Author: Mosh

I am going to Graspop at the end of the month. Tickets are purchased, travel arrangements being made, person stupid enough to go with me found. Yay, Dawn! You have no idea what you’ve let yourself in for…

Time Lord

As is usual with the BBC, I heard a story on 5-Live this morning and it’s bloody nowhere to be found on the BBC News site. The closest I can find is this nice bit of info on the 50th anniversary of the atomic clock.

Anyways, the story is that the person who looks after this lot is moving on and they’re looking for another “Time Lord”. The bizarre thing is that one of the interview questions is going to be “What would you do if you could stop time?”

Now this is either one of those daft personality-revealing schemes… or the person who gets the job can actually stop time on a whim. Now, I know this atomic clock stuff is clever, but that’s way neater than I’d have thought.

What would I do? Well, think how many boobies you could grope without people knowing it’s you… There’s one downside, though. If you stop time then that’d stop you as well so you’d not be able to start it again. I think that may be a bit awkward. Unless you set an alarm. I assume it’d have to be an atomic alarm clock, and I’ve not heard of one of those, but maybe that’s the really secret bit.

I’d apply but I can almost guarantee I’d sleep in and miss the interview. My alarm clock’s not atomic.

(and some of you thought yesterday was somewhat vitriolic…)

Oh, I forgot. I special mention to Chris Salinas of Philadelphia, USA for managing to reinforce the common stereotype of the American as a self-obsessed, ignorant, uncaring bastard with his comment on the “Have Your Say” page regarding Live 8 and Make Poverty History:

“I work 10 hours a day to feed my family, not Africa”

So just **** those darkies, eh Chris? What have they ever done for you? Chris – answer me this one – why should everyone else in the US work to pay taxes to cover your welfare cheque should you lose that 10-hour-a-day job? Despite the fact that taxation is law, it’s a form of charity. Why the hell shouldn’t you (and everyone else) help people in another country who are a **** load worse off than you?

Sure, you’ve provided drugs etc. (though there’s a load of curruption involved in that and virtually every country doing it is using it as a tax-break while supplying dodgy medication) and you ask why nobody ever mentions this. OK, two reasons:

1) The amount you do give is pitiful compared to what your country could afford. Well, maybe not now that Bush Jr has completely **** on your economy

2) The world is more focussed on your attempts to steal oil from other countries under the guise of “spreading freedom to the oppressed”

Even then, I have to ask myself… why are you so bothered that nobody’s saying how nice you are as a country for donating stuff? Charity is about helping people, not about being the centre of attention for doing it. The giving should be a reward in itself, unless of course you’re a pathetic, attention-seeking moron.

Don’t forget that your whole nation is based on the near-total genocide of am indiginous native culture. I think that pretty much places a huge obligation on you to prevent that happening in other countries.

Regardless, you seem to have missed the point. The whole “Make Poverty History” thing is to raise awareness… not necessarily cash. Nobody’s telling you to put your hand in your pocket. Nobody’s saying you have to give up your wage. They’re simply trying to make the world a better place.

And right now, I’m thinking the place would be a lot better without bigotted, loud-mouthed ***** like you spoiling it. Now get back in your little trailer home with your wife/cousin and your kids with their 6 toes and shut the **** up. Hey, if you want to feel victimised, I’m only too glad to help.

Busted

Ha! No, not a musical reference (which would have been tenuous anyway becuse they ******* weren’t) but rather the state of my shower. I’d like to say my mammoth strength caused the unit to be ripped away from the wall effortlessly, or that I’d been shagging a supermodel in it and accidentally smashed the front panel with her head. But I can’t. Even though they’d make better posts.

Basically, the pull switch from the ceiling has fritzed. I bought a new one, swapped it over (with some struggle – 50 Amp cabling’s bloody tough stuff to bend) and then proceeded to knacker the plastic box that the switch screws to because it wouldn’t go on at the right angle.

Back to B&Q in the morning for one of those. In the meantime I have some very impressive wiring hanging from a hole in the ceiling. The good bit is that when I was removing the switch to get the box off I’d forgotten to trip the fuse downstairs.

Close one…

What kept you?

I am pissed off that this selfish sod waited so long. Why couldn’t you have done this years go before you split up and ****** off? It would have saved everyone else so much suffering.

