There Ought To Be A Law... (1)

...against talking in toilet cubicles. Against talking in the gents altogether. I say "in the gents" because my female readers may have a different perspective on this, at least if we're to accept that old "women always go to the loo in pairs" cliche. I don't know, maybe powdering one's nose is more pf a social function if you're a lady in the ladies. But in the gents, I really must insist on silence.

As I've probably mentioned before, I don't use urinals. I'm not getting into all the different reasons why right now, but if I'm about my business in a cubicle I really don't want to be disturbed by conversation. There are four kinds of Men's Room Conversation, and I frown upon them all equally...

1) Talking to your mates. Blokes who choose to converse over the urinals, or, worse still, between stalls often use such opportunity to demonstrate the very worse traits of our gender. They make lewd, sexist or even racist remarks, take the piss out of each other's shortcomings, or scrape the barrel with a fart joke. There is a place for everything, but by my reckoning only one fart joke in every hundred is actually funny, the other 99 are just crass and unnecessary. Just like bragging in the boys' bogs.

2) Talking to small children. I understand that accompanying your scrappy urchin to the lavatory is an unpleasant necessity for many parentals... but not in the cubicle next to mine, puh-lease! There's something rather squalid about hearing an adult encourage their youngling to go poopy in a close, confined space. Or is this just me?

3) Talking on your mobile phone. God save me from those people you hear enter the loos, proceed to a cubicle, unbutton and relieve themselves, rebutton, flush and exit (without washing their hands) while maintaining a telephone conversation the whole time. And I do so pity the poor fool on the other end of the line.

I suppose I have to include the future Doctor Who Christopher Eccleston in this rule, who I once discovered having at lengthy conversation with his agent in the cubicle next to mine at The West Yorkshire Playhouse. Maybe he wasn't actually using the loo. It's feasible he'd just ducked in there for a private chat away from gawking, starstruck members of the public... but it still put me right off my game.

4) Talking to strangers. Unless you're George Michael, or you're engaged in similar interests, I can't imagine any good reason for attempting to strike up a conversation with a total stranger in the shrine to scatology. Gregarious strangers are annoying in normal, everyday circumstances... in the gents, they're downright disturbing.

OK. Rant over for today. You can go about your business now. Any comments you might want to leave, please write them on the cubicle wall. I'll read them later. Or leave your phone number so we can have a chat...

There's Always Someone Cooler Than You

So on Saturday night me and Dave spent £25 each on a pair of tickets to see Craig talk to his girlfriend, live at the Sheffield Academy. Craig's a particularly talented young performance artist, able to hold a pint of beer in each hand while telling hilarious stories about all the amazing things that have happened to him on Facebook (Yes... On. Facebook.)

On Saturday though, Craig found himself having to compete with a fucking musician - Ben Folds, you might have heard of him, some American piano playing geek - and his band, who'd taken it upon themselves to pitch up at the same venue and start playing songs on the stage while Craig was telling his hilarious Facebook stories. As a result, Craig had to shout to be heard over the top of this inconsiderate yank and many of Craig's audience didn't catch the subtle nuances of his drunken ramble profound storytelling.

Dave and I were lucky though, we'd found the best place in the house - Craig and his insipid girlfriend were standing right behind us! That's like front row seats - and we didn't have to pay any extra! Unfortunately, as the show progressed, Dave decided he'd rather listen to Ben Folds sing his witty, heartfelt songs than Craig go on and on about how he refused to accept Trevor's Friend Request, so we had to move away from the performance area and closer to the stage where Folds was giving it his all, Jerry Lee Lewising the piano for all his worth, making up songs on the spot from lyrics given to him by members of the audience, covering The Divine Comedy and Kansas (though not, sadly, playing Belinda or Doc Pomus) and generally being one of the most energetic, passionate and creative live acts you'll ever see...

...but still not a patch on Facebook Craig.

The Race Is On

Something is getting on my nerves lately.

Well, something new. All the old things are still getting on my nerves too, but this is one I haven't noticed before - or that I'm noticing with far more frequency.



