#0160. INADVERTENTLY WEARING A TOP -- OR COMBINATION OF TOPS -- THAT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A VICAR.

The problem's compounded when, like this man, you naturally look quite a lot like a vicar anyway.

#0159. MY 'ONLY FOOLS AND HORSES' ALARM CLOCK.

There are no nice alarm tones. No matter how calm and soothing they sound the night before, come 7.15am they're clanging death-bells being hammered with untuned violins. But sweet baby Jesus, there has to be a better way than this...

You have no idea how confusing it is to be woken up every day by having someone else's name shouted at you. 

And not only is my first thought of the day, "Jesus Christ... I'm Nicholas Lyndhurst!" it's also quite obvious from the urgency in David Jason's voice that there's some kind of trouble afoot. Possibly involving Uncle Albert and/or an unpaid VAT bill relating to those Spanish calculators we shifted in the Nag's Head last week. 

(And then I think, "Well, if all this goes belly up I could always live off Cassandra's income for a while. And thank god I've got that CGE in computers...")

Then it plays the theme tune. And I'm awake. 

Welcome to the day. 

Thanks, fuckers. 

#0158. GETTING A BULLY-BOY IN A HEADLOCK, THEN REALISING YOU'VE PASSED THE POINT OF NO RETURN, AND THAT SUDDENLY YOU'RE QUITE RELUCTANT TO LET HIM GO.

It's a bit like Guantanamo Bay -- you can keep them there indefinitely, but the longer you do, the higher the chance of reprisals afterwards.

Which is why I once held one particular bully-boy in a headlock for an entire 30-minute lunch-break.

Granted it wasn't recently.

But you know, I've got nothing to say about Swine Flu.

So.

#0157. THE WAY TV SPORTS PRESENTER JOHN INVERDALE ISN'T DISABLED.

Seriously, have you ever seen anyone who'd look more at home in a wheelchair?

I can just see him now -- "Oi mate, give us a push!" 

Or whatever it is people in wheelchairs say.

At the absolute least he's got the look of someone who works closely with the disabled. That's the dry, unstyled hair of a man who knows his way around an electric bath-lift.

But no, apparently he's fully able.

Confusing.

#0156. HIGHLY SPECIFIC INTERNET POLLS, AND THEIR LARGELY UNSURPRISING RESULTS.

Oh yeah, there's something I've been meaning to ask you...

Just curious, because it's kind of a hot topic right now. Don't know whether you've heard, but it's pretty much the question on everyone's lips, sort of thing. 

Hang on. The votes are in. They've been counted and verified by an independent adjudicator and I can now reveal the final result is as follows: 

Wow. Glad we've finally cleared that one up.

#0155. POST-WOTSIT eMAC INTERFACING.

I'm guessing Steve Jobs doesn't eat many Wotsits.

Because if he did he'd realise that having a white computer can be a real pain in the balls when you've just bought a multibag of highly orange corn snacks.

And it's not just an aesthetic thing. I'm pretty sure that if my girlfriend is ever going to find out about my grubby little secret hobby, it won't be the internet history that gives me away:

It'll either be that or the orange fingermarks on my penis.

#0154. ACCIDENTALLY LETTING IT SLIP THAT YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE IN A LARGE GROUP WHO REMEMBERS HOW 'WOMANIZER' BY BRITNEY SPEARS GOES.

Because there is no peer pressure in the world that compares with the one where everyone just stands looking at you going:

"Sing it."

"Yeah go on sing it!"

"Just sing it."

"Don't be such a nob, just sing it."

"Sing a bit of a it."

"Yeah at least sing a bit of it."

"Oi everyone -- Sing it! Sing it! Sing it! Sing it! Sing it!"

"I'd sing it if I knew it."

Until eventually you just give up and say, "OK, fine! I'll just sing a bit of it. God!"

And then you look down at your feet, and you let you let fly.

Happy now, bitches?

#0153. THE CONSTANT AND OVERWHELMING URGE TO LET MY ONE ASIAN FRIEND KNOW THAT I'VE FINALLY SEEN 'SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE.'

It's only been 24 hours and already I'm getting the urge to text him with the big news. I'm 99% certain this is the final proof I'm not racist.

But I'll wait. I'll wait until we're next on the train together, then as soon as there's a natural lull in the conversation, I'll hit him with it.

ME: ... Oh god yeah by the way. FYI sort of thing -- I've seen it.

HIM: What sorry? 

ME: You know, 'The Film.' I've seen it. Slumdog. 

HIM: Right. 

ME: Yep. Slumdog Millionaire. One third of the dialogue in Hindi. 

HIM: Yeah?

ME: Oh yeah, easy. And loved it and everything. Oh and before I forget -- my favourite bit was the big dancing bit at the end. Shits all over the big dancing bit in Mama Mia.  

HIM: Haven't seen it. 

ME: Slumdog? Oh you really should. Mumbai though. So colourful! Colours! Vibrant! God it's vibrant. Too bloody vibrant, almost.

SILENCE.

HIM: Can't believe they're only running a four-coach service out of Euston. 

ME: Hmm? Yeah.

#0152. AGEING, MIDDLE-CLASS ENGLISH MEN WITH THE KIND OF HAIR YOU'RE ONLY SUPPOSED TO SEE AT ORGIES OR ASSASSINS CONVENTIONS.

"Hang on... OK it's a woman. Phew! For one second I thought that was an old man with a pony... Oh my god, it is! It's a dude! ... Jesus Christ that's revolting..."

"Shit, he's coming this way! He's coming, he's coming, he's coming! ... Oh my god, what if it touches me?! ..."

"OK, he's gone... And I think I've just been sick in my mouth."