Live 8

Well, first off Bob Geldof became the second person in two days to swear on live TV/radio (Ferdinand Jr was “*******” impressed with West Ham’s win yesterday). Oh, and he was harping on about this new Live 8 thing in summer.

Frankly, I’m disappointed. Five gigs in five cities. Paris get Jamiroquai. Philidelphia get Will Smith, Bon Jovi, Stevie Wonder and Maroon 5. Who do we get? Paul ******* McCartney, Robbie pissing Williams, Elton poufing John, Madonna passed-it-years-ago Madonna and Coldplay. Or Travis. I can’t remember. They’re both the ******* same. And Franz Ferdinand saying they’ll so a Scottish gig. If one’s announced. Why doesn’t Michael Jackson just say he’ll do one in Lapland if they decide to do one there? There’s as much chance.

But do you know what’s even worse? Much much worse? The ******* Spice Girls are likely to reform for the gig. For ****’s sake. **** OFF. YOU WERE WORSE THAN ANAL LEPROSY THE FIRST TIME YOU PATHETIC, TALENTLESS, WRINKLED HAGS.

And I thought I was pissed off that everyone responsible for Big Brother hadn’t been coated in lime and buried in a pit.

Oh, and while I’m at it – great idea on trying to get a million people to march on Edinburgh during the G8 conference, Bob. You ******* idiot. The poor police up there are going to be stretched tighter than a 7 year-old’s hymen when Gary Glitter comes round for supper as it is, without you and your hippy ******* friends trying to get their bastard faces on television.

Now go have a shower, you scruffy old ****. At least yours probably works.

Back into our favourite dingy bar. By “favourite” I mean “within 5 seconds walk of the hotel”. It turns out a few of the lads had a problem getting back into their room as the key they got was faulty and the lock jammed. They spent two hours watching some random Czech dude trying to break into their room using an angle grinder, and slicing his hand open in the process. At least we know the rooms were secure.

Most everyone decided to go for a Chinese at a place they’d spotted near the hotel. I wasn’t hungry, and Dean’s stomach was still giving him a bit of a problem, so we volunteered to head down to the sports bar and meet the two guys we’d left down there earlier. When we got there, drunk guy had cornered a youngish couple (she was gorgeous – I guess he was working out how much he could get for her) and our lads had vanished.

After a few minutes, one popped in. They’d escaped to the posh hotel over the road for some food and would be back soon.

OK. Soon to me is 20 minutes, maybe half an hour. Not 90 minutes. But, hey. There was eye candy, and drunk guy had managed to get Fit English Girl to talk about her thoughts on sleeping with other women. So Dean and I pretended to watch some Italian football match while earwigging.

When the others arrived, drunk guy came over and made a comment about Dean not drinking beer.

“Hey, you’re in Prague and not having a beer? Has that got vodka in it?”

“No, it’s just Coke.”

“Coke, eh?” *sniffing noises* “Likes a bit of coke does he? Eh?”

By this time I’d had enough. So I did my “scary guy” act.

“It’s his religious choice not to drink, and he doesn’t do drugs either. Frankly, I think your comments are in very poor taste and it’s pretty bloody ignorant of you to have a go at him because of his lifestyle.”

“Oh. Erm. Sorry. Look. Erm. I didn’t mean…”

He downed his drink and left. They’d been stuck with him for 2 hours earlier. It took me less than 2 minutes to get rid of him. I have that effect on people. Even without farting.

We, in turn, necked what booze we had left and headed out into the warm Prague night. We decided to chance the more expensive area and wended our way towards the centre until we heard loud music. This usually indicates somewhere with a late license, especially in Prague where most bars shut around 11pm.

OK, the music was dancey pants and it was just a bar but a nice place. White and chrome, clean, good sized crowd and chunderloads of totty.

I have a theory on Czech women. It’s a simple one. When they reach a certain age – maybe 7 or 8 – if they show any signs of ugliness they’re exported out of the populated areas and spent the rest of their days farming potatoes or something. They’re allowed back in when they’re old and nobody’s interested anyway.

This does hold up. There are no ugly Czech women in Prague between the ages of roughly 16 and 30. From what I could spot, even ugly tourists are turned away at the border.

