" (a popular club apparently).

My favourite chapter though, is a kind of ethnographic study of the world of lap-dancing, early in the book when Jodie is just starting out on her heady ascent to becoming "One of the most photographed people in Britain". For 4 months she works as a lap-dancer in a London strip club. Although initially terrified, she overcomes her fear and becomes outrageously successful. It is rare to find such a coherent first-hand account of this world from the perspective of one of the dancers.

I know a lot of people mock Jodie Marsh or simply dislike her - and I can see how the book could be simply used as more evidence against her (there's an element of Alan Partridge's "needless to say, I had the last laugh" in there) - but I simply can't hate her when there is so much to love and she clearly wants to be loved so much. Who am I to deny her that, or anything else? I want her to be utterly indulged.
I want her to become the UK's biggest gay icon - an ironic joke that she herself is in on.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Twenty-First Century Man

I think I've talked about my parent's album collection and how I used to raid it as a child. As well as the Ronco Classical Music series (my parents were aspirant working class and thought that Mozart and Beethoven would provide the key to turning their children into happy citizens of social class demographic A/B - actually they were kind of right), there was also a lot of MOR stuff - The Carpenters, Cliff Richard, Diana Ross, Abba, Simon and Garfunkel, Western Movie Theme Tunes - all these and more played their part in my continuing love of bad music.

Around about 1986, bored of The Supremes, I started listening to my Dad's ELO collection. And one album in particular, Time, blew my teenage mind.

The mid-late 1980s were not a good time for young Lubin - adolescence rarely is, is it? And I spent most of my free time in some form or other of geek escapism from the mundanity and occasional horror of real life - "programming" my Spectrum 48K, playing Dungeons and Dragons, the Mogadon of watching endless sitcoms on tv, reading Stephen King novels. I was becoming increasingly obsessed with "The Future" - particularly the 21st century, which I wished I was in - I was so impatient to grow up, leave home, get a job and a boyfriend and leave the vileness of my homophobic, anti-intellectual, boring 1980s council estate far far behind.

I had bought a book called "The Third Millenium" by Brian Stableford and David Langford which was a "history" of the years 2000-3000, written from the perspective of fictional 31st century historians (who were aged 200+). It predicted all sorts of amazing things for the next 1000 years - space travel, genetic engineering of humans to create sea-people and space-people who could function in zero-gravity and had 4 arms and no legs, encounters with aliens, nuclear wars and killer viruses. At the time I didn't realise it, but the author's own preoccupations and biases with events of the time worked their way into the book - for example, it details how Buenos Aires is destroyed in a nuclear war between Brazil and Argentina (punishment perhaps for Argentina daring to got to war with the UK in the 1980s?) My more fashionable friend Ian, who had "tipped" hair and cared only for Top of the Pops, thought the book was the most boring thing in the world. But that book, along with ELO's Time Album were two things that got me through the 1980s. With its weird electropop songs like Ticket to the Moon, From the End of the World and 21st Century Man, I spent ages trying to decipher the lyrics that sounded alternatively deep then meaningless. One in particular stuck in my mind: "You can do most anything, now you're a 21st century man." I couldn't wait for it to be true.

Of course, the 21st century came along, and I got a lot of the things I'd wanted, even before it had arrived. I haven't heard Time for 20 years, but thanks to the magic of Itunes, there it is again. And it's just as crazy and silly and magical as I remember it. I'm not so desperate to live in the Future any more - it actually strikes me as an increasingly scary place to want to be. But I wish I could get a message to my 14 year old self, just to say "hang in there, generally, it will get better. Oh - and while you're at it - to save you the time, here follows a list of people you'll have absolutely no chance with..."

Monday, February 20, 2006

Take the money bitch!

I am currently addicted to the awful new game show on Channel 4, Deal or No Deal (currently becoming a global phenomenon) and hosted in the UK by Noel Edmonds. It's a painfully simply premise - there are 22 boxes, each with different sums of money in them. During each round a contestant opens some of the boxes, thus eliminating them. After each round, Noel receives a phone call from "The banker" who then offers the player a sum of money to stop playing. Invariably, the player says "No deal", and keeps opening boxes, until he/she is left with one box - which is the sum of money he/she ends up with. If you play it well you can end up with as much as £250,000 - the top prize. But more often than not, greedy players walk away with one of the more paltry sums of money - such as £10 or even 1p.

