Thank you. Friends, family, randoms off the street, despite the fact that the blog hasn't been updated for several months now, i'm still getting about two people visit it every day. Where as these figures won't really worry Bill Gates, they are more than sufficient to massage my fragile ego.
Apologies for the delay and rest assured there is plenty for us to catch up on...
Sunday 23 December 2007
Saturday 25 August 2007
She Winked at me!
So how did you two meet?
Technology is making it easier and easier to meet people, helping to bridge the burgeoning gap created by societies rapidly diminishing social skills.
It's all about supply and demand, identify a problem and come up with a solution, if it works you will make a lot of money, it really is that simple.
Problem: When out socialising with companions, I spot a pretty lady. I want to approach her and express my feelings but I lack the confidence to do so.
Solution: Alcohol
Problem: I meet a pretty lady in a night club establishment, we share conversation and a kiss and kindly she gives me her number. I wish to pursue the matter the following day, but in the cold light of sobriety concerns set in that perhaps she won't feel the same way and a phone call will only end in awkward rejection. What I want is a way to find out how she feels, without leaving myself so exposed.
Solution: Text Messages
But still it's not enough is it. Alcohol can give you unfounded confidence and text messages can distance you from the pain of potential rejection, but still you wish, you hope for an easier way to make that initial approach and cushion the emotional body blow of unrequited affection.
Solution: Online dating
Having previously viewed people that 'resort' to the Internet to find companionship as sad bastards, I finally realised that I am indeed a sad bastard and instantaneously logged in. I have not looked back.
Firstly I can confirm that a lot of what you have heard is true, most of the people on these sites are wack jobs. There are a lot of very young single mothers...a lot. Most of the messages come from women living hundreds of miles away wanting to chat and then you get people like 'randyrose' messaging you.
Aged 57 she lives 86 miles away in Leicestershire, is retired and enjoys sunbathing topless, a nice bathroom and hot young guys with a nice bottom.
Needless to say I have yet to correspond with 'randyrose', or indeed a number of other ladies who have messaged me on the site, some of which became quite hostile because of this.
If your a girl on one of these sites, it's much, much worse. An attractive lady will easily get 40 messages a day, many of which, and I'm being completely honest here, contain proposals of marriage.
If your a guy, this is actually a good thing as although a girl will get 40 messages a day, very few will be from someone in their desired age range and proximity and I guess most importantly from someone that seems normal.
This can make you quite a desirable commodity in the online world, but be careful as everything is not always as it seems...
Technology is making it easier and easier to meet people, helping to bridge the burgeoning gap created by societies rapidly diminishing social skills.
It's all about supply and demand, identify a problem and come up with a solution, if it works you will make a lot of money, it really is that simple.
Problem: When out socialising with companions, I spot a pretty lady. I want to approach her and express my feelings but I lack the confidence to do so.
Solution: Alcohol
Problem: I meet a pretty lady in a night club establishment, we share conversation and a kiss and kindly she gives me her number. I wish to pursue the matter the following day, but in the cold light of sobriety concerns set in that perhaps she won't feel the same way and a phone call will only end in awkward rejection. What I want is a way to find out how she feels, without leaving myself so exposed.
Solution: Text Messages
But still it's not enough is it. Alcohol can give you unfounded confidence and text messages can distance you from the pain of potential rejection, but still you wish, you hope for an easier way to make that initial approach and cushion the emotional body blow of unrequited affection.
Solution: Online dating
Having previously viewed people that 'resort' to the Internet to find companionship as sad bastards, I finally realised that I am indeed a sad bastard and instantaneously logged in. I have not looked back.
Firstly I can confirm that a lot of what you have heard is true, most of the people on these sites are wack jobs. There are a lot of very young single mothers...a lot. Most of the messages come from women living hundreds of miles away wanting to chat and then you get people like 'randyrose' messaging you.
Aged 57 she lives 86 miles away in Leicestershire, is retired and enjoys sunbathing topless, a nice bathroom and hot young guys with a nice bottom.
Needless to say I have yet to correspond with 'randyrose', or indeed a number of other ladies who have messaged me on the site, some of which became quite hostile because of this.
If your a girl on one of these sites, it's much, much worse. An attractive lady will easily get 40 messages a day, many of which, and I'm being completely honest here, contain proposals of marriage.
If your a guy, this is actually a good thing as although a girl will get 40 messages a day, very few will be from someone in their desired age range and proximity and I guess most importantly from someone that seems normal.
This can make you quite a desirable commodity in the online world, but be careful as everything is not always as it seems...
Sunday 15 July 2007
The Perils of Online Dating
Sorry I don't do oral on a first date...
In the interests of Science, I thought that I may get some blog worthy material out of trialling a bit of the old online dating malarkey. I mean what have I got to lose, best case scenario I get a date with a lovely young lady, worse case scenario I get an amusing anecdote.
So where to start? As this was my first foray into the wonderful world of online dating, I erred on the side of financial caution and chose a site called Gumtree.com where it is completely free to upload your profile.
For those of you unfamiliar with Gumtree, is was initially set up to provide Antipodeans with free information on rooms to let in London. It soon became hugely popular and extended it's services into other areas such as jobs, stuff for sale and dating.
It really is the cowards dating dream. It costs nothing, you don't have to use your own name, they can hide your e-mail address and most importantly you don't have to go through the probable rejection of approaching a female and getting turned down.
So I uploaded a profile, just giving the basic details such as age, occupation, interests, as well as a bit about the sort of girl I was looking for i.e. preferably still breathing, with a general level of symmetry in bodily features. There was no photo of me attached, as explained I am a coward.
So that was it, very simple, just took a couple of minutes and then it was time to play the waiting game. I had uploaded this in the morning and checked my e-mail box later than day, there were no new mail. So I checked Gumtree, sure enough my profile was up on the site, but such is the popularity I had been pushed down to page five and was now underneath the listings of hundreds of other online predators.
So I refreshed my profile to put me back in the first position. My lack of a social life that weekend was going to give me a real positional edge over these other losers. While they squander their day socialising and living their life, I could refresh like crazy.
And it worked, kind of, as this morning upon opening my inbox there was a fresh e-mail awaiting my perusal. I have literally (bar the name) copied and pasted this below, I promise it is genuine:
HI mate
1stly I hope you wont be offended by this email.I am a 27yo, fit bi lad looking to give bj to str8 guys. I am str8 looking and have a hot mouth and can suck till completion. Just sit back and need not do anything in return.
Genuine offer and if u havent had a guy suck u before , its very horny! Try it guys give better bj than gals! I am in NW central London.Hope to hear from u.
Matt
I mean look at the misuse of grammar, completely unacceptable. In addition to this, he seems to have skimmed over the fact that I was looking for a female, still beggars can't be choosers...no apologies 'Matt' but you are not quite what I am looking for and both our quests for online love/bj's must go on.
Next stop, online dating via a Social Network, ladies of Facebook prepare yourself...
In the interests of Science, I thought that I may get some blog worthy material out of trialling a bit of the old online dating malarkey. I mean what have I got to lose, best case scenario I get a date with a lovely young lady, worse case scenario I get an amusing anecdote.
So where to start? As this was my first foray into the wonderful world of online dating, I erred on the side of financial caution and chose a site called Gumtree.com where it is completely free to upload your profile.
For those of you unfamiliar with Gumtree, is was initially set up to provide Antipodeans with free information on rooms to let in London. It soon became hugely popular and extended it's services into other areas such as jobs, stuff for sale and dating.
It really is the cowards dating dream. It costs nothing, you don't have to use your own name, they can hide your e-mail address and most importantly you don't have to go through the probable rejection of approaching a female and getting turned down.
So I uploaded a profile, just giving the basic details such as age, occupation, interests, as well as a bit about the sort of girl I was looking for i.e. preferably still breathing, with a general level of symmetry in bodily features. There was no photo of me attached, as explained I am a coward.
So that was it, very simple, just took a couple of minutes and then it was time to play the waiting game. I had uploaded this in the morning and checked my e-mail box later than day, there were no new mail. So I checked Gumtree, sure enough my profile was up on the site, but such is the popularity I had been pushed down to page five and was now underneath the listings of hundreds of other online predators.
So I refreshed my profile to put me back in the first position. My lack of a social life that weekend was going to give me a real positional edge over these other losers. While they squander their day socialising and living their life, I could refresh like crazy.
And it worked, kind of, as this morning upon opening my inbox there was a fresh e-mail awaiting my perusal. I have literally (bar the name) copied and pasted this below, I promise it is genuine:
HI mate
1stly I hope you wont be offended by this email.I am a 27yo, fit bi lad looking to give bj to str8 guys. I am str8 looking and have a hot mouth and can suck till completion. Just sit back and need not do anything in return.
Genuine offer and if u havent had a guy suck u before , its very horny! Try it guys give better bj than gals! I am in NW central London.Hope to hear from u.
Matt
I mean look at the misuse of grammar, completely unacceptable. In addition to this, he seems to have skimmed over the fact that I was looking for a female, still beggars can't be choosers...no apologies 'Matt' but you are not quite what I am looking for and both our quests for online love/bj's must go on.
Next stop, online dating via a Social Network, ladies of Facebook prepare yourself...
Ignorance is Bliss
Out of Sight Out of Mind...Until you View the Photos on Facebook.
One Friday night a couple of weekends ago, I was enjoying myself at a friends wedding, merrily working my way through the £1,000 tab that had been put behind the bar, when I received a text from my housemate.
It read, 'where are you, we're having a massive house party?'. My housemate was on a night out with his mates and in addition his brother was staying with us, as he and a load of his friends were in England as part of a round the world trip, the capacity for carnage was rife.
I was momentarily disappointed that two fine social events had collided in my normally sparse calendar, but didn't give it too much thought as I was having a splendid time at the wedding.
Having stayed overnight in a hotel, I returned to my house mid afternoon on the Saturday. The house seemed to be in fine fettle and certainly there was no evidence of the anticipated carnage. All the attendees had already left and my housemates were pretty cagey when I asked how the night was.
The only feedback I got was, 'it was all right, just had a few beers'. I put this lack of enthusiasm down to them being hung over and being pretty jaded myself from my own festivities I didn't spend too much time pursuing my line of questioning.
A few days later, surfing through the pages of the social network site Facebook, I came across these photos on my housemates brother's profile page:
So...a load of men came round my house and for some reason walked around my living room topless.
One Friday night a couple of weekends ago, I was enjoying myself at a friends wedding, merrily working my way through the £1,000 tab that had been put behind the bar, when I received a text from my housemate.
It read, 'where are you, we're having a massive house party?'. My housemate was on a night out with his mates and in addition his brother was staying with us, as he and a load of his friends were in England as part of a round the world trip, the capacity for carnage was rife.
I was momentarily disappointed that two fine social events had collided in my normally sparse calendar, but didn't give it too much thought as I was having a splendid time at the wedding.
Having stayed overnight in a hotel, I returned to my house mid afternoon on the Saturday. The house seemed to be in fine fettle and certainly there was no evidence of the anticipated carnage. All the attendees had already left and my housemates were pretty cagey when I asked how the night was.
The only feedback I got was, 'it was all right, just had a few beers'. I put this lack of enthusiasm down to them being hung over and being pretty jaded myself from my own festivities I didn't spend too much time pursuing my line of questioning.
A few days later, surfing through the pages of the social network site Facebook, I came across these photos on my housemates brother's profile page:
So...a load of men came round my house and for some reason walked around my living room topless.
So many questions, so scared of the answers...in the end I decided it was best to just live in blissful ignorance. Permanently terrified, blissful ignorance.
