Spread the love/idiocy (but definately NOT germs) a little further...

Howdy y'all,

Much as I love you all, and all your little quirks, it is my mission duty to spread the word of my idiocy a little further, just to warn those around me to keep clear if I'm out and about. So, I have followed the advice of the marketing bod behind Bella and Robot and signed up for Bloglovin. In keeping with this new tech savvy image that I am trying to maintain (ahem!) you can now also follow my smaller (but equally important and often more hilarious) antics on Twitter @CountryBoyBlog. As always your support is much appreciated!

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CountryBoy

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An unashamedly self indulgent quest for sympathy... and a hot Ribena please!

So I’m ill again. Yet again to be more precise. One of the little blighters at work has shared their germs with me and I have become an incubus for the latest mutation of the germ that is making my throat feel like I’m swallowing razor blades.

For those of you who have kept au fait of my actions over the past few months, you will already know that I succumbed to a particularly nasty version of man flu over the Christmas period, but I rallied on through. With the help of copious amounts of tissues, decongestants and hot Ribena I survived and didn’t wallow in the misery too much... well maybe a bit but that’s only natural. But this cold is different. This is the type of germ that kicks you when you’re down, the type that crawls into each atom of your being and settles in for the long run. Oh, what the hell, I’m going to wallow and I feel I’m justified in my wallowing. I can count on my fingers and toes the number of days it’s been since the last cold deserted me, which basically means that it is wholly unfair that I’m ill again.

GIVE ME SYMPATHY!!

(And I wouldn’t mind a hot drink too ‘cus the kettle is tauting me from the work surface, knowing that I’m too feeble to get up and make it myself!)

However, there is an upside, an upside in the form of a plethora of daytime television to help me through these trying times. When you’re feeling down, the ten o’clock instalment of Homes Under the Hammer, with its peppy would-be property developers and the feigned enthusiasm at the market valuations, prove that some things never change. This comes as a welcome reminder of my student days when I would wake up in time to see this, followed by To Buy or Not To Buy whilst sitting in my PJ’s and recovering from the night before’s hangover, drinking tea and putting off the inevitable essay. Substitute the tea with a lemsip and the PJ’s for Jack Wills trackies and that’s about where I am now.

(N.B. Yes, you did hear correctly; I am wearing Jack Wills, but I maintain that I do this purely ironically. But I would feel a lot less of a hypocrite if there weren’t so darn comfy!)

But that was not where I was to remain. After the Christmas onslaught my paracetamol supply was severely depleted and I was in danger of exiting the decongestant induced haze that seemed to be surrounding me. So wrapping myself up in a scarf and gillet (I know what you’re thinking; Jack Wills and a gillet, but I’m ill, and it’s cold, and they’re warm so leave me alone!) I braved the short walk to Tesco with the challenge to buy the standard diet of invalids; soup and drugs! In my haste to replenish the paracetamol supplies, I ended up not making my customary list which again serves to show how off-kilter I was feeling. I live for lists. I have lists about lists and notes about lists, but not this time. Not a list in sight and therefore I site this as the root of my failure. Lack of lists. It was because of the lack of lists that I was perusing the cheese section looking at a very appetising mini camembert to add to the other impulse buys of prawn cocktail crisps, half price cherries and yet more soup, (even though I have perfectly good homemade soup at the flat) that I stepped back.

I stepped back and felt the unexpected resistance at the back of my legs, just below the knee, as the leg that I had tried to move failed to reach it desired destination and remained pretty much where it was.

At this point, the upper half of my body had already shifted its centre of balance, in preparation for the aforementioned backwards step and had commenced its trajectory.

It was then that my knees started to buckle in response to the object now behind them and my arms went up to the side scattering the contents of my basket around the cheese isle.

And then I realised that a fall was imminent, and I braced myself...

...to land on the lap of the man in the wheelchair who had stealthily pulled up behind me.

To say he looked perturbed at the fact that a sickly twenty five year-old was sprawled on his lap, would be a bit of an understatement. Completely terrified would be more correct. But ever one to regain composure in a situation like this, I picked myself up off his lap, apologised through a particularly violent fit of coughing, and gathered my scattered purchases to made tracks for the tills.