Although this is totally a game of chance and probabilities, Noel and the contestants try everything possible to inject some sort of spiritual nonsense into the proceedings. Previous contestants have relied on "positive energy" or even dead relatives in order to guide them into opening the boxes with the smaller amounts of money in them first. It is always hilarious when such entreatries to the "Spirit World" go unheeded and the hapless fools open a box with one of the "Power Five" - Noel's term for the top 5 sums of money, thus ensuring they will end up with one of the lesser amounts of cash. It is also funny-awful watching people's greed and bravado get the better of them, as they reject perfectly reasonable sums of money to go for the statistically improbable big cash prize - which they rarely get. On Saturday, some greedy sap played the game to its awful, inevitable conclusion and walked away with £10, after having earlier rejected a Deal from the banker of £20,000. Noel tried to make the most of it by telling him that "the way you played the game was fanastic!" etc, but it just didn't work. Today, another idiot rejected £40,000 and ended up with £10,000. Despite the fact that he was trying to play it cool and not look bothered, a huge vein on his forehead started to bulge, to the point where I thought his head was going to explode. A large part of the show's enjoyment is in laughing at Noel's efforts to inject drama into the proceedings - he gets angry at the Banker, he looks upset, he wears a series of garish shirts. His hair looks like it's made of polyester and then sprayed with toxic waste. I love him.

The show is filmed in Bristol, in a studio not very far from where I live. My fella wants to audition to go on it. If he is successful, that's one show I wouldn't be able to watch. But at least he would base his decisions on strict mathematical probablities and not the "energy" from some trinket left to him by his dead grandmother.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

You can never go back

Twenty five years ago, in 1981 my extended family all went on holiday to Torquay (famous for being Agatha Christie's home town and the place where Fawlty Towers was set). It was the longest journey we'd ever made and a number of notable events happened there, which made it memorable. These included seeing the BeeGees being mobbed by adoring crowds as they left a hotel, and my 6-year old sister falling into a pond while feeding ducks and nearly drowning. I became addicted to Ms Pacman in the hotel bar, and won the fruit machine jackpot of 50p (which was a lot of money to a 9 year old in those days), and then lost all my winnings again on the same machine - I've been a sworn anti-gambler ever since. Despite all this, it was a great holiday. And in many ways, I viewed Torquay as the perfect holiday resort and unconciously have been looking for its equivalent ever since - which probably explains my obsession as an adult with similar seaside resorts like Morecambe, Blackpool, Southport, Brighton, the Isle of Mann, Weston-Super-Mare and Llandudno. To me, there's something painfully beautiful about British seaside resorts - they're often a few decades behind the rest of the country so it's about as close to time travel that you can get. And that's only accentuated because I associate them with all my childhood summer holidays - when time itself seemed to stretch out like chewing gum, the weather was always hot and I was never unhappy or upset. Now, a lot of these seaside places are somewhat faded, long past their heyday, the hotels containing people claiming benefits rather than middle-class holiday makers (who have long since started taking their holidays in Spain and Greece), the proms containing screaming, binge-drinking hen and stag parties and the town centres depressing and identical. The fact it's usually raining doesn't help much either. Try as I might, all of these years I've never really been able to recapture that holiday in 1981.

Anyway, now that I live in Bristol, Torquay is about 2 hours away, and this weekend I went back there. I'm not sure what I was expecting to find. Of course, I've changed. And Torquay has changed too. Although a lot of the buildings and streets were almost exactly the same, and a few buried memories resurfaced - I remember being fascinated by the exotic yucca trees that were everywhere (Torquay has one of the mildest climates in Britain), touching one to see if it was real and a huge frond detaching itself in my hand - I felt so guilty about that. I also saw a signpost to the park where my sister had her near-drowning accident - Cockington Park, and I remembered making up a song about it after it had happened - a memory that had lain buried for a quarter of a century. I remembered my mother dispproving of a man reading The Sun (because it had topless Page 3 girls), and us being fascinated when we saw a snake on the pavement. I saw the place where the BeeGees had been mobbed and realised it wasn't a hotel after all, but the main theatre.

