The Last Post (on Blogger anyways!)

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Bugger me!

Not a true post today.
Being my narcissistic self, I do search for my name on a weekly basis to see if I'm popular (I'm not) or a Googlewhack (I am)!

The comedian and write Dave Gorman made a TV show regarding this after receiving an email from a fellow Googlewhack after his first series, "My name is Dave Gorman" was televised.

Where as the true definition of the term is two words found in a common English dictionary entered into the google.com search engine that will return exactly one result, my name isn't exactly dictionary material. Plus, Google asks if I meant Alan Average - a preposterous notion.

But then, Gorman isn't in the dictionary and if he can make a six part series about the fact that he is a Googlewhack, I can do what I bloody well please on my blog!

Right, off to work.

20/4 And the world grinds to a halt. Again.

So, things have been a little better since the last post. UK History was made with the arrival of the Election Debates with probably the most ironic title sequence I'd seen since "The Day Today" or "Brass Eye". I was waiting for a proper historic moment that could be analysed over and over again like the Zapruder film ("back and to the left") but it turned out to be a rather weak affair.

For about twenty minutes.

Then it all started to change and Mr Yellow started edging out in front of Mr Red and Mr Blue and stayed out in front, trading off on the squabbles that Red and Blue thought would derail each other.

And then a volcano erupts and spews out a plume of ash that engulfs the European air space and grounds all flights in what seems to be twelve hour increments ("until at least one o'clock tomorrow morning").

Neeson is in Thailand having decided that he wants to get into wholesale furniture importing and was due back yesterday but cannot get a flight into the UK. He's trying to source an alternate method by selling off his supply of legal highs he acquired now that Methadrone has been made illegal.

So, I can't talk to him for at least another week. I'm bored and need to talk politics - something he knows fuck-all about but it'll both make us feel better to bitch about everyone involved.

I'm not political and, apparently, I'm one of ten million people who tuned in because they don't know what the bloody hell is going on. All they know is they fancy a bourbon over a custard cream without getting crumbs all over the place.

I still don't know what to do as it's now become an election of celebrity. "Elex-Factor". I hate X Factor but, if Simon Cowell gets Gordon Brown to sing "I Will Survive", I may just endure another five years...

Ooh - while I remember, Radio Four is playing a great little series on Friday mornings. A chap called David Sedaris sharing short semi-autobiographical stories of his life and family. It's wonderful stuff and I have found a number of audio books on a certain fruits ubiquitous music library. I recommend a listen - especiallay to all those people who can't get home at the moment.

TTFN

12/4 Ramblings

I'm not dead, just busy.

Manic at work but found the time to visit a secret nuclear bunker near Kelvedon in Essex. I don't feel like I'm giving any hints to any one of our opposing forces because if you are driving along the a128, you will come across the bloody great signs for it before too long.

It's alarming that this was only decommissioned and sold on in 1994. Inside harks back to Cold War tensions and specific intelligence marking out target sites in the UK. Scary that London, Nottingham and Leeds would all get hit twice just to make sure. But then, if you know London, Nottingham and Leeds...

The guide tape was actually rather amusing considering the fact that, should we go nuclear in the future, we will die from either the initial impact, the explosion, the blast, the fallout, the radiation sickness, hunger, lethargy or roving gangs of looters and pillagers (all with radiation sickness).

I managed to get Mel Gibson's phone number - think I'll ask if I can move in with him should it all go tits up...

6/4 Back to Work

Well, I'm made up! In the car by eight this morning and a phone call to Neeson, half an hour later. I was going to mention my cock but was spared the indignity as he has to have a camera shoved up his bottom.

I'll spare you the details. Needless to say that the conversation was rather graphic and included all sorts of bowel movements. The amount of Red Bull the guy drinks, I'm surprised his intestines haven't prolapsed already!