I was wanting to smuggle a couple home. Sadly, since they entered the EU, it’s apparently now illegal to drug them and pack them into a suitcase. Silly flipping Euro regulations. Back to the dodgy web sites and trying to get one that’s come through in a transport container I suppose *sigh*

Actually, I know someone who’s marrying a Czech girl in December. He met her in the UK and she’s apparently stunning. She won’t let him meet/see any of her friends as they’re “too pretty”. I have started to hate him in a “better not let him know in case he can pawn a spare off on me” kind of a way.

Anyway, back in Prague… We’d been at the bar maybe two minutes when a tall, blonde guy walks up. “Newcastle!!!” I told you – this shirt is great for making friends. It paid for itself with free drinks in Andorra last year.

It turns out the gent in question was a Liverpool-supporting Swede. He was with a party of many Swedish people. Including many fit women. Thankfully they easily passed the Munter Test at the airport and were allowed in.

Hubba hubba.

Dean made his excuses and left around now, pleading a dodgy tummy. I think he just wanted the bathroom to himself for a bit. At least he got to see the pretty ladies tonight instead of missing out.

By this stage I was utterly hammered, but spent a good while talking to the Swedish guy’s girlfriend’s mate’s breasts. And learning how to ask for a beer in Swedish. Always handy: Un Aahl tank (apologies for the spelling, but that’s the pronunciation). Not bad considering how wasted I was.

I think Friday night’s beers were ganging up with Saturday’s and punishing me. Not so much that I didn’t swap email addresses. I was pissed, not stupid. I’ve never been to Sweden and I know how expensive it is! Chance to crash at someone’s and be shown the good places is too good a one to pass up! Likewise, I’m always happy to have visitors over and show them a good time in the UK. Well, as good as Bradford allows. Hmm. Not a fair swap…

We staggered back off in the early hours via the sports bar again. The young lass working there was falling asleep. It turned out she works almost 21 hours in a shift. We gave her much spare money which seemed to surprise her – I guess they don’t tip much in the smaller bars – and headed back to the hotel.

That night, I just collapsed flat out and woke at 10:30, just too late for breakfast. Not that I was in the mood to eat anyway. I was so much hungover as just feeling rough. It was strange. No headache, but absolutely no appetite. I managed to make the big packet of crisps I’d bought on the Friday night last about 5 hours. This was a good thing as the lads going back to Newcastle were flying out 3 hours before Derek and I, so we had plenty of time in the airport to kill.

Needless to say, most of this was spent watching many (you guessed it) pretty ladies. Well, I was. Derek’s married so obviously he wasn’t even remotely interested.

The flight was uneventful – apart from the one bit of turbulence where the stewardess fell over and the woman next to Derek shrieked and almost pierced his arm with her fingernails. Oh, and the guy next to me with the World’s Worst Hangover Ever, who’s mate in the seat in front wouldn’t sit still so kept bumping him and getting death threats. The poor sod even managed to clout his skull on the “mind your head” sign on the way onto the plane. D’oh.

Derek’s wife and kids met us at the airport for the quick drive to theirs. Thank you to them for their help and hospitality!

Apparently Colin and his dad want to go back to Prague in October… Oh dear.

Prague – part three (Return Of The Stag Party)

Amazingly, I didn’t wake up with a hangover. In fact, I was fairly chipper and was down for brekkie (in the original bar) by not long after 9:00. The weather was already glorious – predictions were for a high of almost 30 degree, which it came close to hitting later on.

We decided to split into groups and go do our own thing, while searching for a bar to watch the FA Cup Final in later in the day. Whoever found the best was to get in touch with the others and arrange to meet there before kickoff. Sound.

Not long after we got into the main town, I spotted a bookshop. Being a sad fanboy, I wandered in and located (almost) the entire works of Douglas Adams. In Czech. And bought the lot. Annoyingly, the only book they didn’t have was Hitchhiker’s. Ah well.

Back into the scorching sun to catch up with… bugger. They’d gone. So there’s me wandering in Prague, unaccompanied, telephoneless and without a key to get back into the hotel room to fetch my mobile. Hmm.

Colin had mentioned heading to the castle at some point, though, so I bumbled off in that direction. Actually, truth be told, I bumbled off in a direction. All the signs were in Czech and I have no idea what their word for “castle” is.

On the way, I passed a major number of tourist traps, some lovely buildings (pics taken, of course) and many fit women (more pics taken – this time more subtley). Eventually, I reached the Charles Bridge which was heaving.