It rained almost all the time, and the town centre is depressing and a lot of the people looked grim and breadline poor, and I realised that Torquay had lost some of its glamour. Although maybe it was always like that and I just hadn't noticed in 1981. But despite all that, it is still achingly, breath-takingly beautiful - more beautiful than any place I have ever visited. And I can't wait to go back.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

The Tom Tom... from Hell

My fella has been wanting one of those in-car navigational systems for ages (he reckons it'll reduce the number of arguments we have when driving by about 800%), so we got a Tom Tom today. We took it out for a test-run tonight. It was reasonably accurate (although it didn't warn me to get out of a bus lane at one point). It was, however, a bit distracting having a voice suddenly interrupt your conversation to say "Bear right at the roundabout!" When we turned it on, we had a choice of voices, so we picked "Tim", who has perfect diction and speaks in a slightly weary British accent. Tim would go silent for ages during long stretches of road with no turns, making me think he was sulking, and then he would suddenly get very chatty and bossy. He felt almost like a third passenger in the car, one who was very knowledgeable about road names, and a bit posh, but not a very good conversationalist otherwise. At one point my fella agreed with Tim over something and I felt they were ganging up on me.

Because I have an over-active imagination I started thinking about putting a Tom Tom in an episode of Tales of the Unexpected. It would start with someone buying a Tom Tom and using it. But then the Tom Tom would start going a bit wrong, giving misdirections occasionally, but in a humorous way. But soon after that, the Tom Tom would start answering back and being bitchy and opinionated: "Look, I don't know why you want directions to go there anyway - she's got a new boyfriend now, why can't you get on with your life, loser!" The hapless owner car does a bit of research and finds out that his Tom Tom was in a fatal car accident 6 months ago, and the spirit of the guy who died is now living inside the Tom Tom. The episode ends, of course, with the embittered spirit causing the car to crash again. And right at the end, a new family inherit the Tom Tom, and an extra voice option appears on the options screen - belonging to the guy who had just died. Can you tell that I watched too much tv in the 70s and 80s?

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Our special day

(not a picture of me)

Regular readers may know that my recent civil partnership ceremony involved me giggling through the whole thing and ended in me scraping someone else's used confetti off the ground and throwing it over myself, followed by going out for a bag of chips. Let's just say, I'm not the sort of boy who "stands on ceremony" (I prefer to do a silly dance all over it). But as Glitter for Brains who is about to take the plunge, points out, suddenly, in a matter of days, a whole Gay Wedding Industry has sprung up out of nowhere. I'd noticed with intrigue that the media have decided to immediately abandon the term "civil partnership" in preference to wedding (even though they're not weddings really). And it suddenly struck me - that's what weddings are about these days - gay or straight - they're about getting people to spend loads of money. A wedding is the most pure expression of western capitalism that there is! The untapped commerical potential for gay weddings is ENORMOUS - think about it. All those stereotypical "fabulous" queens (who in the past have always been the bridesmaid never the bride) can now do conspicious consumption a million times better than some dumpy straight lass from Accrington. It's going to be huge, it's going to be pink, and it's going to be shiny. Or is that something that everyone's new favourite homophobe Lowri Turner would say? I was intrigued and decided to do a little research.

At Modern Commitments, they'll do everything for you, and there's the real life story of Jamie and Rogan who got married in Swallow Coulsdon Manor Hotel in Surrey. They had all their guests transported there in a 1948 double decker bus and there wasn't a dry eye (or full wallet) in the house. This is my favourite picture.

Fairy lights and a surprised looking bald man amid a Rainbow Flag backdrop. Faaaaaabulous darling! All that's missing is the feather boa and the sequinned jock strap.

Not gay enough for you? Get yourself over to Pink Wedding Days and revel in the, well, pinkness, of it all. Who decided incidentally that pink gets to be the gay colour? It's like the tackiest colour there is. What's wrong with a nice robin's egg blue or a tasteful off-white? Anyway, you can organise a "spartan stag night" and there's a picture on the site of a woman getting a massage with all these hot stones and stuff. No, I don't get it either. Fortunately, the even more gay-sounding Decadence Weddings has breathlessly announced that it'll be doing gay weddings too from now on. But will they redecorate the orgy room?

