Keep To the Left!

I often get stopped in the street and recognised, and I'm always asked the same thing.

"Hey, you're that Fantastic Mr Ox chap aren't you?"
"Yes, Yes I am. would you like an autograph?"
"Oh, yes please! But can you first answer me a question - What is your blog actually about?"

Well, to stop the man in the street from needing to ask me this question again, I will tell you now.

Fantastic Mr Ox's Rubbish Blog is a blog about life itself. My life, in particular.
It's about things I see, things that interest me, things that annoy me, things that bore me, things that probably bore you. It's about things.

Sometimes, my life feels quite monotonous and I struggle to write about anything of interest as very few things have interested me, or indeed happened to me. Sometimes, I notice a thing happening, and think "That'll be brilliant to put in the blog!" but when I get down to write it, realise that there is very little to say about that thing and it's probably not worth the time writing it down.

One such incident occurred yesterday evening as I was walking twixt mainline train and tube at St Pancras station, via the underground walkway that links the two.

There was a man walking ahead of me on the left hand side of the barrier who all of a sudden threw a massive wobbly. The reason for this was that someone was walking in the opposite direction to him, and was not keeping to the left.

Instead of adjusting his walk to avoid a collision as any normal human being would do though, he went out of his way to walk into the man coming towards him, shouting "Keep to the left! Keep to the Left!! Keep to the Left!"

As if this wasn't enough, he brandished an umbrella and used it to whack the man on his back as he passed him, adding to the verbal assault with "We Keep to the left in this country, you bastards!"

I burst into laughter myself, but most of the other commuters saw the incident for the true horror it was- the actions of a man with a mental problem. There was another lady about to also receive a poke with his umbrella who hadn't kept to the left, but very quickly took evasive action and ducked under the barrier out of the enraged idiot's way.

He looked around heartily chuffed at having made his point. He even gave me a little "Tsk, people eh?" flick of the head when he noticed me looking at him. It was quite unnerving as I didn't wish to engage with this lunatic, but I did manage to avoid a jab of his umbrella and I guess the whole escapade made me more likely to keep to the left if I'm ever down there again.

I've summarised the events in this accurate, to scale picture. Double-click on it for all it's glory.

And that's all there is to that story really. It really happened and ended up being rather uneventful after the initial umbrella-smacking. The nutter walked calmly off. The man attacked shook his head and also walked off, and that was that. Sorry if you were expecting it to be the start of a mad umbrella-rampage.

You'd be amazed how many 'drafts' I've got lurking in the background of this blog unpublished; half-heartedly abandoned for being shit or not striking the right cord. Amazed more so perhaps, considering some of the utter dross I have published.

Like this one.

Curry Adventures in Bloomsbury



Curry: Britalicious



Fear not readers, it's back to some irreverent rubbish today, after last Friday's political rant.

A few nights ago, I went for a drink and a meal with an old friend in Bloomsbury. After a few ales in some choice establishments, we both fancied a curry.

Bloomsbury is a good place to grab a curry if you like an old school, proper Indian Restaurant (actually run by Bangladeshis, as most Indian restaurants tend to be in the UK- you'll know that of course, as it's one of those things everyone knows). I love the classy, modern and authentic Indian food you can find in abundance these days, especially in London. But now and then, I just want an old school curry from an old school restaurant.

The restaurants I'm talking about don't do poncy 'fusion' dishes. They don't have 10 different type of dahl or specialise in regional cuisine. What they do have though, are curries.

They tend to have very few dishes you'd actually find in the sub-continent itself in fact - these 'traditional' dishes being invented here or Anglicised to our palate.

 

The odd tandoori mixed-grill, side-dish, Balti and Biriyani selection and a few 'chef's specialities' also tend to adorn the menu of the old school curry house. But the core of the menu is always the below classics, ordered by heat-scale:

• First is the mildest, for children and the uninitiated - Korma
  (Chicken, Lamb, Prawn or King Prawn).
• Next the mild generically-named Curry (Chicken, Lamb, Prawn or King Prawn).
  