Saturday 30 June 2007
I have 164 friends...
Keep your friends close and your enemies on 'Limited Profile'.
And that's another worrying thing, it's not just your mates that are using the site, everyone is. Your potential employers are using it, just imagine you have sailed through the first two interviews just to have it all scuppered by your boss to be perusing your profile and taking offence to a photo of you with your arse out. As for your current employers, if they are looking at your profile it alerts them if your online, so be careful between 9-5 you workshy bastard.
Yes I am of course referring to the Social Network 'phenomenon' that is Facebook. For me it started off innocently enough, my friend posted a load of photos on the site of a recent group holiday to Krakow. I wanted to see them and get a copy so I signed up and sure enough it was an excellent way for him to distribute these photos easily to the 11 people that had been on the holiday.
Impressed by the ease of use, other friends soon signed up and we all became 'friends' within the Facebook community. I then noticed someone at work using Facebook and thought it would be just super if they became a 'friend' too. Then I got to thinking, gee I wonder who else I know is using the site?
I have had quite a nomadic life, I was born in Kuwait, lived the first three years in Canterbury, then bar a brief spell in Kensington during the Gulf War, lived Bahrain until the age of 15. On returning to England I located to Surrey, went to University in Nottingham and now live in London. In addition to this I have worked for three companies, all with hundreds of employees.
Not surprisingly I have met and lost contact with a huge number of friends, colleagues and class mates. So I typed in the name of my best friend aged 10 and sure enough he was on the site, so I sent a friend request and we became friends. I looked at the friends he had and there was more people I used to know, so I sent them friend requests too. I soon became addicted and searched for as many names from my past that my memory could remember and sent friend requests to them all. As it stands I have 164 friends...what a load of bollocks.
I hate myself and I am sure I am not alone. Have you found yourself asking someone 'how many friends they have' and then smiled smugly when the total is less than yours? Have you had your ego dented when they reveal they have more friends than you?
Because that is what it all boils down to, ego. What started out as a simple desire to view some holiday photos, has manifested into a quest for cyber social domination and we haven't even begun to mention the stalking!
Yes you start off searching for your current friends and a couple of people who's number you have lost, but how long was it before you typed in the name of an ex girlfriend? Ah there she is, the bitch, looking real smug in her photo. Lets look at a few more of her photos, great she got fat I win, or no she finally shifted those last few pounds God I wish I was still with her. Wait a minute who is this guy she's with in all these photos?
Quickly check the relationship status, she's in a relationship with Steve. God he's a handsome man, like something out of Greek mythology, the bastard. Still what do I care, I'm with someone now and I'm happy...sort of.
Because it does make you think, doesn't it and worse of all it gives you to opportunity to reaffirm those fears. There's a few instances when, praise the lord, she's now a minger and it looks like the relationship ending was the best thing that could have happened to you. But the instances when she looks radiant and stunning and oh so happy with her current squeeze, stir the seeds of jealously inside you and make you think what if?
Still it's may not be that bad, she only looks that good because she has had one of those 'artistic' photos taken. Who are these cretins that get the professional photo's taken for their profile? What are they trying to achieve, yeah the photo may get you a date, but the guys still going to run for the hills when he sees you in the flesh. Maybe they think that once they get the chance to know them looks won't matter, after all personality is what really counts. Idiots.
Because of course you can use the site to get a date if you want. You can do an advanced search for single girls in your area to match whatever criteria you feel is important. You can search for 17 year old girls in London who' favourite film is 'Titanic' if that's what floats your boat (pun intended). 'Looking for' is one of my favourite settings, with 'Friendship' an option commonly chosen. I know your looking for friendship love, you have 325 friends!
And on that note, who amongst us can honestly say they haven't accepted a stranger or possibly worse someone who has actually wronged you at some stage as a friend, just to bump up the numbers. Are you someone that searches for people with the same name as you and invite them to be a friend, wow your crazy kooky, on the one hand I detest you but at the same time I can confirm that there is currently no one else on the site called Alex Cornford. I know because I have checked.
I remember when I first got a mobile phone, I would check the bugger every two minutes to see if someone had texted. If it had been days since the last text, I would actually be depressed. I eventually grew out of this phase, that was until Facebook came along. Now I have to log on whenever possible to see if I have any messages, or more importantly Friend Requests. Oh the dizzy excitement of a friend request, the momentary anticipation of who it may be from. Is it a former girlfriend, maybe a mysterious and gorgeous stranger, nope neither it's Bill from the finance department we spoke once when I needed sign off on a form, still I will accept him none the less, now there's 165 'friends'.
And that's another worrying thing, it's not just your mates that are using the site, everyone is. Your potential employers are using it, just imagine you have sailed through the first two interviews just to have it all scuppered by your boss to be perusing your profile and taking offence to a photo of you with your arse out. As for your current employers, if they are looking at your profile it alerts them if your online, so be careful between 9-5 you workshy bastard.I guess that's what the privacy settings are for. I have got the proverbial Fort Knox 
settings for my profile after one particular friend request came through. I work in the online industry and deal with hundreds of people, helping them with their requests. A number of them have gone to the length to look up my name on the site and sent off a request to be my friend, literally after exchanging one business related e-mail dialogue. This scared the hell out of me, I didn't want every weirdo out there having full access to my personal information and most importantly current address. It was at this point I realised just how many people are viewing all my details and potentially how damaging the photos of me having vomited on my jeans could be.
settings for my profile after one particular friend request came through. I work in the online industry and deal with hundreds of people, helping them with their requests. A number of them have gone to the length to look up my name on the site and sent off a request to be my friend, literally after exchanging one business related e-mail dialogue. This scared the hell out of me, I didn't want every weirdo out there having full access to my personal information and most importantly current address. It was at this point I realised just how many people are viewing all my details and potentially how damaging the photos of me having vomited on my jeans could be. So where do we go from here. No doubt I will continue to use Facebook and continue to check my updates page periodically at morning, noon and night. Hopefully I and the rest of society will soon get bored, I am already hacked off with all the 'fun' new updates such as the 'moods' monitor which very usefully relays details on how your mood has changed over time. If I used the dam thing, it would show that I got pretty pissed off just about the time that they released all this crap. Maybe then I can concentrate more on physical communication with the people who are actually in my life, rather than sending desperate pleas for a signal of acceptance to some bloke I knocked about with at the age of 10 who now lives in Kuala Lumpa.
Saturday 16 June 2007
Fisticuffs, Shaving Foam, Soiled Sheets and a Parrot
Rome wasn't built in a day, but Croydon on the other hand...
It was a Friday and I had taken the day off work as I was heading down to Brighton to attend my good friend Russel's stag do. We had all paid 220 pounds up front for a 'crazy' weekend package that guaranteed fun, fun, fun.
Money was a bit tight, but luckily my chum Simon was driving down and offered to give me a lift, all I had to do was meet him at Croydon. For those of you that have never been to Croydon, I can confirm that it is the armpit of London. Advertised on the 'Croydon' name boards at the station, is that Croydon is the home of the Nestle factory.
That's their claim to fame, the highlight, that the city boasts a factory. How many Japanese tourists do you think they have stolen from Buckingham palace with that pitch? Still the lift was going to save me about 20 pounds sterling, so I couldn't complain.
I left my house at 14:00 and arrived at Croydon at 15:00. I had been instructed by Simon to meet him at the Blockbusters, which he reliably informed me, was a couple of minutes walk from the station.
15 minutes later I was in the heart of the Croydon beast, with no Blockbusters to be seen.
On the Seventh day God rested, talk about early retirement the lazy bastard, get your arse back in the office on Monday and sort Croydon out. It transpired that I had passed the meeting place 10 minutes ago, the reason for this being that Blockbusters had now closed, no doubt making way for a trendy Yate's wine bar.
Any way I finally found Simon and we set off on our way to Brighton...well for five minutes anyway. As we head down a motorway steam starts to emit from Simon's car.
Simon turns to me, 'that doesn't look good', I agree with him. The hazard lights get switched on and we pull over to the side of the motorway, the lack of a hard shoulder makes this somewhat precarious.
We both stand in front of the bonnet, there is a hell of a lot of smoke coming out of it and privately, as I suggest to Simon that he flicks open the bonnet, I worry that the car is on fire.
As I bravely stand well back, Simon pulls the catch and opens the bonnet. Relief, there is no sign of fire but the smoke is undoubtedly a cause for concern. Neither of us know a thing about cars, but we stare intently trying to ascertain exactly what has gone wrong. Luckily even an automotively challenged individual such as myself could diagnose that the water tank being completely empty may be a contributing factor to our dilemma.
I ask Simon when he last put any water in, 'I don't know' was his reply. Are you a member of the AA or RAC was my next question, 'No' was the answer...bollocks. We were in the middle of nowhere , it was 15:30 in the day and we had broken down on the motorway. Friday rush hour was closing in, but luckily I need not worry as my comrade leapt into action declaring that he would go and fetch us the water the car so desperately needed.
So I sat on the grass verge, confident that with automotive liquid replenishment we would soon be on our way. 45 minutes later Simon returns, a large plastic McDonald's cup in each hand.
'What's that, couldn't you get a bottle of water?'
'It was all they had, dam the government pressure stopping them serving the supersize portions'
So he pours both cups into the tank, the water level is still well below the 'minimum' line. We get back in the car, Simon turns the ignition and now the car won't even start.
It's now about 16:30 and the road is getting pretty busy, it's wide enough for two cars but is still pretty dangerous. Simon doesn't want to call his dad, because he will get told off for automotive neglect. Instead he frantically calls round his friends to see if any of them can give us a tow. Eventually he gets through to one, but he is at work so won't be able to get there until 17:15 at the earliest.
17:45 - several near collisions and a hundred dirty looks from fellow drivers later, our saviour arrives. Despite not thinking to put water in his car, ever, Simon did take the precautionary measure of keeping a tow rope in his boot. Unfortunately it was more of a tow string and it soon became apparent that someone was in danger of losing a bumper. Subsequently we ditched the car in the nearest residential area and ran. Simon's friend kindly gave us a lift and three hours later I was back at Croydon station.
Having purchased the 20 pound ticket, we were on our way. We got to Brighton at about 19:00 and instructed a taxi driver to take us to the Blue Lagoon B&B. He had no idea where it was, this was not a good sign.
The Blue Lagoon was situated on the outskirts of Brighton, no different really to any local dive, except they had a parrot in the corner. I believe the rooms were modelled on a leading Korean sweatshop, with seven of us in each. It was the first time I had slept on a bunk bed since the age of 12.
Still I was just happy to finally be there and quickly unpacked my stuff and shot down to their pub for a pint. Soon after the taxi's arrived to take us into town. Two of Russel's fiances Stevenage born and bred uncles had come down for the weekend and I was to have my first conversation with one of them in the taxi.
The majority of us knew each other from working in sales for a publishing house and as we regaled on the good old times, Uncle Steve chimes in with,
'I work in sales selling time shares. I'm the best salesman in the world, I've never met anyone that is as good as me.'
There was a brief silence, there was no humour in his voice, he clearly thought this. We ignored him and continued to chat amongst ourselves.
'I'm brilliant at sales...'
I couldn't take it any more and retorted with, 'Listen mate, you bored us the first time with that.'
He didn't like that, but at least it shut him up. Uncle knob heads introductory opening aside, the rest of the night went swimmingly with a good time being had by all. We all returned to the Blue Lagoon in small hours, intoxicated to the level one would expect for a stag do. But the fun was not to stop there.