#0151. SPANISH GOTHS WHO'D JUST PREFER IT IF CHICKS KNEW UPFRONT THAT THEY'RE REALLY AWESOME AT PLAYING THE GUITAR.

Because there's just no point in trying to keep it a secret. OK, you can probably hide the fact that you're a really amazing guitarist for the first couple of dates, but then what?

There she is, in a relationship with some bloke who she thinks is just a nice, ordinary, average guy then BANG -- six months down the line she finds out that, actually, he can play the solo from 'Free Bird' without even looking down at his fingers.

That's just not fair.

#0150. DOCTORS WHO DO THE WHOLE "SO, WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING?" THING DURING THE GENITAL EXAM AND NOT, FOR EXAMPLE, BEFORE OR AFTER.

I'm happy to exchange small talk with my doctor. Really not a problem. It's just, if it's all the same to him, I'd rather do it when I had my pants on, when there wasn't a spotlight burning onto my nutsack, and when he's very much not firmly rubbing my testicles between his thumb and forefinger.

Because to be honest, there's just something about trying to describe Nicholas Lyndhurst while another man cradles your balls that feels quite weird.

#0149. OLD MEN WHO RECKON THEY'RE REALLY GOOD WITH COMPUTERS.

And I tell you what's even more annoying -- old men who shout "NOW THEN!" all the time, as if they're about to tell you something really amazing, but who then don't actually have anything to say at all. 

#0148. BREAKING OUT MY JAZZIEST, COOLEST, MOST AWESOME FONTS, THEN HORRIBLY MISJUDGING HOW MUCH SPACE I'VE GOT TO PLAY WITH.

Always the cocksucking Y.

#0147. WORKING HARD/PLAYING HARD.

Working hard -- fine. Playing hard -- not really a massive fan. 

From what I can gather, 'playing hard' mainly involves clocking off from work, not even having time to change your socks or have any tea, immediately engaging in some kind of contact sport and not having a bubble bath afterwards, then drinking beer and taking the piss out of your colleague Jacko for his terrible bloody taste in work ties while missing Ross Kemp On Gangs, before finally going to a nightclub and staying up really late talking to girls who've never even heard of Fallout 3.

Er... no thanks!

You fucking losers.

#0146. STANDING AT BAGGAGE RECLAIM AND REALISING THAT THE NEW IMAGE YOU CULTIVATED WHILE ON HOLIDAY MIGHT NOT WORK IN THE "NON-HOLIDAY" CONTEXT.

Yes I'm talking to you, Man In The Cowboy Hat With The Rolled-Up Jacket Sleeves Who's Obviously Just Been On Holiday To LA.

Look at the body language. He's already worrying about what he's going to say the first time he walks back into his local pub.

"What this hat? Nah I've always worn it, but erm... so, drinks?"

#0145. "NOW, HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TO NANDO'S BEFORE?"

Every week I'm in Nando's. And every week I'm served by the same man. And yet every week he utters the same seven words, each one a dagger through my heart:

"Have you ever been to Nando's before?"

This is what I want to say: "Yes I have you insensitive bastard. You served me, remember? Oh I'm just a number to you, aren't I? I'm just the number on that little metal chicken you stick into my table. Well fuck you, and I tell you what, fuck Nando. I said it. At least Colonel Sanders has the balls to put his face on his restaurants. Prick."

This is what I actually say: "Yes."

But I know what's really going on here. They're just pretending they don't remember me so they can keep my self-esteem down and I won't realise I can do better and start eating in Pizza Express.

Well it won't work Nando, you fucker.

And another thing -- that sink next to the drinks machine? Tacky Nando. Very tacky.

#0144. TRYING TO BLOW-UP AN INFLATABLE MATTRESS WHEN YOU'RE QUITE DRUNK AND YOU'VE GOT A REALLY WEAK GAG REFLEX.

(You'll need sound.)

#0143. SPANISH AMATEUR PORNOGRAPHERS AND THE CONTINUED SQUANDERING OF THEIR NATURAL RESOURCES.

I mean for god's sake, you've got a hot Mediterranean woman in knee-high sexboots and impractical underpants -- surely it's impossible to make her look unsexy. Right?

Apparently not if you're an amateur pornographer and you're from Spain. All you do is pose her at a cheap keyboard, lay some sheet music out, then put a pair of jumbo headphones on her as if to suggest she's currently listening to the demo track.

And there you go. Job done. Seriously, they shouldn't be allowed to make their own pornography if this is the kind of sick rubbish they're going to peddle.

#0142. UNIMAGINATIVE LOCAL NEWSPAPER HEADLINES.

Come on, that's not a headline, that's just the first sentence of the article in a really big font. And OK, I appreciate you have to be sensitive with these things, but a little pun isn't going to hurt anyone, is it?

I'm thinking 'Meat Head,' I'm thinking 'Chop Shop', I'm thinking 'Heads Will Roll.' I don't know, not my job. But give me something.

#0141. USING A PIECE OF GYM EQUIPMENT IMMEDIATELY AFTER A WOMAN OR A CHILD.

I mean, obviously I can benchpress like, you know, a whole shitload of weight. And as for reps, don't talk to me about reps. I have got reps coming out of my arsehole. We're talking anywhere between five and ten.

Unfortunately it seems however high I like my weight settings on a given piece of gym equipment, the woman or child who used it immediately before me always had it set quite a lot higher.

Which is when I have to go through the elaborate charade of pretending to put the weight setting up while sneakily taking it down to somewhere around the 5kg level, then completing my five reps, then covertly putting it back really high for the next person.

It's more exhausting than my actual work-out . Which is punishing. Obviously.