I've always been a fast walker. If ever I go for a walk with Louise, she always asks me to slow down. It's not like I'm in a hurry to get anywhere, I just have a naturally fast pace. I don't like walking slowly, unless I'm stopping to admire the view, and let's face it - in Bradford, there's no view to admire.

So when I walk across town for my daily caffeine fix, I'm used to passing most of the people who are going in my direction. Because most people walk slower than me. And that's fine. I don't barge them out of the way like Richard Ashcroft, I just step around them and carry on my mission.

But lately, more and more people seem unwilling to let me pass. Instead they start to speed up, to match my pace, or even get ahead. They want to race. Which in turn makes me walk even faster. Till we're virtually sprinting through the centre of Bradford like the winner gets Cafe Nero's last ever Americano, and the loser dies of caffeine withdrawal. Only they're not even going for a coffee... they just don't want me to get ahead.

Look, I don't ask for much out of life. But if I want to walk past you - please just let me walk past you. It isn't a race. There isn't a prize. This is just my natural pace and I don't like following you. Who does it hurt?

Actually, thinking about this, it's just one more nail in my mid-life coffin. I know why it's happening. It's because I'm getting old, isn't it? It's because those damned young people can't face the fact that a soon-to-be 39 year-old fogey has a quicker step than them. And it's only going to get worse, and more frustrating, and drag me further still into a trough of despond... with every passing year.

There's nothing else for it. I'm gonna have to get a segway.

The Good, The Badly & The Ugly

In which I end up walking out of a gig after a blazing row over a mobile phone...


You know how most gigs start out a bit rubbish, with a lacklustre support act, then gradually improve as the artist you've come to see plays all their new songs before working up to an amazing greatest finale hits finale that sends you home on a high?

Friday night was a gig in reverse.

It began with the best support act I've seen in donkey's ages, The Candle Thieves, just two young lads with guitar and keyboard, yet they filled the venue with their quirky, Eels-influenced-but-poppier, songs and their big-hearted bravado. For one song, Stars, lead Thief Scott McEwan unplugged his guitar and walked around the quarter-full audience, singing as he went. After that, the Candle Thieves had us. I bet they sold a lot of CDs from the merch stand that night; I certainly bought one.

After this, the headliner had a lot to live up to. Badly Drawn Boy's whole act however is one of ramshackle can't-be-arsedness. This is amusing for a while, and certainly on his opening acoustic set wherein he played a number of his biggest songs (occasionally accompanied by his 10 year old daughter, which even I found sweet) he looked liked he was going to deliver the performance we'd all been revved up for. The problems began when he invited on the rest of his band. The whole "they'll wander on and start playing as they feel like it in the middle of the song" routine felt contrived, and the band brought little to his act. The new album is a slowburner, but too often its delicate tunes just turned to mud and even Mr. Gough himself seemed unhappy with the way it was sounding, eventually calling for a half-arsed "fag break" interval right when any other act would be switching up a gear to the show-stoppers. Maybe they came back on and tore the roof off... I'll never know.

Because, midway through BDB's act, I became distracted by the woman next to me who was having a long text conversation on her phone. I mean, a LONG text conversation - it went on for over two songs by the time I'd finally had enough. She had one of those phones that double as lighthouses when you switch them on and her texting was illuminating the whole row.

Finally, I couldn't take it any more. I turned to her and, polite as I could manage, asked if she wouldn't mind switching her phone off as all I could see was the light.

"I was just sending a very important text to someone who's in hospital," she tried to explain. I shrugged - if it's that important, why not take it outside the auditorium rather than disturb everyone else and disrespect the performer? - but as she acquiesced and turned the phone off I said nothing more and carried on watching the show. As far as I was concerned, the matter was settled.

I've watched enough Curb Your Enthusiasm to know things are rarely that simple...

As BDB called fag-break, we took a moment to stretch our legs and use the loo. On returning to our seats, the woman with the phone decided to have her say.