My good friend Ollie thought he would play a humorous jape on Simon and crept into his room in the dark of night. Having rummaged through a bag, he located some shaving foam and proceeded to coat the facial regions of his target.
All of a sudden Simon walks into the room. Ollie does a double take, if Simon was there then who was he spraying with shaving foam? It was Russel's other Uncle 'dangerous' Dave, who he had only met 4 hours ago. Simon, with full knowledge that it was Dave still thought that Ollie was onto a winner and grasped the shaving foam from his hand and went about finishing the job.
Dave's eyes open, he sees Simon standing over him and with both hands goes for his jugular. Everything kicks off and somehow it all bundles out into the corridor. Everyone is trying to calm the Uncles down and explain the 'innocent' mistake that has occurred. Intoxication levels don't help and when Uncle Steve thinks that Russel is siding with his friends over his soon to be extended family, he loses it and swings for Russel. A couple of us pull the Uncle back and he falls to the floor and is swiftly booted to the head by Russel's protective younger brother.
Eventually and amazingly it all calms down and everyone returns to bed, myself and Simon areluckily sharing the same room as the Uncles, thank god I was drunk.
We arise the next morning about 9:00, the same time that uncle Dave in his infinite wisdom had booked the paint balling for. Tensions were still high, Ollie decided that the rest of the weekend would go a lot smoother if he was to leave and jumped on an early train home.
Russel insisted on the Uncle's additionally making an early departure and although they proclaim that there was still unfinished business, they agreed to do so. I was in the room as Uncle Steve was packing his bags. Still incensed that he had been kicked in the head, he explained that he had been bullied until the age of 14. It was then that he decided to take Karate lessons and much like sales, this was an area in which he excelled. This noble vigilante then hunted down anyone that had wronged him and proceeded to gain retribution. He had swore to himself that no one would ever get the better of him ever again, which is why he could not simply forgive Russel's brother.
I was then to learn just how 'dangerous' Uncle Dave was and how close Ollie was to losing his life. Apparently Dave usually sleeps with a knife, well in fact both Uncle's do, dating back to their camping days. Also Dave has a mild sleep walking problem and can sometimes become quite disorientated, something I would imagine can be quite precarious when one sleeps with a blade.
Steve said his goodbyes, the silver lining being that we would now have more time to close a few of his big timeshare deals. I relayed this new information to Russel, both Simon and I thanked him rooming us with the Chuckle Brothers.
He claimed that he had no idea they were like that, something we may have believed if he hadn't been with his wife to be for 7 years. Still the remainder of weekend went off without a hitch, that was until Sunday morning.
Simon, clearly learning from past experiences had rubbed a mars bar into my hair while I was sleeping. It looked like I had soiled my sheets and we were due to check out there and then, this could scupper my chances with the barmaid downstairs. A taxi was booked promptly and we managed to escape with deposit in tact.
The wedding is in two weeks, in Stevenage, should be interesting.
It was a Friday and I had taken the day off work as I was heading down to Brighton to attend my good friend Russel's stag do. We had all paid 220 pounds up front for a 'crazy' weekend package that guaranteed fun, fun, fun.
Money was a bit tight, but luckily my chum Simon was driving down and offered to give me a lift, all I had to do was meet him at Croydon. For those of you that have never been to Croydon, I can confirm that it is the armpit of London. Advertised on the 'Croydon' name boards at the station, is that Croydon is the home of the Nestle factory.
That's their claim to fame, the highlight, that the city boasts a factory. How many Japanese tourists do you think they have stolen from Buckingham palace with that pitch? Still the lift was going to save me about 20 pounds sterling, so I couldn't complain.
I left my house at 14:00 and arrived at Croydon at 15:00. I had been instructed by Simon to meet him at the Blockbusters, which he reliably informed me, was a couple of minutes walk from the station.
15 minutes later I was in the heart of the Croydon beast, with no Blockbusters to be seen.
On the Seventh day God rested, talk about early retirement the lazy bastard, get your arse back in the office on Monday and sort Croydon out. It transpired that I had passed the meeting place 10 minutes ago, the reason for this being that Blockbusters had now closed, no doubt making way for a trendy Yate's wine bar.
Any way I finally found Simon and we set off on our way to Brighton...well for five minutes anyway. As we head down a motorway steam starts to emit from Simon's car.
Simon turns to me, 'that doesn't look good', I agree with him. The hazard lights get switched on and we pull over to the side of the motorway, the lack of a hard shoulder makes this somewhat precarious.
We both stand in front of the bonnet, there is a hell of a lot of smoke coming out of it and privately, as I suggest to Simon that he flicks open the bonnet, I worry that the car is on fire.
As I bravely stand well back, Simon pulls the catch and opens the bonnet. Relief, there is no sign of fire but the smoke is undoubtedly a cause for concern. Neither of us know a thing about cars, but we stare intently trying to ascertain exactly what has gone wrong. Luckily even an automotively challenged individual such as myself could diagnose that the water tank being completely empty may be a contributing factor to our dilemma.
I ask Simon when he last put any water in, 'I don't know' was his reply. Are you a member of the AA or RAC was my next question, 'No' was the answer...bollocks. We were in the middle of nowhere , it was 15:30 in the day and we had broken down on the motorway. Friday rush hour was closing in, but luckily I need not worry as my comrade leapt into action declaring that he would go and fetch us the water the car so desperately needed.
So I sat on the grass verge, confident that with automotive liquid replenishment we would soon be on our way. 45 minutes later Simon returns, a large plastic McDonald's cup in each hand.
'What's that, couldn't you get a bottle of water?'
'It was all they had, dam the government pressure stopping them serving the supersize portions'
So he pours both cups into the tank, the water level is still well below the 'minimum' line. We get back in the car, Simon turns the ignition and now the car won't even start.
It's now about 16:30 and the road is getting pretty busy, it's wide enough for two cars but is still pretty dangerous. Simon doesn't want to call his dad, because he will get told off for automotive neglect. Instead he frantically calls round his friends to see if any of them can give us a tow. Eventually he gets through to one, but he is at work so won't be able to get there until 17:15 at the earliest.
17:45 - several near collisions and a hundred dirty looks from fellow drivers later, our saviour arrives. Despite not thinking to put water in his car, ever, Simon did take the precautionary measure of keeping a tow rope in his boot. Unfortunately it was more of a tow string and it soon became apparent that someone was in danger of losing a bumper. Subsequently we ditched the car in the nearest residential area and ran. Simon's friend kindly gave us a lift and three hours later I was back at Croydon station.
Having purchased the 20 pound ticket, we were on our way. We got to Brighton at about 19:00 and instructed a taxi driver to take us to the Blue Lagoon B&B. He had no idea where it was, this was not a good sign.
The Blue Lagoon was situated on the outskirts of Brighton, no different really to any local dive, except they had a parrot in the corner. I believe the rooms were modelled on a leading Korean sweatshop, with seven of us in each. It was the first time I had slept on a bunk bed since the age of 12.
Still I was just happy to finally be there and quickly unpacked my stuff and shot down to their pub for a pint. Soon after the taxi's arrived to take us into town. Two of Russel's fiances Stevenage born and bred uncles had come down for the weekend and I was to have my first conversation with one of them in the taxi.
The majority of us knew each other from working in sales for a publishing house and as we regaled on the good old times, Uncle Steve chimes in with,
'I work in sales selling time shares. I'm the best salesman in the world, I've never met anyone that is as good as me.'
There was a brief silence, there was no humour in his voice, he clearly thought this. We ignored him and continued to chat amongst ourselves.
'I'm brilliant at sales...'
I couldn't take it any more and retorted with, 'Listen mate, you bored us the first time with that.'
He didn't like that, but at least it shut him up. Uncle knob heads introductory opening aside, the rest of the night went swimmingly with a good time being had by all. We all returned to the Blue Lagoon in small hours, intoxicated to the level one would expect for a stag do. But the fun was not to stop there.
My good friend Ollie thought he would play a humorous jape on Simon and crept into his room in the dark of night. Having rummaged through a bag, he located some shaving foam and proceeded to coat the facial regions of his target.
All of a sudden Simon walks into the room. Ollie does a double take, if Simon was there then who was he spraying with shaving foam? It was Russel's other Uncle 'dangerous' Dave, who he had only met 4 hours ago. Simon, with full knowledge that it was Dave still thought that Ollie was onto a winner and grasped the shaving foam from his hand and went about finishing the job.
Dave's eyes open, he sees Simon standing over him and with both hands goes for his jugular. Everything kicks off and somehow it all bundles out into the corridor. Everyone is trying to calm the Uncles down and explain the 'innocent' mistake that has occurred. Intoxication levels don't help and when Uncle Steve thinks that Russel is siding with his friends over his soon to be extended family, he loses it and swings for Russel. A couple of us pull the Uncle back and he falls to the floor and is swiftly booted to the head by Russel's protective younger brother.
Eventually and amazingly it all calms down and everyone returns to bed, myself and Simon areluckily sharing the same room as the Uncles, thank god I was drunk.
We arise the next morning about 9:00, the same time that uncle Dave in his infinite wisdom had booked the paint balling for. Tensions were still high, Ollie decided that the rest of the weekend would go a lot smoother if he was to leave and jumped on an early train home.
Russel insisted on the Uncle's additionally making an early departure and although they proclaim that there was still unfinished business, they agreed to do so. I was in the room as Uncle Steve was packing his bags. Still incensed that he had been kicked in the head, he explained that he had been bullied until the age of 14. It was then that he decided to take Karate lessons and much like sales, this was an area in which he excelled. This noble vigilante then hunted down anyone that had wronged him and proceeded to gain retribution. He had swore to himself that no one would ever get the better of him ever again, which is why he could not simply forgive Russel's brother.
I was then to learn just how 'dangerous' Uncle Dave was and how close Ollie was to losing his life. Apparently Dave usually sleeps with a knife, well in fact both Uncle's do, dating back to their camping days. Also Dave has a mild sleep walking problem and can sometimes become quite disorientated, something I would imagine can be quite precarious when one sleeps with a blade.
Steve said his goodbyes, the silver lining being that we would now have more time to close a few of his big timeshare deals. I relayed this new information to Russel, both Simon and I thanked him rooming us with the Chuckle Brothers.
He claimed that he had no idea they were like that, something we may have believed if he hadn't been with his wife to be for 7 years. Still the remainder of weekend went off without a hitch, that was until Sunday morning.
Simon, clearly learning from past experiences had rubbed a mars bar into my hair while I was sleeping. It looked like I had soiled my sheets and we were due to check out there and then, this could scupper my chances with the barmaid downstairs. A taxi was booked promptly and we managed to escape with deposit in tact.
The wedding is in two weeks, in Stevenage, should be interesting.
And They Say Chat Up Lines Don't Work...
Where did I put my medication?
I was out drinking in Ealing one Friday after work with a mate of mine when he explained that his girlfriend was heading down to see him.
I was having a good time and wasn't too happy about being given the choice of either being the third wheel or heading off home early. However, my concerns were premature as this fine fellow had asked his lady to bring along a friend, huzzah!
Cometh the ladies, cometh the conversational opener. My mates girlfriend made an immediate b line for him, leaving her friend and I to make our own introductions.
I was being set up with an attractive young Asian girl and having been isolated from the group the pressure was on to deliver.
Opening dialogue unfolded as follows:
'Hi I'm Alex'
'Hi I'm Farrah'
'Hey Farrah, how's your Sister Nearer?'
Despite being early in the night I was never to recover from this Dating haymaker to her sensitivities and it was to be a very long night.
I was out drinking in Ealing one Friday after work with a mate of mine when he explained that his girlfriend was heading down to see him.