The rest of the journey wasn't too bad and I chuckled along with Mr. Humphries on Radio 4 as he tore into Neil Kinnock, or Lord Kinnock as he kept reminding everyone. Work was the usual heady mix of phone calls and emails and I was doubly made up to receive two orders in the space of twenty minutes negating the necessity to work any harder for the rest of the day!

Trying to finish Spider Solitaire with two cards within 108 moves has been a target for nearly three weeks now. Still not achieved it.

Back in the car, the General Election was announced which has put everyone in the country in a complete mess. Now everybody cannot make up their minds between butter or margarine, milk or gravy, syphilis or fellatio and the Ménage à trois that is the Labour, Conservative and Liberal parties and their subsequent spin. The worst possible outcome is the "hung" parliament - essentially where all three turn up at a swingers party and, instead of doing any fucking, they sit around comparing knob sizes.

Still, at least I don't have to have anything up my rectum in the near future... not until the next government gets in.

5/4 Easter Weekend - is it Monday already!?

DIY.

Fucking DIY.

In an ideal world, you would be able to click your fingers and the job will be finished and, due to the actual clicking of said fingers, you would feel like you have accomplished something. My finger-clicking was nonexistent this weekend as, after much deliberation, I decided to clean the soffits and clear out the guttering.

It's a shame that this statement isn't a risque double entendre describing some sort of carnal act that is banned in most countries. No, I actually opted to do some hard graft and make the house look a bit presentable. I thought that, if I blind people with a whiter-than-white gloss finish to the front of the house, it would hide the shit-hole that lurked behind the front door.

If I could have one thing on my headstone when I die, it would be "Never use a 'paint-on' paint remover without the prescribed list of personal protective equipment"! I know that's probably a bit long but I'd get a discount on the "P"s. This stuff is lethal. As soon as there was a slight spillage that ended up over my (rubber) gloves, there would be a subsequent burning sensation which eked me along further. I'm guessing it's the only reason I managed to finish the front of the house in two days.

I have blotchy red hands, aching wrists and arms, tired legs and a slight headache from inhaling paint fumes. All in the name of saving money. I'm thinking about all the expensive hospital bills in years to come and just paying someone to do this sort of work for me in future.

Chance will be a fine thing. I did win a tenner on the lottery this month which will pay for next months supply I suppose. I've never been a gambling man - sport, horses, dogs... you name it, I'll ignore you and look the other way. However, fruit machines have a tendency to blink in a way that makes them sexually attractive and I just love shoving hard cash into their filthy slots.

I needed to spend a penny whilst out on a survey last week and had to use a bookmakers. They did their best as I walked past those glamorous cash-hungry computer prostitutes, blinking £500 jackpots and the 92% payout chances. I wasn't having any of it. I went to the loo and even bought a cup of tea as a goodwill gesture to the shop owner. Finishing my pee and walking back towards the exit, I felt my change jangle in an alarmingly unusual way and accidentally pushed the now jubilant coins in the direction of the closest machine to me.

Lights flashed, computer programs rolled and the chance machine balked and laughed at my poor misfortunate currency as it gobbled it down. Then something weird happened. I'm not sure if the machine had a virus or it was expecting someone else but it flagged up the big game and, all of a sudden I was printing out a receipt with £200.00 and walking back to the counter. I'm pretty sure there was a sincere expression of hate as the bookmaker counted out eight twenty pound notes, two ten pound notes, two five pound notes and ten pound coins. The cheeky twat. The coins paid for my parking and a Tower Fillet burger.

Which brings me onto South Park! The funniest episode I have seen in a long time and I'm certain they write, make and show it in a two week turnaround. This particular show had references into the sick bastard priest who abused up to 200 deaf boys in the seventies and eighties. They didn't hear him coming, obviously! This coupled with a KFC/ Scarface sub plot, Randy getting cancer on purpose so he can buy medicinal weed legally and using his testicular cancer ridden balls as a means of transport made me laugh so hard I felt that twinge in my groin again. Need to check that out...