It was only when I got home that I realised that I had forgotten to buy any paracetamol, and no matter how many combinations of it I tried, soup, cherries and prawn cocktail crisps are no substitute and only served to make me feel even more like a failure.

Needless to say I made a list to remind my cold addled brain what to get at the shop:

Buy paracetamol

Don’t be a tit.

I’m not sure which part of that is more achievable.

Resolutions are made to be broken; it helps you make better ones next time.

This year I made two new resolutions: the first, that I was going to give up drinking in response to the intervention my liver and my conscience somehow managed to stage over the festive period. Needless to say, offer of red or white that came via text from a previously aforementioned bad influence, put an end to that after six days. Six long, dull alcohol free days. But, all is not lost. I replaced that really quite unachievable solution with something that is much more tangible; 2012 will be the year I learn to play the ukulele. I think that’s a fair substitute, right? And judging by the really rather awesome performance on the newly introduced air ukulele, I’M GONNA ROCK! Although I do feel I should pay homage to the fact that this new hair brain scheme was spawned from that alcoholic haze that I had been trying to avoid. Ah well, irony has always been my friend.

This all leads me on to the second resolution I made: to start going to the gym. I’ve been a member of said gym for over a year and I think it’s fair to say that our relationship is sporadic at best. The first time I went, I cashed in on my complimentary introduction with a personal trainer, only to find I couldn’t move for the next week and therefore rendered myself completely incapable of completing exercise of any kind until I could fully straighten my limbs. AND APPARENTLY THATS NORMAL?! AND THEN THEY GO BACK FOR MORE?! Seriously, what’s up with that? The way I felt after my induction I woke up the next morning more than slightly indignant by the fact that there was neither a six pack or a bicep in sight.

None of this is helped by the fact that no one at the gym ever actually seems to be in anything other than perfect shape, or else morbidly obese. I spoke to a friend of mine recently who has noted the same thing. She said that she invested in a fitness DVD to help her get in shape before actually going to the gym. Is this really what exercise has come to? That we have to get fit before we can even go to the gym? It certainly seems that way judging by some of the behaviour that goes on in the men’s locker rooms. Amongst the many Romanesque men in there, air-drying their testicles and doing that thing where each one of their pec’s seemingly dances to its own rhythm, the normal man is very much the minority. For these pec dancing, bicep bulging, hormonally and genetically enhanced specimens, half the reason for going to the gym revolves around the prolonged periods of nudity and the drying of one’s genitals that seems to intrinsically linked to any form of exercise.

I would say that will-power made me survive the locker room, but I think it was actually the fear of being forever consumed in the testosterone haze that drove me on. Nothing was going to stop me. No possible excuse as to why I couldn’t complete some form of physical exercise. No possibly excuse why my muscles would remain untoned. No possible excuse why... I’m procrastinating aren’t I? I do this a lot. I go with the best intentions and then realise that after a few of those up and down things on the weight machine (‘reps’ I believe they are called) that my muscles feel like they are actually on fire whilst the customary pumping tunes morph into the music of the apocalypse. Drums, I hear drums. Probably just my heart, but you can’t beat a bit of well timed percussion to help it all along. I get to wondering if any of this is helped by the fact that my most recent gym session followed the evening of the breaking of the alcohol resolution, so I was facing two of my nemesis; exercise and hangovers.

But putting my best foot forwards, I seized the moment. I said yes to exercise.

I also said yes to the treadmill in between the two fatties ‘cus y’know, ego boost and all that. I then said yes to the bottle of wine and the take away later that evening to ease the pain! What can I say? It’s a vicious circle!

It's in the genes!

A happy new year to you all! And a merry Christmas to boot!

Now I’m going to start the New Year with an apology; I’m sorry there hasn’t been a new blog for the past couple of weeks. I’ve been ill. Sad times. If I was to ever use one of those silly emoticons, now would be the time. You know the one; the colon followed by the open bracket.