• Spot of creamy, medium-spiced lentils with the Dansak
  (Chicken, Lamb, Prawn or King Prawn).


• Then comes the slightly spicier, tomato-based Rogan Josh
  (Chicken, Lamb, Prawn or King Prawn).


• Now we get into the hot stuff - spicy Madras  (Chicken, Lamb, Prawn or King Prawn).


• The old favourite of the boys' night out comes next - Vindaloo (Chicken, Lamb, Prawn or King Prawn).


• And finally, only for the pissed and/or ignorant, we finish with the sphincter-destroying Phal
  (Chicken, Lamb, Prawn or King Prawn).

There is just something warming, nostalgic and heartening about seeing an Indian restaurant menu still set out like this, don't you think?

As such, we ventured inside the first restaurant we came across - We will call this "Bad Tandoori". You may not have noticed, but I have cleverly concealed the real name of this establishment, as I don't want to get in trouble for suggesting they might serve low-quality food, as I'm about to.



Bad Tandoori: Bad.

Now, since we wanted a bit of old-school curry house, we also expected to see another old favourite section on the menu, "English Dishes."
It amazes me that today there are still people who go to an Indian restaurant and can't find themselves anything to eat amongst the 'foreign muck', so plump for a mushroom omelette or chicken & chips.

But nonetheless, you still see these dishes available on most old-school menus and people must thus be ordering them. Each to their very backwards own.

But something even more unusual than egg & chips caught my dining partner's eye on this section of Bad Tandoori's menu. See if you can spot it from the below picture.

English Dishes: Unnecessary.

Yes, that's right - it's number 105 - "Spaghetti Hoops in Tomato Sauce".

My friend enquired, tongue-firmly-in-cheek of course, if the spaghetti hoops were served on toast?
"No", was the blunt answer from the waiter. I informed my friend that it clearly said that the "English & Continental" dishes were served with chips, peas & tomatoes, if he had read the menu.

But the waiter then corrected me - "No, only the omelette comes with these."
My friend continued - "So, it's just a bowl of spaghetti hoops? On it's own?"
"Yes sir."

Hmmm. So your £4.95 bought you a microwaved bowl of spaghetti hoops in tomato sauce, probably purchased from Lidl 2 years ago for 20p.

Given their curries were quite reasonably priced, we didn't like the idea they might be working to the same profit margins on the meat they were buying. So we slinked out. Always an embarrassing thing to do, but thankfully this time not because I realised I couldn't afford it.

The table next to us heard the whole conversation. Clearly not appreciating they might about to be fed maggot-infected meat and rotting onions, they gave us very funny looks as we left.

That this conversation with the waiter about spaghetti hoops had caused us to reject the entire establishment obviously bemused them. They probably wondered why we were so precious about spaghetti hoops, and thinking if we wanted spaghetti hoops on toast, why we had come into an Indian Restaurant?

One thing I do regret is that we didn't really give Bad Tandoori a chance. An Indian Restaurant should not really be judged on it's spaghetti hoops. Plus we didn't even try their spaghetti hoops. They might have been really nice. And I quite like spaghetti hoops to be honest.

Around the corner though, we soon found another establishment - the Tavistock Tandoori. This one had all the old classics, plus a very tasty chef's special that I lapped up gratefully.

Good Tandoori: Good.

It was actually a really, really great curry. I'd recommend it to anyone. Except if you were looking for spaghetti hoops. They didn't have spaghetti hoops in the Tavistock Tandoori.

If you are looking for spaghetti hoops as a curry accompaniment, your quest is on to discover the real name of Bad Tandoori. I won't be telling you where it is.

 
One day when I'm feeling flush, I may return to Bad Tandoori and order the spaghetti hoops just for the hell of it.

Pay your Fees, Crusties!

I'm sorry but I'm going to get all political on yor ass now.

Yesterday, my wife and I missed being caught up in the university fee protests riots around Oxford Circus by a matter of minutes. Shame actually, as I like a bit of excitement.