Want more pink in your wedding? How about Committed 2 Pink who write "Where to start! With such busy lives and so much information that perfect day can seem like a nightmare instead of a dream gay wedding." Oh I know. It was just like that for my gay wedding. The fights we had about for weeks beforehand about whether we should get chips or pizza. We nearly didn't go through with it.

And what about the thankyou letters you want to send out after the event? Well don't worry. You can now do it on special gay wedding stationery". "Dear Tom and Tom, thanks so much for inviting me to your gay wedding. I had a great time in the inflatable sauna you had put up in the garden afterwards. It was such a good idea to provide an STD testing booth. I found out I had syphillis and had probably infected 30 or so of the other guests. Who knew?"

I'm much more cynical, so I think I may set up my own business offering to run expensive back-on-the-razz parties for newly separated gay couples. I wonder who is going to be the first gay couple to get divorced? Oh the odd mix of pride and shame they'll feel. Happy Valentines Day kids.

Monday, February 13, 2006

I'll get you Pitstop

Stuck on a rainy Sunday with nothing much going on, I went to see teen-eye-candy-fodder Final Destination 3. Somehow I recall seeing the first two films, though not sure where or why - I think I saw number 2 in a hotel in Paris and liked it because of this...

Anyway, it passed the time. The premise in these films is that there is a huge disaster and everyone dies. Except some priggish teenager has a premonition of it all so she gets off the ride/plane/freeway, taking all her friends with her, just in time and they all cheat death. But death don't like to be cheated, so over the next few days, each of the chums dies in a freak accident - if you ever watched The Perils of Penelope Pitstop as a child, you'll like these films as death is as cunning as the Hooded Claw, devising the most complicated demises for the cute teens. However, whereas Penelope always escaped by using her powder compact to catch the sun and burn through the ropes that tied her, these kids aren't as lucky and their deaths are always very grizzly. They're also set in the "real world" of funfairs, tanning salons, weights rooms, subway stations and drive-thrus which most American teens can identify with - it's almost, but not quite kitchen-sink horror. However, you get the impression most of the fatal accidents could have been avoided if they weren't so shallow/vain/untidy/annoying. The whole film is like a huge advert for ROSPA. The camera focusses longingly on a firedoor that has been illegally and casually propped open and you know it's going to slam shut any second. It was all very cartoonish - and in fact, if you go and see the film, you can transpose every single character into a character from MTV's Daria without much trouble. There were also a couple of plot-holes (which even I got). And most sadly, the main hero wasn't this:

But this.

Oh well. Although the IMDB says he only 22, let's just say, it may be time to break out the Regaine.

Friday, February 10, 2006

It's on

Poor Ken. He hasn't had much luck lately. Dumped by Barbie and passed over for cooler toys like the obscene Bratz dolls. He doesn't even have gay icon status since the equally obscene Tom of Finland and Billy dolls came along and knocked him off the Clone Zone shelf and into the bin. But really, who could blame Barbie, the teenage girls and the gay men? After all, Ken was a bit of a minger.

But maybe all that's set to change. Ken's had an extreme makeover. Yes, the bitch is back, and as they say, it's almost as if she's never been away. Look! Look! Look! Gone is the plastic-moulded snot-coloured hair, with the uncool side parting, and in is a "real-look" thick bouffant, which can be styled with actual product. Ken's even developed a pair of cut-glass cheekbones and a 'tude that wouldn't be out of place on a cat-walk. And he's lost that innocent, goofy, doofus look.

Barbie - shallow little slut that she is, has taken one look at the new Ken and all is forgiven. Needless to say, the pair are due to "officially" announce the rekindling of their romance again on Valetine's Day. But I've heard that the filthy little madam has already been seen emerging from an old shoebox plucking (pubic) hairs out of her mouth. As for the Billy dolls - Barbie may find she's got competition - Ken is Fresh Meat, so Pretty-Boy'd better watch out they don't trap him in some dark corner of the toy box so's he can ride the Welcome Wagon (that's prison slang).