"You were very rude to me," she said, "are you going to apologise?"

I explained that as far as I was concerned it was far more rude to spend ten minutes lighting up the whole venue with a phone...

"It wasn't ten minutes."

"It was over two songs!"

"It was two songs. And I explained that I had to send an important message to someone in hospital. And I apologised. But you were rude and you didn't apologise."

I began telling her I didn't see how I had anything to apologise for...

...which is when her son turned up.

"Is there a problem here?"

"There's no problem," I told him.

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR OPINION!" he shouted, pointing an aggressive finger in my face, at which point they both started on me.

So we left. It seemed the easiest option, rather than trying to argue my case. It was after 10 and Badly hadn't built up enough good will for me to want to stick around and put up with this abuse. I was furious...

...but afterwards, I started to wonder: was I in the wrong? As hostile as he'd acted, I couldn't really blame the son. He'd come back in to see what he thought was me having another go at his mum. He wasn't to know that it was her who'd started the exchange. If I saw someone having a go at my mum, I'd probably have been similarly incensed. But did this woman really deserve an apology? I'd restrained my original request to a polite "would you mind...?" rather than the "TURN THAT FLIPPING THING OFF!" I'd been feeling, and I'd made no more of it after she finished her texting. She may well have been worried about a relative in hospital - but not worried enough to cancel her evening out, or even to step outside the auditorium to send her messages. And I wasn't the only one getting annoyed by the light from her phone. But should I have said nothing? Or should I have dropped to my knees in supplication at the very mention of a sick relative? Is it just me? Do you think I was in the wrong?

Top Ten People I Don't Want To Follow On Twitter

Twitter has started helpfully suggesting people I might like to follow, presumably based on the people I already follow. Some of these suggestions are making me angry. Very angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry...

This blog post is rated 15. Contains images of a disturbing nature and one instance of *very* strong language. Don't say you weren't warned.

10. Derren Brown - smug conjurer who really ought to spell his name with an 'a'.

9. Rich Johnson - arrogant, self-important comics gossip-columnist boob who takes special joy in pointing out errors of subbing, proofreading, continuity et al. Not itself a crime unless one makes far more basic errors oneself - such as not knowing how to spell Electro or that The Lizard was never a member of The Sinister Six.

8. Ashton Kutcher - for this, Demi ditched Bruce?

7. Fearne Cotton - DJ. Makes Jo Whiley sound interesting.

6. Neil Gaiman - ridiculously arrogant "rock star" writer who poses for author photographs dressed in leathers and riding a Harley - which is fine if you're Jim Steinman, but not if you specialise in fey goth-centred gibberish in which every one of your characters goes on endlessly about "the mystical power of stories". I'm sorry, I know you like him. Try not to hate me too much for disagreeing with you.

5. Jim Carrey - gurning "comedy" twat.

4. Russell Brand - another so-called comedian (yes, yes, humour is subjective, blah blah) whose comedy seems based entirely on a) his silly voice, b) his stupid hair, and c) his ridiculous sex-life; career-building popstar husband; and the man who singlehandedly ruined Radio 2 (by bragging about the fact that he once shagged Manuel's daughter, upsetting the Daily Mail, and bringing about the resignation of Programme Controller Lesley Douglas, leading to her replacement by someone who quite clearly doesn't have a clue what he's doing). Yes, he likes Morrissey, but he's still a tosser.

3. Mark Millar - ego-maniacal comics writer who is excellent at writing about how excellent he is... not so excellent at writing comics that don't rely heavily on clichéd shock value, unnecessary cynicism, and sub-Arnie one-liners.

2. Chris Evans* - DJ. Cunt.

1. Tom Hanks - Gump**.




*No, not Captain America.

**I did warn you I was going to use the 'G' word.

You Have The Right To Remain Misanthropic

According to the Association of Chief Police Officers, I could very well be a Menace To Society. In a recent radio advertising campaign*, these top cops highlighted certain types of behaviour the public ought to be vigilant about... after all, you never know when there might be a potential terrorist in your midst.