I was having a good time and wasn't too happy about being given the choice of either being the third wheel or heading off home early. However, my concerns were premature as this fine fellow had asked his lady to bring along a friend, huzzah!
Cometh the ladies, cometh the conversational opener. My mates girlfriend made an immediate b line for him, leaving her friend and I to make our own introductions.
I was being set up with an attractive young Asian girl and having been isolated from the group the pressure was on to deliver.
Opening dialogue unfolded as follows:
'Hi I'm Alex'
'Hi I'm Farrah'
'Hey Farrah, how's your Sister Nearer?'
Despite being early in the night I was never to recover from this Dating haymaker to her sensitivities and it was to be a very long night.
Sunday 10 June 2007
Remember the Customer is ALWAYS right...
What would happen if Cornford could 'date' a job?
By now you may have ascertained that in the field of romance I have yet to enjoy great success, but surely the same cannot be true for the other areas of my life?
I will let you form your own opinion, let's start with my current employment situation. The company I work for operate globally, win a number of major deals and are publicly listed on NASDAQ.
All sounds good, but what exactly is my role at this company? In short we provide a service which allows anyone with a website to earn money from displaying our advertisers on their site.
It is designed to be completely automated and can therefore all be done online, but because customer service is paramount we do offer support and this all goes through me.
The online world is a unique place, but it does attract a lot of weirdos and these are the very people that I have to deal with on a daily basis. Here are my three favourite e-mail dialogues to date:
1. Customer -
How can I take advantage of your offer? I dont have a product nor do I have a web site!
regrds
How do you reply to something like this, I know how I would have liked to reply:
Dear Sir,
To summise, you have nothing to offer and nowhere to offer it from. What are you expecting me to do, magic you up a site? Why stop there, what else can I do for you? What about a loan? Maybe a kidney?
You are so far beyond help, but I will however offer the following advice -
1. There is an 'a' in Regards.
2. Do not bother applying for the next series of the Apprentice.
3. Velcro shoes are easier to operate than those tricky laced ones.
With contempt,
Alex
2. Customer -
Hello,
I am very excited about your services. The website is excellent.
I would like to sign up as a customer.
Could I set up a phone call with the appropriate person who could go over everything with me.
When is a good time to call?
Whom should I contact about becoming a customer?
Thank you!
My Reply -
Hi,
Thank you for your e-mail and interest. I work in the Business Development team and would be more than happy to discuss the advertising options that we provide. I am in the office for the majority of the day, so please feel free to call at any time.
If it is more convenient for me to call you, then please let me know what number is best to reach you on.
Many thanks,
Alex
To which he replied -
No one got back to me? What happened? WHen can we talk?
This guy actually returned my e-mail asking why noone had been in touch, god help me.
3. Customer -
hi.
Cloud you please check at my account?I havn't recived the payment of the march.
Me -
Dear Sir,
Some time ago I sent you an e-mail explaining that the traffic detected from your registered site http://www.siteaddress.com/ was almost entirely foreign (non UK/US) and in addition to this automated. Subsequently we cut your advertising feed and explained that because the traffic was invalid for our advertisers we would not be paying you the revenue generated.
In addition to this when you sent the last e-mail requesting payment I called the number you supplied and the colleague I spoke to at the company explained that he did not recognize your name and that he had no knowledge of them trialing our advertising.
In addition to this I checked http://www.siteaddress.com/ due to the high earnings in the limited amount of time and could not find any adverts on the site which was also a cause for concern.
If you can please call or e-mail me further information that may explain why this is I would appreciate it, but regardless because of the nature of the clicks on your site we will not be processing payment.
Kind regards,
Alex
Customer -
FUCK. you.
Beat that for job satisfaction...
By now you may have ascertained that in the field of romance I have yet to enjoy great success, but surely the same cannot be true for the other areas of my life?
I will let you form your own opinion, let's start with my current employment situation. The company I work for operate globally, win a number of major deals and are publicly listed on NASDAQ.
All sounds good, but what exactly is my role at this company? In short we provide a service which allows anyone with a website to earn money from displaying our advertisers on their site.
It is designed to be completely automated and can therefore all be done online, but because customer service is paramount we do offer support and this all goes through me.
The online world is a unique place, but it does attract a lot of weirdos and these are the very people that I have to deal with on a daily basis. Here are my three favourite e-mail dialogues to date:
1. Customer -
How can I take advantage of your offer? I dont have a product nor do I have a web site!
regrds
How do you reply to something like this, I know how I would have liked to reply:
Dear Sir,
To summise, you have nothing to offer and nowhere to offer it from. What are you expecting me to do, magic you up a site? Why stop there, what else can I do for you? What about a loan? Maybe a kidney?
You are so far beyond help, but I will however offer the following advice -
1. There is an 'a' in Regards.
2. Do not bother applying for the next series of the Apprentice.
3. Velcro shoes are easier to operate than those tricky laced ones.
With contempt,
Alex
2. Customer -
Hello,
I am very excited about your services. The website is excellent.
I would like to sign up as a customer.
Could I set up a phone call with the appropriate person who could go over everything with me.
When is a good time to call?
Whom should I contact about becoming a customer?
Thank you!
My Reply -
Hi,
Thank you for your e-mail and interest. I work in the Business Development team and would be more than happy to discuss the advertising options that we provide. I am in the office for the majority of the day, so please feel free to call at any time.
If it is more convenient for me to call you, then please let me know what number is best to reach you on.
Many thanks,
Alex
To which he replied -
No one got back to me? What happened? WHen can we talk?
This guy actually returned my e-mail asking why noone had been in touch, god help me.
3. Customer -
hi.
Cloud you please check at my account?I havn't recived the payment of the march.
Me -
Dear Sir,
Some time ago I sent you an e-mail explaining that the traffic detected from your registered site http://www.siteaddress.com/ was almost entirely foreign (non UK/US) and in addition to this automated. Subsequently we cut your advertising feed and explained that because the traffic was invalid for our advertisers we would not be paying you the revenue generated.
In addition to this when you sent the last e-mail requesting payment I called the number you supplied and the colleague I spoke to at the company explained that he did not recognize your name and that he had no knowledge of them trialing our advertising.
In addition to this I checked http://www.siteaddress.com/ due to the high earnings in the limited amount of time and could not find any adverts on the site which was also a cause for concern.
If you can please call or e-mail me further information that may explain why this is I would appreciate it, but regardless because of the nature of the clicks on your site we will not be processing payment.
Kind regards,
Alex
Customer -
FUCK. you.
Beat that for job satisfaction...
Monday 7 May 2007
Will This Compromise my Place in Heaven?
Apparently 1 in 10 men have paid for sex, I know I have...Before you call the the police, or even worse my mother allow me to clarify. We were in Prague for a long weekend and on the Sunday had arranged to play Pub Golf - hence the ridiculous garments.
For those of you unfamiliar with the game taken from the rules of Golf, each drink has a par which you must try to keep under. So for examples a pint of beer is a par 3 and an alcopop is a par 2. The name of the game is to down each drink in as few attempts as possible, with the winner the individual that consumes their sum beverages in the lowest number of swigs.
As you may know the British do not have a great reputation abroad. In days of empire we simply tried to seize foreign land and possessions for our own. Now days we are graceful enough to let them keep their country as long as we can urinate and vomit all over it when we visit.
In light of this it is understandable that the Pragayan locals had some preconceptions when 10 British Gentleman dressed like bastards entered their bar. There is no doubt that my friends and I are idiots, but battling against the stereotype we are actually all pretty decent people. As soon as the locals realised that we had no desire to rape and pillage, them warmed to us, slightly.
A good time was being had by all, aided by the vast alcohol intake demanded by the game. However, as it was a Sunday the bars were to close early. The majority of my friends called it a night, but four of us vowed to persevere and jumped into a taxi in search of pastures new.
The taxi driver didn't speak English and at this point in the night neither did we so communication was a problem. Our attempt to explain that we were in pursuit of an open public house was further impeded my one of my friends who when drunk appears to suffer from some form of tourettes and was shouting out profanities.
Against the odds our heroic driver had seemed to come up trumps as he dropped us off at a bar which still had its light on. We approached the bouncer at the door and informed him of our desire to enter. He ushered us to a colleague issuing tickets who in broken English said, 'Beer & Sex' 50 Krona's'. I thanked him for his kind offer, but explained that we were only interested in the beer. He repeated 'Beer and Sex 50 Krona's'.
Very well I thought, I will just pay the good fellow 50 Krona's for each of us and simply not partake in any of the 'sex' that was inclusive in the package. As chief negotiator my friends behind me were oblivious to what was going on as we walked into the adjoining room.
The room was circular in shape, but was more notable for the many prostitutes that lined it's circumference. All sitting on bar stools there must have been about 15 ladies, all differing in body size and race to cater to the sexual desires of a variety of clientele.
Apart for the barman we were the only other people in there and we were feeling very awkward. We were becoming increasingly aware of how ridiculous we looked and none of us wanted to engage in intercourse with these ladies.
We huddled closely for strength in numbers. 'What do we do' I asked, to which one of my friends replied 'Act natural'. Act natural, we were in a whore house, dressed in 'hilarious' golf gear and this idiot wanted us to act natural.
Still it was the best idea we had, so trying to look cool casual we strolled over to the bar and ordered four beers. We chatted amongst us, football, cars, boobs you know the usual stuff, while the prostitutes looked on in utter bemusement.
They whispered to each other and you could tell they were thinking, who are these morons and why have they just paid their equivalent of a months wages NOT to have sex with us?
The executive decision was to order one more round of beer, as to leave after just one would portray the perception that we were uncomfortable. We drank that, quickly, dothed our caps to the ladies and thanked the barman for his service.
So to surmise, I have never slept with a prostitute, but technically I have paid for sex and should a future wife make me take the Trisha lie detector test I would fail.
Saturday 5 May 2007
Recent Moments of Idiocy
Some short Snippets for those worried that I might actually have grown up and matured...
Do you believe in Dejavu?
A recent Thursday a workmate and I decided that it was a lovely sunny day and that a quick pint after work would allow us to capitalise on these fine conditions.
Seven hours later I was to end up in the basement of some bar. Memories are vague but I had met a young lady and knowing that time was getting on I asked for her number so that we could meet again. She promptly explained that she had given me her number 5 minutes ago and proceeded to go through my phone book to point this out to me. She was not impressed and based on this reaction I felt that perhaps it was best that I did not get in touch after all.
London Can be Expensive
It was Friday night but I had planned to head straight to my parents home for the weekend after work. A colleague suggested we just head out for a quick pint, a few other people were going and a quick drink couldn't hurt.
So I grabbed my stuff and headed along. After getting drawn into a complicated round system I had drunk more than was on the original agenda and was up for a proper night out. Luckily so were my colleagues. I had no idea that we would still be out at 9:00 am the following morning.
It was inevitable on this horrendous impromptu binge that I would at some point lose my bag and sure enough the following morning/afternoon when I woke it was nowhere to be seen. I turned detective and checked my trouser pockets for where we had gone. My hand was stamped with the letters 'P.T.T.N' the same letters were to be found on a flyer in my pocket. Worse was to follow, having read the flyer properly it transpired that 'P.T.T.N' stood for Penetration, a bar in Farringdon that is only open from 5:00 am to 11:00 am.
My desire to retrieve my property somewhat diminished on this revelation. So on top of the £200 night I had funded with my credit card I had also lost approximately £150 in personal possessions.
I wouldn't have minded so much but I had only lost my last gym bag the other month.