Lastly, I've eaten enough food this weekend to live on for two weeks so the diet is back in full swing on tuesday. I've had a shitty cold which has stopped me going to the gym and I'm hoping that will be gone by the middle of the week so I can return to using their power showers and not my horrible dribbly luke-warm excuse for a shower.

Work tomorrow... New month, new target and new set of problems. Still, Neeson will be on hand to cheer me up - maybe I should ask him about my balls?

2/4 Goooood Friday

Nice relaxing morning watching shite movies from Sky+ box and trying to get my free space up past 10% again just in case I decide that The Pacific is worth recording.

Penny and I don't usually watch television ever since we moved all the entertainment into a specific room and, when we do find ourselves eating from a tray in the cinema, it's usually something we've already recorded. I feel so elitist with HD - none of the other channels get a look in! Just click guide, move to the HD tab and scroll! Fuck normal telly! Except Comedy Central. Hurry up and go HD you cheap bastards!

Of course, every time we speak to someone they will invariably ask if we watched the latest pile of excrement on the "prole" channels. I say "no" and nod in disgust. Four times the picture quality DOES make a difference, I don't care what anybody says!

So a couple of crap movies aside, this weekend has started well. Dinner at the in-laws, cheesecake and a dull ache to the right of my groin. Superb.

Erm... wonder if I should get that checked?

1/4 There were no decent April Fools gags in the media today.

I'm Alan Verage and, as indicated in My First Post, I am a reasonably normal person. My name isn’t even a Googlewhack as of today and this is probably the most remarkable thing about me.

“Your search - "alan verage" - did not match any documents.”!

Wow.

I don’t listen to BBC Radio One and haven’t in years as the incessant voices of cool hip people who, in most cases, are older than me, just aggravate the fact that I already think that music is too loud. I suddenly went from cucumber to square and love listening to the current affairs on Radio Four. When John Humphries is accosting some poor politician (“poor” being an ironic slur), I laugh along jauntily. I even know some of the main characters at Willow Farm on The Archers.

Neeson phoned me today. He has a first name - not Liam - but his last name stuck and I would find it difficult calling him anything else. We speak everyday and would be lovers if it weren’t for the fact that we are both married and prefer taco to sausage. The call is the same regurgitation of where we are going, what we’ve been doing and why the bloody hell aren’t we working for ourselves?

In some ways, Neeson has already made a jump into self-employment as he is a courier for a City-based firm. But, as he is still working for a company, he still gets the ball-ache for a controller, or another driver, or for one of the staff in the pharmacies he delivers to.

All sorts of prescription drugs are passed through his hands on a daily basis and, were it not for the various proof of deliveries available, I could see a bag of Viagra or Prozac turning up on eBay.

Neeson:___Geeeezer (For international readers, geezer starts with a hard “G”)

Alan:_____Alright mate! Did you get online last night?

Neeson:___Nope. Ended up at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet.

Alan:_____Did you?

Neeson:___Did I what?

Alan:_____Eat all you could?

Neeson:___Kind of. I got caught up in a crispy duck crisis and couldn’t eat anything else - I had fourteen pancakes smothered in that sauce shit.

Alan:_____Plum.

Neeson:___Yeah, that’s it.

Alan:_____No - you are the plum!

Etc, etc. These conversations aren’t exactly verbatim but it’s what I can remember at the end of the day and, after a day like today, it’s pretty hard to stay focused. I’m on day one of the year long project and already am thinking of other things that might make me happier! No! I must stick to this.

Ooh, good news… saw a nice job advertised today for luxury products and have sent off the CV and covering letter stating that I think I would be the tits at that role. Obviously didn’t put it like that but I’m still psyched at putting my name about a bit.

Also spent the evening at a comedy club in a poxy little arty-farty theatre. Drank rum and coke and am kind of happy that I wrote some of this before going out as the spell checker is taking a battering at the moment. I hate US spell checkers. It’s a fucking "S", not a "Z", in organisation.