Pathetic I know.

I like to think that my blog is a witty sometimes witty perspective on my own little degree of self indulgence. But let me assure you, if I had written one over the past couple of weeks, it would had the usual level of self indulgence (probably a bit more even): It definitely wouldn’t have been witty. And I reckon it would have had more than its fair share of wretched uselessness. Nonetheless if you had wanted to hear about the time I ran out of tissues after a particularly explosive sneezing fit, I could have spun a fantastic yarn. Although I did discover that I actually had a couple of spares so that story might have fallen a bit flat.

But, I’m not here to talk about me (well not this time anyway). No, I’m going to shed some light on the family tree that has spawned my now well perfected idiocy. Obviously feeling withdrawal symptoms after I properly flew the nest last summer, it wasn’t long before the parentals were looking for further entertainment. And the solution I hear you ask? Simple; relocate my elderly Grandparents from their homestead in Cheltenham to the fresher country air of rural Shropshire. Obviously unsatisfied with the lack of humour provided by yours truly, surely the logical step would be to explore the other end of the spectrum; from youngest to oldest, the talent for causing distractions is present in every generation.

Now, before I continue, I would like to point out that I really like my grandparents, both of them. I really do. But when they come up with absolute comedy gold, my fingers get twitchy and I get the urge to blog.

To get you in the picture, my granddad is now 91 and still sharp as anything. He drinks copious amounts of whiskey and smokes a pipe, which he once asked me to get ‘some of that marijuana stuff’ to have a puff on. My nanna (aged 88, although don’t tell her I told you) then chimed in with ‘yes dear, I’ve heard it works wonders in brownies.’ Ironically when she asked me on my 21^st  birthday if I took drugs (as you do) and I said only the good ones, I then had to phone and apologise.

Pure. Unadulterated. Madness. It’s in the genes, I’ll tell you that!

Anyway, seeing as the grandparents had recently moved to the shire, the parentals decided to have them over for Christmas dinner. That’s nice. Family spending time together. Three generations around the same table. Perfect.

But then, as the first course was being cleared away from the table I head.

‘Just slip it in Roy, no one will notice,’ said my nanna.

‘Well it’s not very stiff,’ responded my granddad.

WTF?!

‘It’s gone in fine before so just slide it in,’ she said followed by some deep breaths from my granddad.

As my mum handed me a plate of food to take to the table, it was with trepidation that I returned to the dining room.

‘Jack’s back now, perhaps he will help,’ said my nanna, passing me the shoulder pad that had fallen out of her jacket, leaving her looking like a lopsided Hilary Devey.

I must say I was quite relieved as it all suddenly started to make sense.

But the comedy didn’t stop there.

A few days later, they insisted on taking us all out for lunch which can be a bit of a drama in itself in as much as my granddad doesn’t have a hip, and the other one is a replacement so he’s a tad shaky to say the least. And that’s without the whiskey!

Rather surprisingly, the meal itself was actually pretty good and both of the grandies were on fine form. Until the bill arrived.

‘If you wouldn’t mind putting in your pin-code madam and then press the green button to confirm?’ said the manager.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. Her finger very deliberately hitting each key in turn.

‘I’m afraid your pin had been declined madam. Could you enter it again?’

‘It is correct. I assure you,’ she said, enunciating each syllable with perfect Received Pronunciation. My granddad at this point took another sip swig of his whiskey.

The plunking followed, and was proceeded with the tell tale beep when the number was declined again.

‘I’m afraid you have only got one try left and then your card will be blocked,’ said the manager.

The look said it all. No words were needed. When she gets that look, no one can stop her. And believe me you wouldn’t want to either! But then again why would you, when you just know something brilliant is about to happen?!

It was with baited breath that the much anticipated finger plunked the key pad that final time.

‘What do you mean it’s not accepted?’ she said with genuine surprise. It would appear that there is something that can withstand the look.  

I was on removing the card and checking it carefully for any malfunction (she still fiercely maintained that the machine was wrong, as the so often are!) that we realised the error of her ways; it wasn’t her card. As it transpired, she had borrowed my granddads card to withdraw some money and forgotten to give it back, but the main thing she focused on was that she wasn’t wrong.