A Warm Round of Applause
Early Monday morning at work a few female colleagues were berating me for shaving my head, saying that I looked much better sporting a slightly longer fuzzy look. In a guarded defence I stated that it was good enough for a young lady to want to take me back to her place that weekend.
Background: It was general knowledge that I had previously gone through a six month 'drought' and on hearing this news the colleagues in my team broke into rapturous applause. The applause was infectious and within seconds all 80 members of staff in the open plan office were clapping like crazy, oblivious to the reason for doing so.
At the very same second my manager comes walking into the office and as I work in sales naturally assumes that I had just closed a major deal. His face filled with excitement as he asked what all the commotion was about. I was too red and embarrassed to answer, but luckily the colleague sat next to me quickly chimed in with, 'Cornford got laid this weekend'. 'Oh', said my manager, 'oh'...
Do you believe in Dejavu?
A recent Thursday a workmate and I decided that it was a lovely sunny day and that a quick pint after work would allow us to capitalise on these fine conditions.
Seven hours later I was to end up in the basement of some bar. Memories are vague but I had met a young lady and knowing that time was getting on I asked for her number so that we could meet again. She promptly explained that she had given me her number 5 minutes ago and proceeded to go through my phone book to point this out to me. She was not impressed and based on this reaction I felt that perhaps it was best that I did not get in touch after all.
London Can be Expensive
It was Friday night but I had planned to head straight to my parents home for the weekend after work. A colleague suggested we just head out for a quick pint, a few other people were going and a quick drink couldn't hurt.
So I grabbed my stuff and headed along. After getting drawn into a complicated round system I had drunk more than was on the original agenda and was up for a proper night out. Luckily so were my colleagues. I had no idea that we would still be out at 9:00 am the following morning.
It was inevitable on this horrendous impromptu binge that I would at some point lose my bag and sure enough the following morning/afternoon when I woke it was nowhere to be seen. I turned detective and checked my trouser pockets for where we had gone. My hand was stamped with the letters 'P.T.T.N' the same letters were to be found on a flyer in my pocket. Worse was to follow, having read the flyer properly it transpired that 'P.T.T.N' stood for Penetration, a bar in Farringdon that is only open from 5:00 am to 11:00 am.
My desire to retrieve my property somewhat diminished on this revelation. So on top of the £200 night I had funded with my credit card I had also lost approximately £150 in personal possessions.
I wouldn't have minded so much but I had only lost my last gym bag the other month.
A Warm Round of Applause
Early Monday morning at work a few female colleagues were berating me for shaving my head, saying that I looked much better sporting a slightly longer fuzzy look. In a guarded defence I stated that it was good enough for a young lady to want to take me back to her place that weekend.
Background: It was general knowledge that I had previously gone through a six month 'drought' and on hearing this news the colleagues in my team broke into rapturous applause. The applause was infectious and within seconds all 80 members of staff in the open plan office were clapping like crazy, oblivious to the reason for doing so.
At the very same second my manager comes walking into the office and as I work in sales naturally assumes that I had just closed a major deal. His face filled with excitement as he asked what all the commotion was about. I was too red and embarrassed to answer, but luckily the colleague sat next to me quickly chimed in with, 'Cornford got laid this weekend'. 'Oh', said my manager, 'oh'...
Time and Some Fine Work by Trained Medical Staff Heals All Wounds
I am 24 and bald. Well technically just balding, but it is only a matter of time. Whilst the fringe folicals at the front line remain strong, the same cannot be said for the top centre of my increasingly exposed cranium. Think Zinidine Zidane, but without the football skills, money, model wife, well the list goes on.
So what can you do, I either attempt a Bobby Charlton style comb over, with the unique twist being that rather than sweeping the hair from left to right, I would instead be attempting some kind of mafia like front to back coverage, or shave it all off and try and make it look like it was my decision.
I chose the latter of these options.
Now there are two problems with having a shaved head. Firstly the facial features become horribly exposed, with any 'irregularities' becoming far more prominent and secondly you have to walk around permanently looking like a Nazi, or indeed one of the BNP's latest candidates.
This second flaw becomes increasingly problematic, as I have two scars on my head further inhancing my thuggish persona.
The first scar was a completely harmless affair and can be put down simply to childhood innocence and naivity, seeing as I was only ten at the time. My associates and I were at the local swimming pool and were all trying to out do each other with 'spectacular' dives and flips into the pool.
One kid did a bomb, another a backflip. Desperate to upstage them all I announced my intentions to pull off a backwards flip bomb. Yes ladies and gentleman, I was going to propel by body backwards whilst at the same time tucking my legs and arms in tightly in the classic 'bomb' stance.
As my friends looked on in anticipation I readied myself and got into position at the edge of the pool. Brimming with confidence I sprang with cat like agility and swiftly proceeded to twat my head on the iron support bar that lined the edge of the pool.
As I floated to the surface of the pool, blood streamed from my head discolouring the water around me. It was at this point that I realised that I had not quite been successful in performing this spectacular feat.
One of my friends who had managed to contain his laughter, swiftly alerted my mother to my mishap and being the good woman that she is we swiftly made our way to the hospital.
I required eight stiches in the back of my head and they did of course have to shave a substantial bald patch around the exposed area. This was not a good look for a 10 year old, it was the early 90's after all, an era where the 'step' and 'undercut' hair styles ruled supreme.
If this wasn't bad enough, to ensure that the wound did not get infected, I had to wear some sort of hair net when out in public for the next two weeks, once again this was not a good look.
Still my mother was very forgiving and although I had been a 'silly boy' for trying to pull off a stunt that I would later find out could only be performed by a trained acrobat, she was just happy that I was safe. The same could not be said for the next time she would have to take me to the hospital...aged 21.
Everyone has their 'thing' when they are drunk. Some start fights, others feel compelled to get completely naked, I for some reason liked to climb infrastucture - and I was good at it too.
Having supped upon a few sherries, I was walking down Guildford high street with two of my companions, I simply notes that I felt that it was within my capabilities to scale the local Argos and strut along the 'cat walkesque' roof. One friend claimed that he thought I could not and therefore insulted my prowess as a climber.
I instantly rose to the challenge and instructed each of them to provide me with a 'leg up', it was about 15 feet high so I knew I would require some assistance - I'm not an idiot.
So with their help I sprung up and desperatedly tried to grip the end of the ledge. Unfortunately some worthless architect has designed it with a rounded edge, making it incredibly difficult to get purchase. Desperately trying to hold on, my efforts were futile and I plummeted to the floor in a heap, much to the amusements of my friends.
My ego (and body) bruised I was not to be defeated and instructed them to assist for a second time, unfortunately with the same tragic outcome. It was not over, one of my friends was short in stature and therefore could not provide me with the required boost to reach my objective, so I cut him from the team flagged down a stranger to be his replacement.
A strapping lad, all six foot of him and with his kind assistance it would surely be third time lucky. So with the boost I scaled and dam was I close, but not close enough.
My third fall was to be the decider. On landing I had cut my right eye brow and almost certainly broken both wrists, so we went to the Kebab House.
Some Chav implored that I 'Mate, listen mate, seriously mate, I'm not joking mate, you need to go to the hospital'. This was probably the only sensible thing this man has ever said, but I was not to listen to him. It was late and I was tired from all the climbing, so instead my friends and I got a taxi home.
Being the good friends that they are they insisted on staying round my place that night in case I was concussed. Being the idiots that they are, they stayed downstairs, so even if I did pass out in my room they would not have known anything about it.
Instead the next morning, with two broken wrists I had to drive them both round to their houses...my car was a manual, this hurt a lot.
Having done this, I then had to explain to my mother why there was a gaping wound above my right eye. She knew I had been out drinking, so I thought it would be best to modify the truth and explained that the injury was a result of trying to leap frog a letter box. I thought this would be slightly less distressing than regailing how I fell trying to climb Argos, three times.
So there we were in A&E again. My mother was not so understanding on this occassion and I felt her embarassment when sitting next to me as I explaining to the nurse how the injuries occurred. Another eight stitches needed above the right eye, a fractured wrist that they put in a cast, but good news the other wrist was only sprained.
So people in the street, when you do see me, there is no need for concern I am simply a balding idiot and the only person who I pose a threat to is myself.
So what can you do, I either attempt a Bobby Charlton style comb over, with the unique twist being that rather than sweeping the hair from left to right, I would instead be attempting some kind of mafia like front to back coverage, or shave it all off and try and make it look like it was my decision.
I chose the latter of these options.
Now there are two problems with having a shaved head. Firstly the facial features become horribly exposed, with any 'irregularities' becoming far more prominent and secondly you have to walk around permanently looking like a Nazi, or indeed one of the BNP's latest candidates.
This second flaw becomes increasingly problematic, as I have two scars on my head further inhancing my thuggish persona.
The first scar was a completely harmless affair and can be put down simply to childhood innocence and naivity, seeing as I was only ten at the time. My associates and I were at the local swimming pool and were all trying to out do each other with 'spectacular' dives and flips into the pool.
One kid did a bomb, another a backflip. Desperate to upstage them all I announced my intentions to pull off a backwards flip bomb. Yes ladies and gentleman, I was going to propel by body backwards whilst at the same time tucking my legs and arms in tightly in the classic 'bomb' stance.
As my friends looked on in anticipation I readied myself and got into position at the edge of the pool. Brimming with confidence I sprang with cat like agility and swiftly proceeded to twat my head on the iron support bar that lined the edge of the pool.
As I floated to the surface of the pool, blood streamed from my head discolouring the water around me. It was at this point that I realised that I had not quite been successful in performing this spectacular feat.
One of my friends who had managed to contain his laughter, swiftly alerted my mother to my mishap and being the good woman that she is we swiftly made our way to the hospital.
I required eight stiches in the back of my head and they did of course have to shave a substantial bald patch around the exposed area. This was not a good look for a 10 year old, it was the early 90's after all, an era where the 'step' and 'undercut' hair styles ruled supreme.
If this wasn't bad enough, to ensure that the wound did not get infected, I had to wear some sort of hair net when out in public for the next two weeks, once again this was not a good look.
Still my mother was very forgiving and although I had been a 'silly boy' for trying to pull off a stunt that I would later find out could only be performed by a trained acrobat, she was just happy that I was safe. The same could not be said for the next time she would have to take me to the hospital...aged 21.
Everyone has their 'thing' when they are drunk. Some start fights, others feel compelled to get completely naked, I for some reason liked to climb infrastucture - and I was good at it too.
Having supped upon a few sherries, I was walking down Guildford high street with two of my companions, I simply notes that I felt that it was within my capabilities to scale the local Argos and strut along the 'cat walkesque' roof. One friend claimed that he thought I could not and therefore insulted my prowess as a climber.
I instantly rose to the challenge and instructed each of them to provide me with a 'leg up', it was about 15 feet high so I knew I would require some assistance - I'm not an idiot.
So with their help I sprung up and desperatedly tried to grip the end of the ledge. Unfortunately some worthless architect has designed it with a rounded edge, making it incredibly difficult to get purchase. Desperately trying to hold on, my efforts were futile and I plummeted to the floor in a heap, much to the amusements of my friends.
My ego (and body) bruised I was not to be defeated and instructed them to assist for a second time, unfortunately with the same tragic outcome. It was not over, one of my friends was short in stature and therefore could not provide me with the required boost to reach my objective, so I cut him from the team flagged down a stranger to be his replacement.
A strapping lad, all six foot of him and with his kind assistance it would surely be third time lucky. So with the boost I scaled and dam was I close, but not close enough.
My third fall was to be the decider. On landing I had cut my right eye brow and almost certainly broken both wrists, so we went to the Kebab House.