Friday, February 03, 2006

Never Trust a Man with a Moustache

Lost in London had written about Jodie Marsh's blog. I had to see it for myself and I was awful glad I did! Jodie was the first person kicked out of the celebrity Big Brother house last month. She is a glamour model who is more notorious than famous - she wore a pair of army belts across her breasts a couple of years ago and has been a tabloid face ever since. She is also known for an ongoing feud with another glamour model, Jordan. To be honest, none of this had really registered with me until lately.

I love it when "famous" people get blogs, particularly when they write their own entries and it isn't done by a starry-eyed fan. (Wouldn't it be great if we could send the internet back in time and get the likes of Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Mae West and Judy Garland to have their own blogs.) But anyway, back to Jodie. You have to enter your email address and password to access the good stuff at Jodie's blog, but I'd recommend you do it. This is Internet Gold! I spent a good hour reading and rereading her blog entries, with a growing sense of awe and amazement. The blog explains exactly why Jodie is famous. It's like the script-writers of Footballers Wives have just been ripping off her life. I love it and wish Jodie was my best friend.

While Jody is clearly a true star, she is a normal (Essex) girl at heart and her blog goes into a lot of detail about the ordinariness of everyday life. For example: 'Its 8pm and we have just polished off a box of 12 Krispy Kreme doughnuts between 5 of us.' and my favourite 'we went to B&Q and bought yet more paint for the downstairs (the masking tape we put round the walls for painting the windows ripped all the paint off the walls when we took it off - nice!).' I've had that same experience too!!! Me and Jodie, we are like - on a par or something!

There's also a lot of heart-pouring. The day before she went into the Big Brother House, Jodie wrote an inspired, longer-than-usual piece, explaining herself with this heart-breakingly frank assessment of her looks 'Yes, I have cellulite. Yes, my boobs droop a bit as they are not made from silicone. Yes, my nose is wonky and slightly on the large side. Yes I use sun-beds, which I know are not good for you, but I feel better with a tan. Yes my teeth are veneers but a TV show offered to pay the twenty grand it cost to get them done and I love them. Yes, my lips are really thin but I have a phobia of needles, otherwise I'd get them done too. Yes my voice is annoyingly deep but I can't help that. Yes, my hair is helped along with extensions and yes they fall out everywhere and annoy people but I love the way they look and hate my own thin hair. Yes, I get spots like everyone else and yes, I have love-handles. I am not stunningly beautiful.' There's so much going on there that I don't even know where to begin. She's ashamed of the body parts that she hasn't subjected to plastic surgery or some other fake procedure, but then she's also disapproving of the plastic surgery itself and has to justify why she's had certain things "done" and not others.

But the best bits of all, and what most people are probably reading Jodie for, are her on-going feuds with about a dozen other celebrities. The Big Brother experience has provided a wealth of hatred: Bullymore is vile and deranged in my opinion. Pete is the ugliest thing inside and out I've ever met, George is a dictating, un-intelligent little man (my dad always said "Never trust a man with a moustache"). Rula is a two-faced bitter old woman. Dennis sees all women as sexual objects and doesn't have much of a personality. Traci is a bit thick with no morals or opinions of her own, who would happily jump into bed with another man, despite being about to be married. Maggot is exactly that - a maggot, without brain, kindness or moral. She only liked Chantelle (and is a bit lukewarm about Preston). She reserves particular bile for Pete Burns "I'm still waking up in the middle of the night to visions of Pete's giant rubbery head looming over me" and she 'still cannot sleep at night for thoughts of being raped and beaten by three ugly old men (which is what it felt like).' You can say what you like about her, but Jodie does have a way with words.

Another of Jodie's long-standing wars is with Rebekah Wade, editor of Britain's best-selling newspaper The Sun. According to Jodie, Rebekah hates her and has refused to print anything nice about her. Jodie eloquently writes 'this is a paper that a few days ago called me a "grotty glamour girl". The editor of said rag is a feminist ginger bitch, ugly as sin, who alledgedly beats up her own bloke. Who the hell are they to call ME "grotty". Her 3rd November entry is possibly her best ever, where she gloats over the fact that Rebekah Wade was arrested for allegedly beating up her hunky husband Ross Kemp. ' I'm glad you've been caught Rebekah cos you're a cow. I've done nothing to deserve the abuse and lack of help I get from your paper. And if you really did hit the gorgeous Ross then you don't deserve him anyway.' Jodie also kindly offers her help to Ross: 'As for you Ross, if you have experienced Domestic violence on any level whatsoever, you can always call me, or Refuge for advice.' You know what, I wish he had taken her up on that offer.