My granddad’s look said it all. But it was the swig of whiskey that told the story.

A fine helping of festive filth!

Once again folks, it’s that time of the year. The days are getting shorter, the weather is getting colder, and the nation succumbs to another years’ commercialised festivities. Everywhere you turn, a shop is advertising ‘Christmas this,’ and ‘Festive that’. Starbucks have even changed the colour of their take away cups from the standard white, to a more festive red. Wine is no longer poured, it’s mulled, and fat, unemployed alcoholics get their yearly call from the job centre to let them know they have landed the gig of being Santa in your local shopping centre. The nation is swept by Christmas fever and we line our wallets with our hard earned cash and face the crowds to hunt out that festive jumper or pair of socks our nearest and dearest claim to love, yet secret away in that abyss at the back of your wardrobe never again to see the light of day.

Now I never was one to follow conventions, and when I picked this person’s name out of the work secret Santa draw, I saw the potential in present and I acted upon it.

“I’m having a bit of a dilemma,” I said to my most trusted colleague (a kindred spirit if you like), “Do I get her something nice, or do I go for something filthy?”

“Filthy,” she said without having to think. “She’ll love it. And knowing that something filthy came from you, will make her love it even more.”

Yet again, I have to question why people hold a torch to the image of me as some well-spoken, sophisticated individual, when I am clearly not! How long will it take them to finally realise that behind the refined exterior, is pure, unadulterated sin? And so following in this ilk, I returned home to peruse the website of a certain adult shop.

Where to start?

I’m guessing the chocolate body paint probably isn’t a good idea and that most likely means that the ‘strawberry dick lick’ is out of the question? After a brief flirtation with the idea of a phallic shaped shot glass and something suitably creamy (Eggnog maybe?) to accompany it, I return to consulting my colleague before proceeding any further.

Are edible nipple tassells too explicit for secret Santa?

Please say yes. Please say yes and spare me from the embarrassment of actually having to go into said adult shop and purchase this intimate gift. By this time I had already left it quite late and had missed out on the free postage, and even though the allure of an anonymised debit on my account, and ‘discreet packaging’ seemed an offer I would have otherwise been unable to turn down. One can’t be too discreet with these things!

Not at all!!! was the response.

Right, now for some strategic planning. It’s not that I’m particularly embarrassed about going into establishments of this nature (although I don’t make a habit of it I should point out!) but the prospect of having to contest with the smug couple types who go in there to buy their festive underwear in various sizes of debauched is enough to make me queasy. Never mind that slightly maniacal looking spinster type trying to smuggle the latest offspring of the legendary ‘rabbit’ to the tills without drawing too much attention to herself. Well we all know she’ll be having a merry old time this Christmas! But anyway, enough of that. I was on a mission; a quest if you like, to bring filth to the festivities. Unlike the wise men bringing the baby Jesus gifts of gold and spices, I would be bringing something of a less high brow nature!

I was foiled on my first attempt, as the edible nipple tassells has apparently proved popular and sold out, leaving the far less appealing edible ‘g’ string taking its place. It might just be that I’m starting to become a bit prudish, but is there really anything particularly erotic about eating candy that has been next to someone’s back passage? Yes? Really?! You surprise me! This however, was not my main concern; I was still present-less and I needed to act fast. Seeing the frantic looking woman still trying to act casually in the dildo section, I thought it wise to stay away from her. Without displaying any of the outward signs of panic that were starting to bubble up inside, I quickly glanced around the immediate vicinity and that was where I spotted...

Willy Racing! And with a tag line of, see who comes first, how could anyone fail to love this? Surely nothing says Christmas like seeing two wind-up willies having it off across your dining table?

On taking this to the tills the shop gave me an approving smile and asked if this was to be a gift.

“Yes,” I replied, feeling slightly relieved that she didn’t think that this was for my own personal use. Again she smiled.