Only when we got home to see the rolling news on BBC News 24 did we realise how close a brush with 'activism' we'd had. Living so close to all the furor, we also considered going back out and having a gander. But as we saw all the bloodstained masses trying to keep warm in minus degree temperatures by gathering around the firebombs in Parliament Square, we thought we'd stay in our toasty flat in our slippers and finish our ice creams instead.

The fact is though, I think I might have ended up getting arrested had I gone back out. Not through trying to chuck a traffic cone at a policeman, or even for settling light to the statue of Viscount Palmerston (it's about time someone did that actually, I was incidentally thinking the other day).

But for the shamelessly aggressive act of punching the face right off of the head of the ignorant, mindless arses who thought making their point about the tuition fees necessitated desecrating the cenotaph and Churchill monument.

Cenotaph Swinger: Cunt.

Yeah, right on you anarchist warriors! Swinging from the cenotaph will send a message to the war dead not to die in Flanders and Japanese POW camps when they could have been alive and pro-creating so their descendants can pay their taxes towards your media studies degrees!

Regardless of his many faults (and they are numerous, if you know your history, kids) Churchill's wartime leadership does seem to transcend all else and so to piss and graffiti all over his monument in Parliament Square was simply going a bit too far by those responsible - and it's hardly going to stir public support of the plights of the self-proclaimed hard-done by students.

"Never in the field of human conflict, was.... ahhh, that's better".

I'm going to put my twopenneth in on this. You can stop reading now if you don't want to hear it. You may already get the gist of where this is going and might rather put your fingers in your ears and go "La la la la, I'm not listening as I already know the Tory scum and their Lib-Dem lap-dogs are destroying further education and wrecking lives. La la la."

But if you are interested in hearing an alternative opinion - mine is that I find it grossly offensive that self-interested students are expecting the world to share their outrage to what actually seems a very sensible and fair plan put forward by the government.

I do understand the viewpoint that free education for all is a good principle. Indeed I myself was abhorred when one of the first things Tony Blairs did was introduce tuition fees for students. Having started University myself the year before, I wasn't quite so motivated to march as those in the year below me but I shared their sentiments, albeit from afar in the SU bar over a subsidised pint.

But it was a shame to see the prospect of going to University as one that people had to pay for the privilege for, after so long it being a basic entitlement in this country.

That was then though and this is now. Given the current financial mess, we can hardly expect the state to subsidise higher education fully ever again. Indeed, the time has come to look more closely at whether it is justifiable for someones tertiary education to still be as heavily-subsidised as it currently is. And the answer from all sides is a resounding 'no' to this.

I'm no expert, but I have a slightly-informed opinion in that I've read through the arguments for and against, and the other options proposed, and have formed my own conclusion, humble though it may be, that the coalition government's proposals do seem the fairest - and actually fairer than the current system considering the threshold of re-payment will be going up and continue to do so as average wages rise.


I love this picture - "Make The Rich Pay".

Add the damage costs to his university fees invoice, Vince.

 Well, the rich will be the ones paying for it - as most graduates will gain higher wages as a result of their education and thus be paying their fees back rather than street-cleaners and McDonalds workers on minimum wage subsidising their education with their taxes.

The graduates who don't end up on higher wages will never pay back a fricken' penny!

There is so much ignorance and misplaced outrage over what is actually in the fees package passed yesterday. This website may be government propaganda, but it does explain why these measures are being passed and why they believe them to be fair. These are the facts and the facts sound fair to me.

The most laughable argument against the fee rises is that the last generation (i.e. the current government) got free education so it's hypocritical of them to vote in higher fees for the next generation.

It's the same as saying "Someone was giving free sandwiches out the other day but by the time I turned up they had run out of free sandwiches. That's not fair and they should bloody well go away and make me a sandwich for free too, and all those that got free sandwiches are also cunts for not paying for my free sandwich afterwards!"

The fact is, it's always cost the country money to educate people, but now we can no longer afford to foot this bill, especially if we want to maintain the same high-levels of university entrants.

