The Gods of Fate

Have things got bad? Have I had to seriously consider what a penis might feel like against my gums while fingering a filthy £20 note? Well yes, they have.

Why is it that when you’re in the straights you feel more desperate? Is it the loneliness? The claustrophobia? The unexplainable horniness?

I decided to tempt the Gods of fate today. The soul crushing drudge of working through the recession in a complaints department made something snap, and I brought a scratch card.

I delay it; not straight away, you see. I like to divide up the fictional money in my head, imagining how the £100,000 would be spent: How many hookers are too many? Are you alright not giving to your div cousin? Do people still have a problem if you wear mink?

After finally imagining travelling India and living a life of intellectual pursuit, there’s scratching to be done. Using a pound coin is a no-no, for two reasons:

I don’t want to anger the Goddess of Luck by being brazen with my wealth.
I don’t have one (sob).

Best go with a 50p, not too flashy but not embarrassing like a 2p.

Scratch. £100,000. Scratch. £25. Scratch. £400. Scratch. £1. Scratch. £100,000. Gasp. Scratch. £900. Fuck.

Then comes the self loathing. It’s instantaneous and heavy, like a giant bird shit on your head while all the cool and attractive people laugh at you with their white teeth and muscles.

Hellfire Club Members: Paul Burrell

The first in our 'Hellfire Club Member', an initiation our favourite human beings on this earth. First, it's Paul Burrell.

For those who are not in the know, Paul was Princess Diana's butler. When she was alive he did really important things like iron her bra, make her some mint tea and pick up after her budgie*. Paul, like all of us, really really loved Diana. But unlike all of us, he stole loads of boxes of her stuff and kept them in a cupboard for years. And wore her underwear.

He made a name for himself, after Diana was murdered*, by going on TV and talking about Diana. This developed into Burrell going on TV and talking about folding napkins and eating bananas with a knife and fork. He wrote about 22 books, all about Diana, and he also had a flower shop, with loads of pictures of Diana on the wall. Oh yeah, he also says he's not gay. While in his flower shop, with loads of pictures of Diana on the wall. And while loads of gay blokes keep telling the papers they shagged him, with documentary evidence of the fact.

Problem is, we don't care about Diana that much any more. We, as a caring nation, have new obsessions to pull at our heart strings, like the skinny one with the big head off of X Factor and Karen Matthews, the fat woman who unsuccessfully kidnapped her own kid for money. So Paul has fallen out of favor, so he's not on TV anymore. And that's bad for Paul, because Paul loves being on TV.

So Paul has begun to tell the world he knows something. We don't know what he knows, and he said he will never say what he knows. He is getting back on TV because he keeps telling people he knows something, but he won't tell what. Genius.

The thing is, Paul doesn't know shit. Paul was a big fairy who was good at shining silverware and picking up corgi poo. He realised he had shot his load soon after Diana's suicide* so he had to keep making stuff up. And he really, really loves being on TV.

Introversial loves Paul because he really believes he knows a secret, a secret that could rock the very foundations of this sceptered isle. He just hasn't thought what it is yet. But while he thinks of something he is going to hold onto Diana's stuff for a bit longer, for safe-keeping.

Remember to tune in next time for another Hellfire Member. Each edition will come with a 'cut out and keep' face of our hero, like the one of Paul, up there. After 36 weeks you will have enough faces to poster a very small, sad bedsit.

*These facts may or may not be true.

Yoghurt on a packed tube train

Yes, yoghurt on a packed, rush hour tube. Just imagine it.

I was on my way to work having just bagged myself a seat. Feeling particularly chuffed with myself, I looked round and watched, open jawed, the woman in front of me pull out a big Tupperware container full of yoghurt. It was huge, big enough to fit about 4 hearty sandwiches. Certainly too big for yoghurt. You expect yoghurt to be in a pot, not in the Tupperware. Anything else is madness.

Anyway, she then opened up the container and began spooning the goop into her mouth. It was smelly, probably probiotic or something, full of friendly bacteria and bifidum digestivum, y’know – the tang of ‘sort your fanny out’. The train kept bouncing around, as trains hurtling through ancient tunnels tend to do, every bounce and knock adding to the mess on her face. Round this fully-grown woman's mouth, on her hand, her bag and even a little tiny bit on the pole next to her. The more we rolled along, the messier she got.

Our eyes met for a brief moment. I glared, hoping to get across how completely and utterly disgusted I was. I don't think my distain got through as she carried on eating regardless, flecks of yoghurt splashing round her mouth as someone innocently and understandably bumped her spoon-wielding arm.

After a few minutes I couldn't bear to watch the macabre show in front of me, like a sad 'You've Been Framed' clip that has gone on for way too long – there would not even be a pithy comment from Harry Hill, as he’d have already scratched his eyes out. Luckily it was my stop and I hopped off, a little saddened by the fact that you can't choke to death on yoghurt, no matter how hard you try.

Facebook ships in the night

Tales of intrigue,

I got an interesting message on Facebook the other day from the mysterious Ms Black. She isn't a 'friend' of mine on there so there was an initial panic, but then I thought 'how many really are?' and that calmed me a little. This mystery lady had no profile picture and she was asking who I was.

She wanted to know if I was the same Chris who was in the Army (!), the one who was stationed in Korea (!!). Wow, I wasn't really sure what to make of it. I have a namesake who's some kick arse G.I.