“And would you like to take advantage of the offer we currently have going on? This clitoral stimulator is half price when you buy anything from the range and it can make a remarkably nice gift?”

“I think that could be taking work based secret Santa a little too far.”

“Well it depends on how well you know them!”

You’ve got to admire her sales pitch, but can you ever really know someone that well?

Definitely not a dildo!

“What is that?” he said in his thick Brummie accent.

“What is that?” I repeated, with my now trademark eyebrow raise.

“Yea, what is it?” he said again raising the phallic shaped object in his hand as if to get a closer look.

For all of you still trying to guess, the answer is not a dildo, you filthy minded individuals! Who am I kidding? You’re in good company here!

“That,” I said, “is a courgette.”

The man working on the till at Tesco looked at me bemused.

“Is that like a cucumber?” he asked.

Of course it isn’t you cretin. Surely to work at Tesco you should at least be able to identify your produce, shouldn’t you? Then I noticed the Trainee badge that he sported proudly on his nylon uniform.

“Yes,” I say, taking the easy way out and avoiding any further conversation. I even gave him the smile that I save for the terminally stupid. Now if that isn’t sympathetic then I don’t know what is?

“Innit?” he replied, nodding his head in approval before putting it into my bag. Goodness knows what he would make of the aubergine that was still to come!

Why is it that every time I go to this particular superstore that I end up having such ridiculous conversations?

I was chided by my work colleagues recently after a trip to Britain’s favourite supermarket where I had an altercation with the check out worker. On placing my Twilight DVD on the conveyor, the attendant examined it carefully.

“You like Twilight?” he said with a sneer.

Don’t. Even. Get. Me. Started.

And then before I realised what I was saying:

“You like working at Tesco?”

I know, that was a pretty low blow and he did look (quite deservedly) downcast. But hang on, this was one of those few occasions when I actually thought of a witty retort and managed to use it. Yet I still felt like a dick.

Oh God, then there was that awkward silence. That LONG and ever increasing silence. How do I escape this? Being vaguely aware of the fact that I was reddening through a combination of embarrassment and exhilaration (at the fact that I actually managed to say what I wanted to, when I wanted to, not some perverted excitement at terrorising Tesco’s uneducated employees!) I plumped for the customary glare. Never fails! Scared into a frantic exaggerated frenzy by the sharp tongued, glaring southerner, I would like to point out that following my outburst I did receive exemplary customer service! Silent! The best kind!

It’s not all one sided though. Oh no! After turning 25 a couple of weeks ago and revelling in the plethora of cards highlighting the fact that I am now officially old, or as one more sympathetic friend’s card denoted; dangerously close to being old, Tesco decided to kick me whilst I was down. On one of my standard trips to the local Express store near my apartment to buy the customary bottle of red after another gruelling day, the Caribbean lady working on the till asked to see my ID. Feeling almost smug as I look up to show her my driving licence she saw my face and responded;

“Oh no, definitely over 25,” she said in lilting Jamaican tones and waved my driving license aside.

Bitch!

Oh well. It’s still Jack: 2, Tesco: 1.

Life's Unanswered Questions?

Last time I had a house party, my parents kindly donated a bottle of Vodka. Said bottle wasn’t just the standard Smirnoff or any of its equally commercial friends. Far from it. This vodka was something really special that had been lurking away with the bottle of Cherry Brandy and some other brown tar-like liqueur in my parent’s alcohol cabinet since... well, a hell of a long time ago!

“Did you know this vodka is from the U.S.S.R?” one of my friends asked.

“Well that must mean its good stuff then,” I reply. The U.S.S.R is Russia, right? I know I teach English but I did get an A* at GCSE geography. Evidently I didn’t take History, otherwise I would have known that the U.S.S.R was dissolved in 1991, which would have meant that in 2010, when I moved into my new flat, this Vodka was upwards of 20 years old. Added to the fact that it was a gift to my dad when he went to Russia (which he hasn’t done since I’ve been alive!) we were probably in for a rough night. After unscrewing the top and practically getting drunk of the alcohol vapour emitted, I decided that this, along with most other vodkas, was not my friend and steered the bottle in the direction of my drink hardened friends. After sinking the majority of the bottle between three of them, by the end of the night it wasn’t their friend either. Even the mention of the dreaded tipple can cause hangover like symptoms; no joke!