"The man at the end of the street doesn't talk to his neighbours much, because he likes to keep himself to himself."

Or maybe he just thinks his neighbours are annoying?

"He pays with cash because he doesn't have a bank card..."

Or perhaps he can't remember his pin number?

"...and he keeps his curtains closed because his house is on a bus route."

What, you'd prefer he was an exhibitionist? Free live nude shows for the kids passing on the bus? Is that what you're suggesting? Oh, no, wait, my bad - we're not supposed to walk around naked in our own homes, are we?

"This may mean nothing, but together it could all add up to you having suspicions."

Or it could mean you're a nosey-parker busy-body with far too much time on your hands.


But wait, the foremost fuzz aren't done yet...

"The man two desks down from you at work looks at online aerial photos, because he's thinking of moving house."

Or perhaps he's building a missile in his cellar?

"He rents three lockups, full of his mother's things he just can't throw out."

But what about that fourth lock-up, the one his mother's decomposing corpse is locked in?

"He paid for a flight with cash, but that's because he's a spontaneous kind of guy..."

Or maybe he was in a desperate hurry to get away from his prying, judgmental (or just plain mental) colleagues?


In short: being vaguely antisocial, minding your own business, and keeping yourself to yourself is the new blowing up airports. Lock me up and throw away the key. Just don't expect me to make polite smalltalk with my cellmates...




*I keep telling you: radio advertising... that's the real menace to society.

People - Don't You Just Love 'Em?

You know when you send somebody an email containing two questions and they only reply to the first? How annoying is that? Like they've lost interest after the first question. Fuckers. (It's OK, the individual in question is a friend. I'm sure he won't mind me calling him a fucker.)

My sister goes to the dentist. As she arrives, there's a couple in front of her heading from the waiting room to the surgery. "I know you're not looking forward to this," says the husband, "but try to be brave."

After a few minutes, terrible screams begin to issue from the surgery. These continue for the next hour while my sister waits for her own - now long-delayed - appointment. Just as she's about to explain to the receptionist that she can't wait any longer - she's late enough for work as it is - another man comes in for his appointment.

"The dentist is running behind today, you'll have a long wait," says the receptionist, with no hint of an apology.

"OK," says the man, "I'll just pop out and tell my wife so she doesn't wonder where I am. She's waiting in the car."

"LEAVE THIS RECEPTION," screams the receptionist, "AND YOU WILL LOSE YOUR APPOINTMENT!" ('Also your head and your bollocks', is understood.)

From the surgery, the screams continue.

Louise gets on the train. The carriage is crowded, but there's one free space next to a woman who's put her bag on the seat. Louise goes to ask the woman to move her bag so she can sit down.

"Sorry," says the woman, "I'm saving this seat for my husband. He stood back to allow the ladies to get on first."

Chivalrous enough to allow the ladies to get on first, but not enough to let them have his seat.

I have an argument in Morrisons. I go in to buy cat litter and make the mistake of trying to enter via the automated check-outs rather than the "official" entrance. The woman policing the automated check-outs makes me go back and walk all the way around, like my headmaster used to if I was running in the school corridor.

I fetch my cat litter and return to the automated check-out. On the screen it says: "To begin, touch the screen or scan your product."

I scan the product.

Nothing happens.

I scan it again.

The woman I had the earlier altercation with rushes over and with a huge sigh says, "you have to touch the screen to start!" ('Moron!' is understood.)

"But that's not what it says on the screen," I point out.

"You have to touch the screen to start," she repeats.

"But it says 'To begin, touch the screen OR scan your product.'"

"You have to touch the screen to start," she repeats, like the Computer Says zombie from Little Britain.

"That's not what it says."

"You have to touch the screen to start."

"'OR scan your product' - it says 'OR'!"

"You have to touch the screen to start."

This continues on a perpetual loop until civilization has crashed around us, ivy is growing through the floor, and the cat litter I'm holding has become fossilized charcoal.

It may still be going on. Sitting here typing this post might just be a dream.