The bridge is maybe 12 feet wide and crosses the river that runs through Prague. I’m guessing it’s the oldest of the several bridges and it’s used by artists to trade their work. At ludicrous prices. You also get a fair few beggars on there who are literally huddled up in a foetal position, face down, with their hands held out for cash. Subtle.

Over the bridge, astounded by the tiny woman who was expecting money to be thrown at her for miming along to a tape playing opera, and into the real tourist area near the castle. This is when I discovered that the hill up to our hotel was only a warm-up. The one on this side of the river really knew how to be a hill. It had obviously been practising for many years because it was bloody good at it.

Pretty much breathless, I got to the top by the castle just as they did a changing of the guard (at least, I think that’s what it was). The place was swarming with tourists so I couldn’t really see anything. I headed down the opposite route, narrowly avoided being run over by a very expensive-looking Ferrari and bumped into Colin and co again. As I’d planned to do all along.

Unfortunately, this meant climbing the bloody hill all the way back up again. At the summit, we bumped into about half the other lads who’d come up the other side. A wander round the gardens, some more ogling of stupidly attractive women and we descended back to something nearer sea level for a bevvie.

As we sat drinking – and staring at women (there’s a theme here) – some workmen started repainting a zebra crossing nearby. As a result, we ended up drinking beer and inhaling what smelled like industrial-strength Tippex fumes for half an hour. Psychadelic, man.

Around now, the rest of the lads got in touch from a pub just on this side of the Charles Bridge. 50p/pint, air conditioned, big screen and not full to the rafters. Ideal.

It was a little early, so again we broke into groups and wandered a bit. I stuck with Dean and we had a bloody long plodge around in a circle, over one of the other bridges and back to the Charles. We spotted a fine weaponry shop (from which I was tempted to buy a throwing star and hide it in Colin’s carry-on luggage) and possibly the most stunning woman known to all creation.

Such as is common in the UK, though, this 4′-long skirt-wearing beauty was accompanied by a boyfriend who looked about as greasy and untrustworthy as a fox coated in lard. Not that I was even remotely jealous.

Dinner at Subway (same prices as back home, more or less) and on to watch ManUre getting beaten by Arsenal on penalties. Sweet.

There were some other random people in the bar. Two lads were yelling “Souness!” at me – they turned out to be Rangers supporters so were among a very small group to actually like the miserable bastard. Then two Blackburn supporters thanked me for taking him off them. Like I’d have picked him to replace Bobby. Yeesh.

On the way back, we popped into one of the bars we’d stopped off at the previous night – a sports bar. As it happened, two of our number were also in there and had been accosted by a drunk (English) guy who was trying to convince them to go to a sex club. He had brochures and everything. Handing it to me, he said something like “get a load of those – they’re lovely”.

True enough, the flyer had about 40 passport pictures of very attractive women on, all numbered like some kind of pervert’s Chinese menu. Without him looking, I pointed at one at random. “I *know* her!”

Without skipping a beat, he replied, “Yes, she’s been in Coronation Street.”

*cough*BOLLOCKS!*cough* I returned the leaflet and two of us departed, leaving the other pair to deal with the drunk loony.

Back to the hotel for a shower and change (well, shorts off and combats on. I wore my NUFC top all weekend), then back to the local to meet up with everyone else.

Continued tomorrow/after the weekend…

Oh ****. It’s that time again

I have been forewarned by a certain member of staff who sits opposite me. Every day for the next 11 weeks or so, she’s going to come in and talk about nothing apart from what time each of 13 people went for a ****.

Yes, folks. Big Brother starts again tonight. You, too, can stand round the water cooler and discuss how long you sat up late to watch some minger sleep in the vain hope one of her boobs appeared from under the cover, or how Stevie went to the toilet at 11:00 and how exciting it was. You sad *****.

I’m all for the company that’s offering £70,000 (last 2 paragraphs of that page) to someone who gets on and doesn’t say a word until they’re kicked out.

I think a better idea would be for Al Quaeda to smuggle someone onto the show and blow themselves up during day one. That, I would watch.

“Well, it looks like Abdullah’s going to give everyone a welcoming group hug. What the other contestants didn’t know is that Abdullah’s one luxury product was a vest lined with Semtex.”

*BOOM*

“I guess we’ll have a hard time picking a winner this series.”