There is so much more of this site to explore that I haven't even begun to scratch the surface yet. Thank you God for Jodie Marsh. I guess, in the unlikely event that I ever got to be her best friend, I would advise her to accept that if she wants to be a celebrity, she needs to take the vile tabloid abuse with good grace - because that's how it works. Nobody gets to be famous any more for being liked. And to stop the fueding, because it puts her in an even worse light. However, it's her ongoing battles that make her so fascinating. Who would care a toss if she got on with Jordan? Maybe it's all a scam and they're really good friends and the feud is simply there to keep them both in the public eye. Actually, I hope so. Because it would imply she's much more in control of her destiny. And I hate to think of girls with really large breasts fighting.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

A bad day (or 101 things I hate)

I wake up early (1) because I forgot to turn my mobile phone off the night before and now it is beeping every few seconds to tell me it has a low battery. Opening the curtains, the bad weather (2) makes it look like midnight. I stagger to the bathroom and a look in the mirror tells me that my hair is sticking up all over the place (3) because I slept on my side, and I've developed an unpleasant zit on my chin (4). So much for oily skin. I also realise that I've got an agonising mouth ulcer (5) in the night, which will taunt me for the next ten days. Oh well.

In the kitchen, the only cereal that's left is cardboard-flavoured Special K (6) which won't fill me up. The milk has gone sour (7), reflecting my growing mood. My thoughtful cat has also taken special care to do a huge sloppy shit in his litter tray (8) and now the whole thing will have to be cleaned out. I decide to go out for breakfast and deal with it all later. I approach a zebra crossing and some idiot driving a car with personalised number plates (9) who's going over the speed limit whizzes past, making me jump back on the pavement (10). And it's raining (11). Once I get to the coffee shop there is an enormous queue (12) in front of me. There are several women all buying hot chocolates with extra whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles (13), as well as numerous men in suits getting stupid, frothy cappachinos (14), which all means there go a few more wasted minutes of my life that I'll never get back. As if on cue, everyone in the coffee shop gets out their mobile phone and starts to talk on it (15). I finally get my drink, which is expensive and vile (16) and have to sit on an uncomfortable chair in a corner because all the nice sofas are taken up (17), sulking. A woman nearby suddenly starts to cough everywhere, without bothering to cover her mouth (18), so I can probably add Asian Bird Flu (19) to my growing list of ailments. Soon I can barely stand the boring conversations (20) around me, so I get up to leave, stopping off at the loo (except it's out of order (21)), so I just have to go home.

I sense it's going to be a bad day so I decide to stay in and watch tv. Except my over-sensitive Tivo has screwed up and taped 6 hours of sport (22) instead of the fun stuff I wanted to watch. The phone rings and it's someone trying to sell me the Sports Channel (23), which is ironic. I also gave myself an electric shock (24) via my over-plush carpet, in getting up to answer the phone. I sink back down and flick through the tv channels, noting with horror a five hour documentary on Dennis Rodman (25), while other channels are showing the Crazy Frog (26), rap music (27), R&B, (28) Pokemon (29), and endless adverts (30). Suddenly there is a power surge and all the light bulbs go out (31) which means they'll all need replacing and I will have to go out again. As it is still raining I get in my car and instantly join a hateful grid-locked queue (32) where I will wait in the same spot for the next 45 minutes. What a moment to need the loo (33). The cheesy local radio presenter (34) drives me insane, particularly when he does a phone-in (35) with housebound imbeciles who are all either racist (36) and/or clinically depressed. Finally I get to a supermarket and spend another 20 minutes finding a parking space, witnessing several instances of "car rage" (37) as people squabble because there aren't enough spaces. In the supermarket a greeter says "Hi, how are you!" (38) as I enter. I scowl and try to ignore her, but basic politeness kicks in and I have to respond. Of course, the supermarket is out of the lightbulbs I need (39) so the whole journey was for nothing. On the way out a beggar insults me because I won't give him money (40) and some teenagers wearing burberry baseball caps (41) make fun of the way I walk (42). I decide that since I am in town, I may as well get some lunch, so enter a depressing, overheated indoor shopping centre (43) which is full of my least favourite shops (River Island (44), KwicSave (45), Game (46), Greggs (47) and McDonalds (48)). Some poor sod is dressed up as Ronald Fucking McDonald (49) for some naff promotion and I hurry away without looking back. The crowds (50) are in force and I get swept along with the flow. In order to block out the noise I reach for my Ipod, but the battery has run down (51). All the food places are full and besides, they look disgusting so I grab a bag of chips which I eat outside, burning my mouth (52) and also biting my lip (53) in the process. Now my fingers and face will smell of vinegar and chip fat (54) until I can find somewhere to wash it off. Suddenly, an old woman in a mobility cart (55) runs over my feet - bitch! She doesn't even apologise.