It is only fair that students should help contribute for their education. But only eventually, when they can afford it. The Government still expects to end up paying 40% of the cost of higher education, and I see no reason why a student should not end up fronting more of the bill in such tight times.

The debt amount itself seems is irrelevant as far as I can see. £25k? £40k? £100k? It doesn't matter. The fact is, they will pay an amount back proportional to their income, only at a time when they are earning £21k or above. And get this - if the debt is not paid off in 30 years, it is WIPED OUT COMPLETELY, regardless of how much is still left to pay.

How the hell is this not fair?!

Under Labour's proposed graduate tax scheme, the graduates with lower income will pay back the same percentage as the higher earners, and at a lower threshold of earnings, right down to minimum wage. And the richer graduates will pay less back under the graduate tax than under the current scheme. How the hell is that justifiably fair? The thing that really astounds me is that the apparently socialist party of opposition seems to favour the scheme that will hurt the poorest most.
How much of this outrage is totally misplaced because people don't actually realise all the details of the proposals? That the poorest graduates will pay nothing back at all? That the richest will pay a higher proportion back? That they are wiped out after 30 years? That nothing needs to be paid upfront?

The one thing that does stink, for me, is the Welsh and Scottish situation.
The problem here though is that Westminster does not have jurisdiction anymore in either province thanks to Tony Blairs' costly vanity project of devolution.

As it is, the tax-payers in Scotland and Wales will either be hit harder with the burden, unfairly, or the taxpayers in England will even more unfairly end up helping funding some of that as well without being able to benefit from it. Grossly unfair, but not the fault of this government nor does it justify throwing out the whole idea because of it.

Many of these arguments above I've unashamedly lifted from debates this morning on Facebook with friends who aren't so keen on the proposals and think the protests are justified. Even the pissing on the Cenotaph, probably.

One argument I heard today was that going to university should not be about trying to improve your salary potential - it should be about broadening your mind.

Nothing wrong at all with attending Uni to broaden your mind, I say. And under the current proposals, if you want to broaden your mind by going to university and yet return to your job at Chicken Cottage after you graduate, you can still do that and never pay a penny back.

"So that's 2x fillet burgers, 3x hot wings & a 2,000 word discourse on the affects of the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 on future European diplomacy".

And as someone else pointed out, if the government are going to hand out money so I can broaden my mind, will they pay for my gap year travelling around the world to soak up different cultures? Will they subsidise my purchase of recreational drugs? No, they won't.

Free education for all is fine if it can be afforded.
The fact is, it now cannot. And in such a situation it's grossly unfair to expect the poor to subsidise those lucky enough to earn a degree.

I do not believe these proposals are a stepping stone for the dismantling of the welfare state as some may claim. The difference between the welfare state and subsidising further education in particular is that the welfare state is a safety net intended to stop the very poorest of society from ever falling through it.

Not that it's perfect, but it's what separates us from the abilities of poorer nations and the illiberal values of less social-minded nations and something of which we should feel justly proud. This is why it is worth paying for.

Subsidisation for you and I to expand our minds and increase our earning potential at University is a very different matter and surely a lesser priority in austere times.

As a last comment on the matter, I thought this video found via Guido Fawkes' excellent political blogspot was quite apt. It's students from Northumbria University who've made their own music video protesting the fee rises, to the tune of LiveAid's "Do They Know It's Christmas?"

As Guido himself says:
"Comparing the privileged life of an undergraduate to kids starving in Africa, who have to worry about their next meal rather than their media studies assignment. Nice."

So stop wasting your own time and money and go back to your fucking lectures, you ignorant gits.

+++Feel free to post comments with your own opinions, by the way I'd genuinely be interested to hear them.+++

Pics courtesy of the copyright holders noted in each picture.
I hope you don't mind me using them but if you do please don't sue me as I have student debts to pay off.

Customer Service Train-ing

Isn't it cold though? Brrrr and all that.

I'm currently looking anxiously out of my office window to the train station opposite, wondering if I'm going to get home tonight. Not much seems to have moved in or out all day since I got here this morning, and that's a worry, when you are the worrying sort, like me.