I had a couple of odd reactions to this. The first was this really existential line of thought where I started to think about my life, all the things I hadn't done. This other Chris had been off, fighting in that damn war. Probably fell in love with a local girl, shaped some experiences with his bear hands. I once stole a copy of Take A Break from a shop as a belated birthday present for my Mum.

Secondly, and inevitably, my mind turned to sexual thoughts. I began to think, I could say that I'm the same guy. She may get on a plane from where ever she is, she may be beautiful. When she gets here it could be played one of two possible ways. First, she could get here and find my lies and deceit hilarious and endearing. We'd tell our kids the story of how I pretended to be a Green Beret before she found out I was actually a clammy office spore. Alternatively, I could sidle up to her and just say, "Yeah, well, I know that the last time we saw each other I was this 6" black guy but, y'know, this war has changed us all, baby".

Some thought that it was some CIA plot (well, admittedly I did. After I took that pill I found sitting on a garden wall). I thought that I'd end up in the same cow shed where they hanged Saddam, having the shit water boarded out of me.

In the end I decided to do the right thing and tell her I wasn't the same guy she was looking for. I told her that I probably couldn't be further away from this other Chris and that the closest I'd ever been to being in the armed forces was my big long stint on Call of Duty. Not exactly the same, but it probably gave me a 15 rather than a 1000 yard stare.

I wished her luck though, especially if he was on the lamb from paternity payments.

Down with the sickness

I have some sort of hideous, disgusting disease this week, and I have been advised to blog about it.

It seems to be a stomach bug, because that's where the symptoms and the pain are centered. I won't go into further details, because it's horrid and smelly and has left me eating just banana bread and going to the toilet 12 times an hour.

I probably caught it by eating a) food off the floor b) gone off food or c) from licking a handrail on the tube. I'm joking! I don't eat off the floor.

It hit a peak around 4am today when I became delirious and was sweating profusely. I got out of bed, and was particularly worried because I had pretty bad chest pains to boot, and they are never good. Especially when you are 24 and eat pork scratchings on a semi-regular basis.

So in my panicked state I did what all sleep-deprived, delirious people do at 4am: I went on a web doctor website. I typed in my symptoms (vomiting, diarrhea, fever and a tightening of the chest) and I got up a few diagnosis:

Ebola

Stomach Flu

Legionnaires disease

Pancreatic cancer

In the cold light of the day, I could probably safely assume I have stomach flu. But at 4am you don't think straight, and my chest really hurt. I started feeling for lumps, but realised I didn't know where my pancreas was. I couldn't rule out ebola completely, because I did stand near this guy on the tube who looked like he lived with apes. And I don't know what Legionnaires is, but it sounds like something off of House, and I watch lots of House.

I would go to the doctor, but London seems to be full of people with sickly kids who have booked before me, so I can't visit one until June. So I am stuck with webMD and the unnerving feeling that I have ebola.

LondonLove

The LondonPaper - 5 minutes of not very entertaining tosh (for those not in the know it's one of the two evening free papers commuters are hit with on the way home from work) but one thing that always catches the eye is LondonLove.

LondonLove is a section where people can blindly text in attempts at finding love: "To the brown haired hottie who likes to sit down on my train in the morning" or "To the fit bird on the tube..." you know, 'romantics' who think true love is perving on someone on public transport. So you text in with your plea, and maybe, just maybe, the lucky boy or girl will respond "YES! I love you too, strange person who I have never met".

“To the extremely muscley woman at Paddington on Thursday, I was the tiny, mustached man with the comb over. Can I watch you work out? Please?"

“I was the tall guy with the hundred yard stare and the knife on the N4 night bus to Islington on Saturday. Any of the women on there will do.”

“You told me to ‘fuck off you fucking weirdo, put your cock away’ on the tube at Baker Street on Wednesday night. Want to give it another go?”

“Homeless man who just stole a guy’s mobile needs change for food. You will find me in a green sleeping bag at Liverpool Street. Nothing less than 50p, please, my dealer is pissed off at me using coppers.”

“To the girl who always dresses really funky at Tufnell Park, In my head you’re the answer to my bullshit life. Drinks? xox”

“To the shifty eyed, scruffy looking man at Tottenham Court Road. I know you took my purse but I think I love you”

“I was the guy kicking the shit out of the Asian fella on the 12:02 to Milton Keynes, you were the fit bitch looking on, horrified. Meet up, yeah?”

“To the really old creepy guy who stares at me in the mornings while touching his cock, my self esteem has hit rock bottom after a series of life-shattering let downs. Lunch tomorrow?”

“I was the guy at Goodge St tube station, you’re the girl who had a clump of her hair pulled out at Goodge street Tube station – I still have it x”

“You’re the girl reading The Da Vinci code, five years after everyone else. I’m the guy that whispered the ending in your ear at Oxford St”

Drug maths

Going past some yoofs in Camden yesterday, I was treated to some very technical drug maths.

Yoof 1: "'ow much we gonna get yeah?"

Yoof 2: "Well, right, we bin off a week yeah, and we gone through 30 quid's worth, and we still 'ave a week left."

Yoof 1: "So we gotta get 40 quid's worth?"

Yoof 3: "yeah, man, get 40"

Yoof 2: "yeah, bruv, wicked"

Drug maths.

2 + 2 = 4 and a bit.

3 + 3 = about 8.

10 + 10 = shitloads.