I go into HMV to buy a DVD to watch later that evening, but the whole place is over-run with school-children (56) who smell of piss (57) and are intent on shop-lifting (58). I realise that several DVDs I bought last week and have not yet watched, have now been reduced in price from £20 to £5 (59). Also, the DVD I want is sold out so I settle for something I'm not that bothered about. After another interminable queue, the bored shop assistant tells me that my card has been declined (60) and then takes it off into a back room for 5 full minutes, where I'm sure he's copying down all the information in order to use it illegally later (61). Eventually he comes back and I can pay for my stupid DVD that I don't even want. On the way out, I set off the store alarm (62) and everyone looks at me, pleased (63) like I'm a shop-lifter and they're glad I got caught. I decide to make a joke out of it and say "Yeah, ya got me", but the security guard doesn't react at all (64). Once outside, I realise both of my shoelaces are undone (65) and I will have to stop and bend over and fasten them in front of everyone (66).

When I get home again, I check my email and have 2000 spam emails (67). Someone has sent me one of those naff e-cards (68) which I refuse to look at, and my computer is showing signs of a virus (69) as windows advertising viagara and lesbian porn keep popping up, unasked for (70). Another of my friends has sent me one of those circular emails containing a dull joke (71), which she's also sent to about 100 other people, and they've all replied to her, including everyone else in the correspondence (72). Do I look like I care about the opinions of people who find these sorts of things funny? For some reason, my internet connection is going painfully slowly (73) and I almost chew my hand off in frustration and impatience. I decide to check the mail, and sort through a big pile of unwanted advertising (74) before I get to a few bills (75). At least the newspaper has been delivered, although it is a depressing mess, with the main stories about child murder (76), greenhouse gases (77), George Bush (78) and homophobia in the Catholic Church (79). It also looks as if Jim Broadbent (80) has another film out. I try to do the crossword and can only do about a quarter of it (81) which makes me feel dull-witted. And the pen has leaked ink all over my hand when I wasn't looking (82).

It is time to eat again, so I go in the kitchen and realise that the only thing I have in is chips, which means I'll have to eat the same meal all over again (83). I am a hopeless cook and end up burning the chips in the oven (84) so they go black, but I decide to eat them anyway. The bread is a week old and covered in blue fungus (85) so I am too scared to eat it incase it makes me ill. The doorbell rings so I go to answer it, only to discover it is a particularly pushy and insistent pair of Jehovas Witnesses who will not let me alone (86). After ten minutes of trying to get rid of them, they give up and go away. Once they've gone I immediately think of about twenty witty things I could have said to them (87). And back in the living room, my dinner has gone cold (88) and the cat is sitting in the middle of the plate, with a big shit-eating grin on his face (89). The only other things in the fridge are coleslaw (90), gherkins (91), mustard (92) and hot cross buns (93). So it looks like I'll be going to bed hungry (94).

I decide to put an end to this awful day and go to bed early (95). However, the events of the day keep playing in my head and I can't sleep (96). The clock says 3 am and I am still awake (97). Just as I'm falling asleep, a crowd of drunk students (98) walks past the house singing the current Number 1 Chart hit (99) tunelessly, before descending into gak-gak-gak laughter (100). Then I hear a scratching noise outside and become convinced it is someone trying to break in (101). Will this fucking day ever end?