Some Chav implored that I 'Mate, listen mate, seriously mate, I'm not joking mate, you need to go to the hospital'. This was probably the only sensible thing this man has ever said, but I was not to listen to him. It was late and I was tired from all the climbing, so instead my friends and I got a taxi home.
Being the good friends that they are they insisted on staying round my place that night in case I was concussed. Being the idiots that they are, they stayed downstairs, so even if I did pass out in my room they would not have known anything about it.
Instead the next morning, with two broken wrists I had to drive them both round to their houses...my car was a manual, this hurt a lot.
Having done this, I then had to explain to my mother why there was a gaping wound above my right eye. She knew I had been out drinking, so I thought it would be best to modify the truth and explained that the injury was a result of trying to leap frog a letter box. I thought this would be slightly less distressing than regailing how I fell trying to climb Argos, three times.
So there we were in A&E again. My mother was not so understanding on this occassion and I felt her embarassment when sitting next to me as I explaining to the nurse how the injuries occurred. Another eight stitches needed above the right eye, a fractured wrist that they put in a cast, but good news the other wrist was only sprained.
So people in the street, when you do see me, there is no need for concern I am simply a balding idiot and the only person who I pose a threat to is myself.
Monday 23 April 2007
Cornford and 'The Model'
Believe it or not I was not always this smooth...
Although still a couple of sonnets short of a Romeo, you may be alarmed to know that I have actually got a lot better at meeting girls.
When reading that last sentence please appreciate where the 'pulling' goal posts were first positioned. I was awful...no really awful. Amongst friends it's easy to be outgoing and confident but making that intial approach to that stranger in a bar is a completely different proposition. Praise the lord for alcohol, you probably won't find a passage in the Bible that will help you to do this (too busy banging on about the poor and the needy) but try and praise him regardless.
Alcohol is the all important social lubricant and without it you would not have been born. Take a look at your Dad right now, chances are he's not exactly the Fonze. Can you imagine him confidently swanning up to your mother without 8 pints of special brew bubbling away in his gut? And this was all in the days before Internet Dating and text messaging, so no sodding way is he meeting/talking to your mother without a skinful of Dutch courage.
That's why Jesus turned water into wine, so we could all get laid. And thank God, quite literally in this case, otherwise I would still be reading my 'How the Body Works' educational book (thanks for that Mum, way to parent).
Still Alcohol does have one or two minor, minor flaws. According to top scientists it has been known to affect judgement and decision making. This usually results in one of four scenarios when approaching a mademoiselle:
1. You approach someone way out of your league - she surprisingly says no (may use words other than no, but essentially it will amount to the same thing).
2. You somehow manage to find and approach someone in a lower league (think the Macclesfild Town of lady folk) and she says yes. You try and laugh it off the next day by saying something manly like, 'every dog has her day and it was her turn', but really inside your crying. Also probably wasn't a great idea to swap numbers, you know your going to text her the next time your out.
3. You somehow manage to find and approach someone in a lower league, she says no, you think oh dear, your onlooking friends think oh yes... tomorrow you are going to be their banter bitch.
4. Possibly the worst, your punching just above your weight but hanging in there until the full extent of how much of a drunken twat you really are becomes painfully apparent, she walks/runs/evacuates away out of the building.
Everyone has a few number 4's in their locker, let me tell you about one of mine.
We were in Bar Med in Guildford, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular brand of chain bar, it is a popular hang out for Smirnoff Ice clutching underage drinkers, sporting their latest 'Mad House' purchased Yves Saint Lauren shirt.
My friends and I frequented it regularly.
Several Reefs, Red Squares and the afformentioned Smirnoff ice's later, I was taking one of my every '15 minutes' alcohol induced toilet breaks. However, en route to the powder room I found my path blocked by a beautiful young lady. Having politely asked her if I could get past, it turned out that this block was intentional and she did in fact want to talk to me...oh dear.
My alcohol intake was worrying high in light of the task ahead. The almighty confidence that alcohol had giving me, was unfortunately at the expense of general speach and mobility.
Focus, must focus, these opportunities don't come along too often. We talk, the simple stuff to start off with. I ask her name...three times, in fairness the music was loud but I think she is starting to suspect.
Nevertheless she invites me to sit with her, probably more for my own safety as it probably looked like I was going to collapse. I'm losing the battle, my lack of speach is only inturrupted by mindless drunken jabbering. I just about manage to get a sensible question in by asking her what she did for a living. She replied that she did a bit of modelling work, probably a lie, but who cares I would never find out the truth so as far as I was concerned a model was interested in me.
This only doubled the pressure and in response I started to drink more to give me that 'killer edge', surprisingly this resulted in disaster. The facade was broken and it was clear that I was a drunken idiot. Luckily for all concerned it was the end of the night.
I give her a peck on the cheek and in a moment of unbridled optimism ask for her number. 'Unfortunately' she had only recently purchased the phone and did not know the number off by heart so it was best that she took my number instead.
So I woke up the next day and in the cold light of sobriety realised that I had royally messed it up with a number 4. It's moments like these that you vow to 'never drink again' and instead devote your life to helping people. No way was she going to call.
All of a sudden a text comes through, it was her and she was asking how I was. This is cruch time, in one text I need to rectify all of last night wrongs and prove what a funny, great, good guy I am. This is what I wrote:
'Hey was great to meet you last night, you know I went out with a model once, that was until she fell apart!'
This was not the best text to send.
This was not the text that would encapsulate funny, great and good guy and I realised this very quickly. Amazingly she did not get back to me.
A few days later a whole load of us were going round a friends house, this whole episode was behind me and I was to learn from these mistakes and grow as a human being.
As we all sat round, one of my friends asked if I had heard anything from her. I explained that I had not. He persisted, 'really you havent heard anything, nothing at all?'. I reiterated that I had not and asked why he was being so inquisitive? Surely it was no real surprise that she hadn't been in touch. 'Oh nothing', was the reply and then he beckoned his little sister into the room.
She came in clutching her mobile phone and proceeded to read a text from her phone out loud,
'Hey was great to meet you last night, you know I went out with a model once, that was until she fell apart!'
Yes you've guessed it, the text was never sent by 'the model' but was instead sent by my friends little sister.
So there I was with this 12 year old girl ripping it out of me thrilled that she was part of this wind up. It was bad enough thinking that I had sent the worlds worst text message to some girl I would never see again, let alone effectively sending it my closest friends.
This was to open up a whole new world of piss taking and I was to be reminded of it often...
Although still a couple of sonnets short of a Romeo, you may be alarmed to know that I have actually got a lot better at meeting girls.
When reading that last sentence please appreciate where the 'pulling' goal posts were first positioned. I was awful...no really awful. Amongst friends it's easy to be outgoing and confident but making that intial approach to that stranger in a bar is a completely different proposition. Praise the lord for alcohol, you probably won't find a passage in the Bible that will help you to do this (too busy banging on about the poor and the needy) but try and praise him regardless.
Alcohol is the all important social lubricant and without it you would not have been born. Take a look at your Dad right now, chances are he's not exactly the Fonze. Can you imagine him confidently swanning up to your mother without 8 pints of special brew bubbling away in his gut? And this was all in the days before Internet Dating and text messaging, so no sodding way is he meeting/talking to your mother without a skinful of Dutch courage.
That's why Jesus turned water into wine, so we could all get laid. And thank God, quite literally in this case, otherwise I would still be reading my 'How the Body Works' educational book (thanks for that Mum, way to parent).
Still Alcohol does have one or two minor, minor flaws. According to top scientists it has been known to affect judgement and decision making. This usually results in one of four scenarios when approaching a mademoiselle:
1. You approach someone way out of your league - she surprisingly says no (may use words other than no, but essentially it will amount to the same thing).
2. You somehow manage to find and approach someone in a lower league (think the Macclesfild Town of lady folk) and she says yes. You try and laugh it off the next day by saying something manly like, 'every dog has her day and it was her turn', but really inside your crying. Also probably wasn't a great idea to swap numbers, you know your going to text her the next time your out.
3. You somehow manage to find and approach someone in a lower league, she says no, you think oh dear, your onlooking friends think oh yes... tomorrow you are going to be their banter bitch.
4. Possibly the worst, your punching just above your weight but hanging in there until the full extent of how much of a drunken twat you really are becomes painfully apparent, she walks/runs/evacuates away out of the building.
Everyone has a few number 4's in their locker, let me tell you about one of mine.
We were in Bar Med in Guildford, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular brand of chain bar, it is a popular hang out for Smirnoff Ice clutching underage drinkers, sporting their latest 'Mad House' purchased Yves Saint Lauren shirt.
My friends and I frequented it regularly.
Several Reefs, Red Squares and the afformentioned Smirnoff ice's later, I was taking one of my every '15 minutes' alcohol induced toilet breaks. However, en route to the powder room I found my path blocked by a beautiful young lady. Having politely asked her if I could get past, it turned out that this block was intentional and she did in fact want to talk to me...oh dear.
My alcohol intake was worrying high in light of the task ahead. The almighty confidence that alcohol had giving me, was unfortunately at the expense of general speach and mobility.
Focus, must focus, these opportunities don't come along too often. We talk, the simple stuff to start off with. I ask her name...three times, in fairness the music was loud but I think she is starting to suspect.
Nevertheless she invites me to sit with her, probably more for my own safety as it probably looked like I was going to collapse. I'm losing the battle, my lack of speach is only inturrupted by mindless drunken jabbering. I just about manage to get a sensible question in by asking her what she did for a living. She replied that she did a bit of modelling work, probably a lie, but who cares I would never find out the truth so as far as I was concerned a model was interested in me.
This only doubled the pressure and in response I started to drink more to give me that 'killer edge', surprisingly this resulted in disaster. The facade was broken and it was clear that I was a drunken idiot. Luckily for all concerned it was the end of the night.
I give her a peck on the cheek and in a moment of unbridled optimism ask for her number. 'Unfortunately' she had only recently purchased the phone and did not know the number off by heart so it was best that she took my number instead.
So I woke up the next day and in the cold light of sobriety realised that I had royally messed it up with a number 4. It's moments like these that you vow to 'never drink again' and instead devote your life to helping people. No way was she going to call.
All of a sudden a text comes through, it was her and she was asking how I was. This is cruch time, in one text I need to rectify all of last night wrongs and prove what a funny, great, good guy I am. This is what I wrote:
'Hey was great to meet you last night, you know I went out with a model once, that was until she fell apart!'
This was not the best text to send.
This was not the text that would encapsulate funny, great and good guy and I realised this very quickly. Amazingly she did not get back to me.
A few days later a whole load of us were going round a friends house, this whole episode was behind me and I was to learn from these mistakes and grow as a human being.
As we all sat round, one of my friends asked if I had heard anything from her. I explained that I had not. He persisted, 'really you havent heard anything, nothing at all?'. I reiterated that I had not and asked why he was being so inquisitive? Surely it was no real surprise that she hadn't been in touch. 'Oh nothing', was the reply and then he beckoned his little sister into the room.
She came in clutching her mobile phone and proceeded to read a text from her phone out loud,
'Hey was great to meet you last night, you know I went out with a model once, that was until she fell apart!'
Yes you've guessed it, the text was never sent by 'the model' but was instead sent by my friends little sister.
So there I was with this 12 year old girl ripping it out of me thrilled that she was part of this wind up. It was bad enough thinking that I had sent the worlds worst text message to some girl I would never see again, let alone effectively sending it my closest friends.
This was to open up a whole new world of piss taking and I was to be reminded of it often...