#Feral Ashford International Station(ary).

 I went over to have a gander earlier, to find out if trains were in fact running today. What I was going to do, was have a look at the little screens, and see if any of the trains said "Delayed" or "Cancelled" on them, and work it out myself from that. I'm good like that - give me the information and I'll digest it - I'm quite a talent.

However, due to the widespread disruption, they have decided to turn these screens off and replace with a message stating that due to "RAIL ADHESION PROBLEMS*" there was widespread disruption today.

So, surely, you'd have thought that to ask a member of the station staff, so easily identified in their florescent orange tabards, would be the next best and indeed ONLY option to find out when the fuck a train would be next coming along.

But clearly not, judging by how irked the tabarded-twats seemed to be at being asked the question.

Oh I'm sorry, have you already been asked the same question 10 times in the past half hour? Well TURN THE FUCKING SCREENS ON THEN, YOU USELESS IDIOTS!!!

Do these fucking cretins honestly expect people to just turn up onto a platform, stand there in minus temperatures with no information, no announcements and just think "Well, I may as well just stand here and freeze my nuts off in the vain hope that a train will come along eventually. Asking a member of staff would be a silly idea, as even if there isn't a train for another 2 hours, I'd much rather stand here aimlessly and die of hypothermia waiting for something to come along than gather some information and better spend my time sat in a warm coffee shop until the next expected train is actually due."

It's one of my many, many bugbears that train and platform staff seem to get so disgruntled and annoyed about being continually asked the same questions about when the trains are due, as if it somehow isn't their fucking job to help the public get on and off trains.

They often appear so bloody annoyed at the stupidity of the commuter asking such a question, as if we should somehow be all too aware that they have already answered that question barely 5 minutes earlier, and that if we weren't there to hear it then it was our fault.

If you really don't like being asked "When is the next train to...." I suggest not getting a job that involves standing on a platform with a shiny orange jacket on!

The fact is, if you didn't try your best to make it some kind of cryptic riddle as to when the next train was likely to arrive by turning your myriad of information monitors into static statements of the frankly obvious† we wouldn't need to bother you in the first place!

I have more to say on this issue, but I want to try and get home now. So goodbye.



* I mean, what the fuck? What was it, wrong type of Pritt-stick?
†They may as well say "There's a bit of bad weather today, so the trains are fucked. Just how fucked they are though, you'll need to find out yourselves by asking the platform staff individually, one by one, until they get really fucked off with you all."

Zoo Are My Everything

Regular readers may have noticed I've started tracking how many people visit this blog, by way of the counter, to the right over there              --------------------->

See it? It's right there, yes that's it, the box with the numbers in it.
What many of you probably don't know however, is that I can also now track where you are in the world, and how you have got to my website.

If you got here through a search engine, it even pulls up details of what search term was used to end up here.

This has led to some interesting revelations.

As you can see from the above, my core demographic appears to be people interested in washed up ex-Football star Paul Gascoigne and fucking animals.

What is wrong with you people?

I mean, Paul Gascoigne? Really?!!! (Ho ho ho, I am very funny).

To be honest though, it's not the craving for online bestiality that surprises me in itself, as much as what type of bestiality has brought people here.

Zoophilia rabbit / Rabbit-loving.
Seriously? How does that work? What sort of carrot incentive would that require? Two separate searches for Rabbit-love so it's clearly a popular pursuit.

Cartoon zoophilia.
What, so it's not just animals, but imaginary ones for this guy (or girl)? I guess talking cartoon animals could at least consent.

At last, an answer to the question "What's Up, Doc?"

Lady fucking with Ox. 
An Ox? Really? Now, I know you may think I have a natural affinity for the Ox for toponymical* reasons, but they are hardly the most beautiful of creatures, and certainly an odd one to inspire sexual lust.

I mean, I can just about understand someone looking at a horse and thinking "My, what a beautiful, noble creature that is. I'd love to see it shafting someone."

But an Ox? A dirty, shaggy haired, stinking old Ox? Someone saw this in a field and thought "oooh yeah baby, lets Get. It. On."