Fast forward a year, and after months of trials and tribulations, I was eventually settled in my new abode and ready to warm it in true binge-drinking fashion. Following the customary trip to my parent’s alcohol cabinet, where I managed to unearth a much more palatable bottle of Jack Daniels, and a full, but slightly dubious looking bottle of a Bourbon called Canadian Club whose date of manufacture pre-dated last year’s vodka, I was ready to welcome the revellers. Among the guests were various friends and acquaintances including the colleague who dances like Vanilla Ice and her equally awesome side-kick, the blogging supremo, and most worryingly, the previously mentioned, bad influence and instigator of mischief extraordinaire, Hayley. On spotting the Canadian Club, she remarked with glee that it combined her two most favourite things in life, Canadian’s and whiskey, before setting about devouring the bottle with a little (a lot!) of help from yours truly. If it carried on like this, it was going to be a very messy night!

In order to safeguard my cream carpets from my growing drunkenness, and especially after making such a song-and-dance about everyone bringing non-staining drinks (after all I am now a homeowner, thus take full responsibility for vomit on the carpets, whether mine or otherwise) I decided it was time to steer the gang in the direction of a local cocktail bar, for water of course.

I started to realise that I was on the slippery slope to complete inebriation after trying to limbo under the barrier at the multi-story car park (why we were even in a multi-story car park still remains a complete mystery to me) followed by trying to pole dance on a lamp post.

Just to be on the safe side I carried on drinking as I was pretty sure that I wasn’t entertaining enough already and threw in a few dares just to add to the excitement. After completing many thrusts and singing to randomers, I turned the tables onto someone else.

“Your dare,” I slurred to my colleague, “is to sing ‘You’re just too good to be true’ to that man over there,” as I point vaguely in the direction of someone I’m hoping was male. Surprisingly, not only did she understand what I had asked, she actually did it! If I could do that Ali G style finger clicking and could pull off a fake Reggae accent, now would be the time that I would say Respect! Nonetheless, after harassing the majority of the cliental, it was necessary to make a well timed exit as this was a place that I actually quite like, so didn’t want to run the risk of being ejected... as that would seriously narrow the amount of places that I was able to visit with a shred of dignity intact.

Now for those of you who know Birmingham, there are very few choices to head on to when you are in that state of drunkenness (Broad Street excepted of course, as in fact I was probably way too sober to be heading in that direction!)  apart from the alcohol dependent and wastrel’s Mecca that is Snobs. To give you an idea of the type of place this is, the last time that I had been there (at the end of a date nonetheless... nothing says romance like Snobs!) I witnessed a drunken guy who was passed out on the pavement wet himself. Yet I still went back for more and shamefully, embarrassingly, and probably any other adverbs to describe my drunken actions, this was the second time that I had been to Snobs in the space of a week and if I was not so wasted at this stage I would have been thinking please don’t recognise me, but instead focused on please let me not seem too drunk to be refused entry!

And this leads me on to how I decided on the title for this blog; Life’s unanswered questions, (and don’t worry, I’m not about to get all deep and philosophical and break the habit of a lifetime!)

But I will now pose the following questions:

After discovering the Facebook status... Jack is lost somewhere is Snobs, a particularly sympathetic friend pointed out that it is laid out in a circular pattern and so forming the first question of How the fuck can you get lost in a circle? Well it’s not exactly an unanswerable question if you subtract the near lethal quantities of alcohol from the equation, but it’s still a bit of a doozy.

The second question: What exactly did happen in those three (yes three) hours that I spent at Snobs until four in the morning? Which the leads me onto my third, and most puzzling question.

What. The. Hell. Were we all doing that night to mean that the hardened 6 who remained until the bitter end, woke up the next morning (admittedly horribly hung-over/ still drunk in my case) with our necks completely locked?!

Answers on a post card please.