Saturday 21 April 2007
You Learn, You Grow
You can look back and laugh, but at the time I was self harming...
It was hot, very hot. I was off to Guildford to meet a girl who I had got talking to at a bar on a previous night out. It's two and a half miles to the nearest station, I couldn't drive as I was going to be drinking, my parents were out and I didn't want to ask a friend as I would have had to explain that I was going on a date.
My friends rip the piss mercilessly out of each other, which is fine I like banter as much as the next guy, but I didn't want to give them any fresh material and as you may have gathered, not all my dates go that well. So I walked the two and a half miles on what was an unusually hot Summers day only to find that the trains were cancelled and a bus replacement service was in place. The Sun came streaming in through the Bus window and without air conditioning it was a pretty horrible journey.
Never mind though, I was on course to Guildford and would soon be drinking tall cocktails with a potential new lady friend.
So we meet and were going dutch on rounds. I offer to buy but she insists on paying her way which is cool - shows she's not after my money, which is good as I don't have any. Conversation is a bit stale, but hey we have only just met and these things can take time. I get the feeling I'm not the bad ass boyfriend she's after but it's too early to be making these kind of judgement calls.
I go to the toilet for a numero uno and on my return find that she is on the phone to her friend. Disaster, one of her best friends is distraught as she has literally 'just split up with her long term boyfriend'. I try to pretend that I care and she hints that in this time of need, she has to be with her friend to provide moral support.
I assume she is lying, but you can't be sure, so what can you do? I either say, 'Liar pants on fire and don't think your getting out of this date so quickly', or say 'of course, I completely understand'. After much soul searching I choose the latter and we part.
I then get the bus replacement service back to the nearest station and start the two and a half mile walk. At this point I make the executive decision to send her a text, something nice and simple that shows what a great guy I am. It read something along the lines of, 'hope your friends ok, sorry we had to cut the date off early and maybe we can meet up again some time'.
Unfortunately I accidentally sent this text to a good friend of mine. He quickly deduces that I had been on a date and that she had made some excuse to effectively run away. Within seconds, he had forwarded this text to all my other friends.
On my long walk home I am kept company from numerous texts from well wishers, such as 'Nice date Cornford!'.
To put this in perspective, accumulative transport time equals approximately three hours, actual duration of date one hour. In case your wondering, I never did hear back from her, maybe the text didn't deliver...
It was hot, very hot. I was off to Guildford to meet a girl who I had got talking to at a bar on a previous night out. It's two and a half miles to the nearest station, I couldn't drive as I was going to be drinking, my parents were out and I didn't want to ask a friend as I would have had to explain that I was going on a date.
My friends rip the piss mercilessly out of each other, which is fine I like banter as much as the next guy, but I didn't want to give them any fresh material and as you may have gathered, not all my dates go that well. So I walked the two and a half miles on what was an unusually hot Summers day only to find that the trains were cancelled and a bus replacement service was in place. The Sun came streaming in through the Bus window and without air conditioning it was a pretty horrible journey.
Never mind though, I was on course to Guildford and would soon be drinking tall cocktails with a potential new lady friend.
So we meet and were going dutch on rounds. I offer to buy but she insists on paying her way which is cool - shows she's not after my money, which is good as I don't have any. Conversation is a bit stale, but hey we have only just met and these things can take time. I get the feeling I'm not the bad ass boyfriend she's after but it's too early to be making these kind of judgement calls.
I go to the toilet for a numero uno and on my return find that she is on the phone to her friend. Disaster, one of her best friends is distraught as she has literally 'just split up with her long term boyfriend'. I try to pretend that I care and she hints that in this time of need, she has to be with her friend to provide moral support.
I assume she is lying, but you can't be sure, so what can you do? I either say, 'Liar pants on fire and don't think your getting out of this date so quickly', or say 'of course, I completely understand'. After much soul searching I choose the latter and we part.
I then get the bus replacement service back to the nearest station and start the two and a half mile walk. At this point I make the executive decision to send her a text, something nice and simple that shows what a great guy I am. It read something along the lines of, 'hope your friends ok, sorry we had to cut the date off early and maybe we can meet up again some time'.
Unfortunately I accidentally sent this text to a good friend of mine. He quickly deduces that I had been on a date and that she had made some excuse to effectively run away. Within seconds, he had forwarded this text to all my other friends.
On my long walk home I am kept company from numerous texts from well wishers, such as 'Nice date Cornford!'.
To put this in perspective, accumulative transport time equals approximately three hours, actual duration of date one hour. In case your wondering, I never did hear back from her, maybe the text didn't deliver...
Apparently it is meant to be good luck.
Don't be yourself, be someone better...
Another tale from the dating archive. At university I met a handsome young lady at a night club establishment and arranged to meet up with her later that week.
We agreed to met at the town square centre by the large monument, a popular meeting place. I wasn't a 100% sure what she looked like having drunk heavily at the aforementioned night club, so I got there nice and early so that she would have to pick me out.
A tip for anyone out there who finds themselves in a similar situation, always get to the meeting place ridiculously early (20 minutes will do, there is no need to camp overnight) and just stare directly at the ground and wait for them to approach you. The temptation will be there to look up,
'Oh is that her', you will think and panic will set in, DON'T LOOK UP!
So I was there early and staring intently at my shoes. For those of you that have read my flip flop related dating post, please note that I was wearing shoes to this date - this is standard practice. It was 7:30, the arranged meeting time, when all of a sudden a pigeon with sniper like accuracy shat furiously, leaving a streaked white terd down my jeans.
Decision Time, do I leave the agreed meeting place at the agreed meeting time to attend to my garment issue and risk antagonising the potential Mrs.Cornford, or do I stick put with shitty jeans.
I decided to attend to the jeans and dived into a near by Wetherspoons. Having doused my jeans in water, I had to perform hand stand acrobatics to waft them under the hand dryer - much to the amusement/bemusement of Wetherspoon patrons.
Luckily, my date arrived late so the original plan was back on. When she did arrive my jeans were sans shit, but they were evidently wet below the groin area. I didn't bring this up, she didn't bring it up and amazingly in this instance there was a second date.
Another tale from the dating archive. At university I met a handsome young lady at a night club establishment and arranged to meet up with her later that week.
We agreed to met at the town square centre by the large monument, a popular meeting place. I wasn't a 100% sure what she looked like having drunk heavily at the aforementioned night club, so I got there nice and early so that she would have to pick me out.
A tip for anyone out there who finds themselves in a similar situation, always get to the meeting place ridiculously early (20 minutes will do, there is no need to camp overnight) and just stare directly at the ground and wait for them to approach you. The temptation will be there to look up,
'Oh is that her', you will think and panic will set in, DON'T LOOK UP!
So I was there early and staring intently at my shoes. For those of you that have read my flip flop related dating post, please note that I was wearing shoes to this date - this is standard practice. It was 7:30, the arranged meeting time, when all of a sudden a pigeon with sniper like accuracy shat furiously, leaving a streaked white terd down my jeans.
Decision Time, do I leave the agreed meeting place at the agreed meeting time to attend to my garment issue and risk antagonising the potential Mrs.Cornford, or do I stick put with shitty jeans.
I decided to attend to the jeans and dived into a near by Wetherspoons. Having doused my jeans in water, I had to perform hand stand acrobatics to waft them under the hand dryer - much to the amusement/bemusement of Wetherspoon patrons.
Luckily, my date arrived late so the original plan was back on. When she did arrive my jeans were sans shit, but they were evidently wet below the groin area. I didn't bring this up, she didn't bring it up and amazingly in this instance there was a second date.
Note to self: Turning up to a date in a suit and flip flops is a bad idea.
I have been on a lot of first dates, I have been on very few second dates...
Twas a lovely balmy Summers day and my good friends Thomas and Penny kindly opened their house and garden for what was a great social event. Everyone bar myself was drinking socially and responsibly and although I was not a total mess, there is no question that I was heavily intoxicated.
I was staying in my old room at my Mums house and in my drunken stupor trying to put a DVD on in my room I twatted my head on the corner of a shelf. If that wasn't bad enough, in doing this I knocked an old money box off the shelf which then proceeded to land sweetly on my big toe.
This money box is made of what I believe to be led and was full of foreign coins (apologies for my crap childhood hobbies). Weighing a tonne it did a nice job of bludgeoning my toe and left my nail clinging on for dear life.
However being pissed I was impervious to pain, so went to the toilet and promptly went to bed. I woke in the morning to a throbbing pain, finding my mother (a lady in her 50's) down on her hands and knees on the upstairs landing scrubbing my blood out of the beige carpet.
'You're 24' she said, explaining that I was too old for this sort of tomfoolery.
'I'm sorry' was my only reply.
The nail came off completely with little persuasion, leaving my bloodied toe fully exposed. At this point I realised that my foot modelling career was over. In full throttle mothering mode, my mum swiftly produced one of those plastic thumb guards and instructed me that it was paramount that I wore it on my toe to prevent infection. I am old enough to know that Mother does know best, so followed her instructions.
I had to wear flip flops to work with my suit and the first colleague I came across enquired as to why I was wearing a condom on my toe. At this point I realised I needed to get it professionally dressed by someone with medical experience.
My job is predominantly desk based, so in all this scenario would not really have been too bad if it had not been for the fact that at this party it had been brought to my attention that an attractive lady had expressed some interest in me.
Being a real man, I cowardly got a friend to give me her e-mail address so that I could get in touch. How did people get laid before text and e-mail, can you even imagine going back to having to call a girl to set up the first date? God bless technology.
Anyway back to the matter in hand, we arranged to meet up near where she lived which is some way from London so I had to head there straight from work...in my suit and flip flops.
Looking like a Miami Vice reject, I made the decision to nip the situation in the bud and I explained my attire straight away which unfortunately meant going through the whole episode.
Already I could tell she was thinking, I'm on a date with a guy in flip flops and a suit and clearly he has the maturity of a six year old to have gotten into this situation in the first place. Being on the dating back foot it was paramount that I put in a Man of the Match performance.
Unfortunately having eaten the meal, which was very nice, the only options available was local pubs all of which are pretty horrible. I chose the best of a worse bunch, but it transpired that Liverpool were playing in Europe that day and the pub was screening the game. My desperate attempts to exude charm and wit, fell on a audible background of Chav football observations,
'That was never a foul you c*nt' and so on.
We parted with a kiss on the cheek and I have not heard from her since. I do however hear that she is dating a young gentleman with excellent taste in footwear.
Twas a lovely balmy Summers day and my good friends Thomas and Penny kindly opened their house and garden for what was a great social event. Everyone bar myself was drinking socially and responsibly and although I was not a total mess, there is no question that I was heavily intoxicated.
I was staying in my old room at my Mums house and in my drunken stupor trying to put a DVD on in my room I twatted my head on the corner of a shelf. If that wasn't bad enough, in doing this I knocked an old money box off the shelf which then proceeded to land sweetly on my big toe.
This money box is made of what I believe to be led and was full of foreign coins (apologies for my crap childhood hobbies). Weighing a tonne it did a nice job of bludgeoning my toe and left my nail clinging on for dear life.
However being pissed I was impervious to pain, so went to the toilet and promptly went to bed. I woke in the morning to a throbbing pain, finding my mother (a lady in her 50's) down on her hands and knees on the upstairs landing scrubbing my blood out of the beige carpet.
'You're 24' she said, explaining that I was too old for this sort of tomfoolery.
'I'm sorry' was my only reply.