Musk Ox: Arousing.

 Is this the bestiality equivalent of granny porn?

Hampster[sic] big arse small waist.
So, with this feller/lady, it's not just Hamsters that get them going - oh no! It's Hamsters with big butts. They just love the way they shake it in their rotastak! Is that a stash of nuts in your cheeks or are you pleased to see me?

This visitor was from Australia, by the way. Just thought that needed highlighting.

Hammy the Hamster: Bootylicious.

I guess what should really alarm me though is the fact that these queries seem to end up at my blog. What started out as a blog about random, everyday events in my life has turned into a homing beacon for all the freaks, sickos and nutters of the online world.

Zoophillia chatrooms worldwide are posting links to my blog, egging on newbies to seek out my stories about cartoon animal sex and ladies fucking oxen.

Of course, I've probably made it worse now, with this entry, haven't I?

So, I might as well see what other depravities I can attract to this site with a few choice, searchable phrases:

Raccoon dogging.
Necrophiliac Vultures.
Horny Aardvark.
Jellyfish Bukkake.
Barely Legal Duck-Billed Platypus.
Lobsters: Whores of the Sea.

I'll let you know how it goes... 




*Yes, that is a big word isn't it? Look it up here. And don't say you never learn anything from visiting this blog.

Fraudian Slip

I have become something of a vigilante hero this week.

No, I haven't been mistakenly beating up pediatricians and I haven't been dressing up as Batman and rounding up brightly-attired criminal masterminds.

But what I have done, twice in a week now, is prevent fraudsters from scamming innocent cashpoint users by detecting that a young rascal has placed a cheeky gadget on the card slot.

The gadget in question you can see here above. It sits neatly over the normal card slot, and is even cunningly 'painted' in a sort of scuzzy black/metallic pattern that the actual card slot has - it's actually quite difficult to notice that there is anything wrong with the cashpoint at first inspection.

So cunningly concealed is the device, that on Tuesday morning, I put my debit card through it, typed in my pin number and asked for £50 (Yes that's right, £50. I like to carry a bit of extra money just in case I need to donate it to someone dressed as a fucking teddy bear carrying a bucket on my way to work).

Now, all seemed to be going swimmingly, the bank had decided I was credit-worthy (always a relief - I never know when my numerous regular charity direct debits are coming out you see) and told me to take my card and await my crisp notes below.



Problem though - the card was not returned. I could hear it trying to eject, but nothing came out. It was then that I realised what had happened.

FRAUD!

The card slot had seemed a bit stiff when I put the card in, but I hadn't really paid it a second thought. Now here I was, feeling helpless and scammed, with a trapped card and £50 just behind the screen. If I walked away, I knew there was someone hanging around somewhere ready to pounce and remove the device, thus gaining my trapped card and also subsequently releasing the £50 into his spindly, filthy, Fagin-like fingers.

Well, I simply wasn't having that.



Fraud Device!



It took me a few minutes of exasperated clutching and grasping, but eventually with the help of my keys I prised the fucker off the card slot. I suffered for my fraud-busting too, finger-tips covered with still-setting superglue and a slashed open thumb (as evidenced in photo number 2, above).

But I had beaten the crook and his merry game. I looked around me in smug defiance, knowing the brute was almost certainly still lurking somewhere, looking on in annoyance. I even held up the device in the air for him to see, as my trophy. By now my face was seven shades of smug. I'd beaten him. A true victory for the man in the street.

Well, a victory for the man in the street who wasn't a thieving shit lurking in the shadows waiting to steal my fucking money, that is.

As soon as I'd prised the device off, the cashpoint obviously recognised there had been some tampering and shut down, instructed me not to re-enter my pin and did not dispense the cash.

Later that day I returned to the bank and handed over the fraud-device, explaining the events. It was a pretty good job that I did because having checked the CCTV footage the police were currently looking for a portly chap in an Oxford United beanie hat who had been angrily gouging away at the card slot that morning with his keys.