The nail came off completely with little persuasion, leaving my bloodied toe fully exposed. At this point I realised that my foot modelling career was over. In full throttle mothering mode, my mum swiftly produced one of those plastic thumb guards and instructed me that it was paramount that I wore it on my toe to prevent infection. I am old enough to know that Mother does know best, so followed her instructions.
I had to wear flip flops to work with my suit and the first colleague I came across enquired as to why I was wearing a condom on my toe. At this point I realised I needed to get it professionally dressed by someone with medical experience.
My job is predominantly desk based, so in all this scenario would not really have been too bad if it had not been for the fact that at this party it had been brought to my attention that an attractive lady had expressed some interest in me.
Being a real man, I cowardly got a friend to give me her e-mail address so that I could get in touch. How did people get laid before text and e-mail, can you even imagine going back to having to call a girl to set up the first date? God bless technology.
Anyway back to the matter in hand, we arranged to meet up near where she lived which is some way from London so I had to head there straight from work...in my suit and flip flops.
Looking like a Miami Vice reject, I made the decision to nip the situation in the bud and I explained my attire straight away which unfortunately meant going through the whole episode.
Already I could tell she was thinking, I'm on a date with a guy in flip flops and a suit and clearly he has the maturity of a six year old to have gotten into this situation in the first place. Being on the dating back foot it was paramount that I put in a Man of the Match performance.
Unfortunately having eaten the meal, which was very nice, the only options available was local pubs all of which are pretty horrible. I chose the best of a worse bunch, but it transpired that Liverpool were playing in Europe that day and the pub was screening the game. My desperate attempts to exude charm and wit, fell on a audible background of Chav football observations,
'That was never a foul you c*nt' and so on.
We parted with a kiss on the cheek and I have not heard from her since. I do however hear that she is dating a young gentleman with excellent taste in footwear.
And on the Seventh day God ripped the piss out of Cornford...
My name is Alex Cornford, I'm a 24 year old guy living in rented accommodation in London and working in online advertising sales. I'm about 6 foot tall caucasian, with short (balding/greying) brown hair.
If your still reading this it is unlikely that the previous paragraph has 'wowed' you. All sounds pretty normal, why has this boring bastard set up a blog and more to the point why the hell should I continue to waste my time reading it?
Do you know how in every friendship group there is always the guy/girl who is the but of most, if not all of the jokes, even when they are in the room. Well, that is pretty much me. I am lucky to have a number of different social groups and consistently I seem to fill this role. Do I mind? Not really, and I guess I even play up to it to an extent. Part of it is my own dam fault (there is no doubt that I am an idiot), but mostly the majority of my misfortune and downfalls is down to God/Buddha/the universe/kabbalah whatever the hell your into (apologies for the contravening blasphemy in the previous sentence).
I have received a number of requests (2) to actually document the many trials and tribulations of my life. For those of you that know me I am sure that the 'hilarity factor' of the following posts will be significantly enhanced, for any unlucky random who has stumbled upon this site please read, learn and grow. Think of it as a Saved by the Bell style experience. Do as I don't and you can't go far wrong...
If your still reading this it is unlikely that the previous paragraph has 'wowed' you. All sounds pretty normal, why has this boring bastard set up a blog and more to the point why the hell should I continue to waste my time reading it?
Do you know how in every friendship group there is always the guy/girl who is the but of most, if not all of the jokes, even when they are in the room. Well, that is pretty much me. I am lucky to have a number of different social groups and consistently I seem to fill this role. Do I mind? Not really, and I guess I even play up to it to an extent. Part of it is my own dam fault (there is no doubt that I am an idiot), but mostly the majority of my misfortune and downfalls is down to God/Buddha/the universe/kabbalah whatever the hell your into (apologies for the contravening blasphemy in the previous sentence).
I have received a number of requests (2) to actually document the many trials and tribulations of my life. For those of you that know me I am sure that the 'hilarity factor' of the following posts will be significantly enhanced, for any unlucky random who has stumbled upon this site please read, learn and grow. Think of it as a Saved by the Bell style experience. Do as I don't and you can't go far wrong...
Dating Do's and Dont's
Why do your friends call you 'Prawnford'?
I am not the world's best dater, this will become painfully apparent over the following paragraphs and posts. Let's take the last example, I will leave out the real names of the poor, poor ladies who were involved in these social atrocities to protect the innocent.
It had been a while since my last attempt at 'courting', so I really wanted to make a good impression on what was to be the first date with this girl. I consulted with my good friend and resident Lothario Mr.X (apologies for the lack of legitimate names, but please appreciate that to name the Lothario would potentially damage future Lothario-ing possibly to libel extents) and explained my predicament/opportunity with this live, breathing girl.
He informed me of a lovely destination in London Bridge called Vinnopolis where I could take my lady friend on a wine tasting evening. Brilliant, I could get her pissed under the guise of culture, which ultimately will make me seem much more brilliant than I actually am.
So the date was set, I turned up in my work suit , looking sharp but not in a try hard way as this was the appropriate garments for my current employment function. I purchased two tickets for the middle option offering, not the lowest cost option so I didn't look like a cheap scape and not the most alcohol laden option so it didn't look like I was trying to date rape her the old fashioned way.
I wasn't sure what to make of it at first when 'Bubbles' our tour guide gave us a crash course on wine tasting. She was one of these people that love life and as she was demonstrating how to slurp the wine I comforted myself in the knowledge that almost certainly this was just a facade for show and privately she self harms in her dimly lit bedroom whilst listening to the Cure.
However, all in all it went pretty well. It became very clear that I knew nothing about wine, mostly I drink Lambrini or Lambrusco and often I can be seen shamefully requesting the cheapest bottle of white wine and 1 glass in bars. Nevertheless this didn't seem to be too much of a stumbling block and I just asked for their recommendation when doing the tasting.
We were both getting merry and then we moved onto the whisky tasting. We both had a shot and she said 'down in one' so naturally I instantly downed the shot. I realised at this point that she still had her shot and she soon explained that she was joking - this was after all, meant to be about experiencing the flavor of these fine malts. Bollocks to that, who wants to bask in the taste sensation of whisky and absinthe, no one not even winos.
Any way this was still but a minor glitch and did not mar my overall 'dating performance'. Having completed the wine tasting she explained that she was hungry as we were passing a fish restaurant. Being the forced gentleman that I am I suggested dining in said restaurant. Now I don't really like seafood, but she was a vegetarian and it was 10 at night so it seemed like the sensible choice.
Another bottle of wine, brilliant maintain her level of intoxication and subsequently my level of interestingness and waitress I will have the prawns please.
Prawns, can't go far wrong, I have them sometimes in my Sainsbury's sandwiches not too offensive to my delicate taste buds. But no, these are the big bastard shrimp prawns with the sodding heads on them and everything. So here I am sitting opposite a vegetarian with my bloody foods eyes pretty much looking at her as I rip off their heads with my knife - excellent.
But ultimately this was not my biggest failing of the night, this was still to come. As explained I don't really eat sea food and therefore was a prawn novice. Trying to tackle them delicately I used my knife and fork to remove the head and tails and proceeded to consume.
It wasn't until about half way through that a thought came to me, I remembered my mum and sister eating prawns and I was pretty sure that they didn't eat the shell, which I had merrily been crunching through.
It was decision time, I had already eaten half of my prawns in their shelled entirety, did I now revert to de-shelling the remaining prawns? I made the executive decision that it would be even more embarrassing to do so and continued to eat what was left fully shelled.
Readers, it was not pleasant, it was not nutritionally sound and there was going to be repercussions. Instantly I did not feel well, but far worse for the next TWO weeks I had the worse gas situation of my life, with most making an exit via the back door. For any work colleagues reading this, I can only apologise for what was a trying time for us all.
Having regailed this tale to my friends they hilariously came up with the nickname 'Prawnford' (Cornford - Prawnford, see what they did there).
Having said all this, it was still one of my more successful dates as following posts will reveal.
I am not the world's best dater, this will become painfully apparent over the following paragraphs and posts. Let's take the last example, I will leave out the real names of the poor, poor ladies who were involved in these social atrocities to protect the innocent.
It had been a while since my last attempt at 'courting', so I really wanted to make a good impression on what was to be the first date with this girl. I consulted with my good friend and resident Lothario Mr.X (apologies for the lack of legitimate names, but please appreciate that to name the Lothario would potentially damage future Lothario-ing possibly to libel extents) and explained my predicament/opportunity with this live, breathing girl.
He informed me of a lovely destination in London Bridge called Vinnopolis where I could take my lady friend on a wine tasting evening. Brilliant, I could get her pissed under the guise of culture, which ultimately will make me seem much more brilliant than I actually am.
So the date was set, I turned up in my work suit , looking sharp but not in a try hard way as this was the appropriate garments for my current employment function. I purchased two tickets for the middle option offering, not the lowest cost option so I didn't look like a cheap scape and not the most alcohol laden option so it didn't look like I was trying to date rape her the old fashioned way.
I wasn't sure what to make of it at first when 'Bubbles' our tour guide gave us a crash course on wine tasting. She was one of these people that love life and as she was demonstrating how to slurp the wine I comforted myself in the knowledge that almost certainly this was just a facade for show and privately she self harms in her dimly lit bedroom whilst listening to the Cure.
However, all in all it went pretty well. It became very clear that I knew nothing about wine, mostly I drink Lambrini or Lambrusco and often I can be seen shamefully requesting the cheapest bottle of white wine and 1 glass in bars. Nevertheless this didn't seem to be too much of a stumbling block and I just asked for their recommendation when doing the tasting.
We were both getting merry and then we moved onto the whisky tasting. We both had a shot and she said 'down in one' so naturally I instantly downed the shot. I realised at this point that she still had her shot and she soon explained that she was joking - this was after all, meant to be about experiencing the flavor of these fine malts. Bollocks to that, who wants to bask in the taste sensation of whisky and absinthe, no one not even winos.
Any way this was still but a minor glitch and did not mar my overall 'dating performance'. Having completed the wine tasting she explained that she was hungry as we were passing a fish restaurant. Being the forced gentleman that I am I suggested dining in said restaurant. Now I don't really like seafood, but she was a vegetarian and it was 10 at night so it seemed like the sensible choice.
Another bottle of wine, brilliant maintain her level of intoxication and subsequently my level of interestingness and waitress I will have the prawns please.
Prawns, can't go far wrong, I have them sometimes in my Sainsbury's sandwiches not too offensive to my delicate taste buds. But no, these are the big bastard shrimp prawns with the sodding heads on them and everything. So here I am sitting opposite a vegetarian with my bloody foods eyes pretty much looking at her as I rip off their heads with my knife - excellent.
But ultimately this was not my biggest failing of the night, this was still to come. As explained I don't really eat sea food and therefore was a prawn novice. Trying to tackle them delicately I used my knife and fork to remove the head and tails and proceeded to consume.
It wasn't until about half way through that a thought came to me, I remembered my mum and sister eating prawns and I was pretty sure that they didn't eat the shell, which I had merrily been crunching through.
It was decision time, I had already eaten half of my prawns in their shelled entirety, did I now revert to de-shelling the remaining prawns? I made the executive decision that it would be even more embarrassing to do so and continued to eat what was left fully shelled.
Readers, it was not pleasant, it was not nutritionally sound and there was going to be repercussions. Instantly I did not feel well, but far worse for the next TWO weeks I had the worse gas situation of my life, with most making an exit via the back door. For any work colleagues reading this, I can only apologise for what was a trying time for us all.
Having regailed this tale to my friends they hilariously came up with the nickname 'Prawnford' (Cornford - Prawnford, see what they did there).
Having said all this, it was still one of my more successful dates as following posts will reveal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)