I informed them that I was not the miscreant they were looking for, and to rewind the camera 10mins to find the culprit, as when I got there the glue was still wet. I received a couple of pats on the back for my efforts from the bank clerk. I thought that was a bit patronising to be honest though.

Well would you believe it dear reader, but this very morning I went to the same cashpoint, and low and behold, a similar device was again in place. Out came the keys - off came the device. 2-0 to FMO, eat that fraudster!

My only regret is that I didn't catch the scammer. But I will do.

Tomorrow I will be pretending to put my card in, then pretending to act frustrated and walking immediately off.

I shall then hide around the corner and pounce on the culprit when he emerges to take my card and money.
"Haha! I have got you, you swine!" I shall exclaim.
"It's a fair cop, let's go to the nearest police station" shall be the retort. Either that or he'll stab me and run off.

Fall to your knees and tremble cashpoint scammers, for from hereon in I shall be known as -

THE FRUADSMELLER PURSUIVANT!

The cashpoint in question is the RBS cashpoint on High Holborn - opposite the Princess Louise pub, for those that know the area.

Do be careful, citizens! I cannot be there 24/7 to save you, unfortunately.

Less Than Charitable

Oh! It's Children In Need* this Friday is it?

Oh joy.

Oh fucking, fucking, fuckety joy.

I'm sure there will be lots of people doing some absolutely hilarious stunts!

Some crazy cat will no doubt be bathing in a bath of baked beans- CRAZY! 

Perhaps some zany loon will be eating a jar of chillies! OUTRAGEOUS!

Bath of Beans: Ha Ha Ha! Hilarious!

Ho, ho, what fun and all in the name of helping unfortunate children - how could you not want to join in?
I'm not sure if you could tell from my tone there, but I'm not really a big fan of this forced fundraising business. Don't get me wrong, I love charity. And I love children, especially poor and mis-treated ones. But I fucking hate the forced nature of these big fundraising events - Comic Relief, Children in Need, Telethon and on and on and on...

All of a sudden, like this week, everyone is out with buckets dressed up as a tool, baking over-priced cakes and forcing you to buy them, or doing some half-arsed sponsored walk or other.

As it happens, I already contribute quite a bit to certain charities regularly each month. Although I don't like to talk about that much.

It's probably more per year than many of these 1-week charity wonders will raise for Children in Need this week, actually. But as I said, I don't like to talk about that much.

But it is quite a lot.

Yet I'm still made to feel guilty every time I walk past a zany cock dressed up as Ronald McDonald on my way to work, rattling a bucket in my face.

"Children in Need Sir?"
"No, sorry - I've already given this year."
"Oh... I see."

...and with a disdainful glance as if I were a dog turd found on his shoe, he turns away in disgust and rattles his bucket anew at other, clearly more generous commuters.

Fuck off!

The wacky idea that companies in my office block have decided to do this week in order to prise more coins out of my pocket EVERY FUCKING DAY, is to walk up the 11 floors of stairs in the building 272 times - the height of Mount Everest. Reasonably impressive, I thought initially, as this was being outlined to me by one of the participants.

"Ohh, you'll be awfully tired though! That's quite a distance for you all to cover in a week!" I exclaimed to him.

"Well, we are not actually doing 272 climbs each - there are about 30 of us - and we are doing it like a relay." He replied.

I was aghast & perplexed. "So, what your saying is- you yourself are, over the space of a week, going to walk up 11 flights of stairs about 10 times? That's not really climbing then height of Everest, is it? In fact, if you were an energetic fellow who worked on the top floor, you might well in fact walk the same distance every week of your working life as a matter of course."

He looked sheepish. "Well yes, but it's still the height of Everest when we add up everyone's contribution!"

And with that he gleefully rattled his bucket and smiled at me once again, quite inanely.

Tensing: Not sponsored for his efforts.

Well, Sherpa Tensing, it certainly is the height of Everest when you add in everyone's efforts, but by the same ridiculous logic, I can probably claim to have successfully walked the equivalent of the moon and back if I add up the walking contribution of everyone in London this week!

So no wonder I'm being so grumpy with you arsehole fundraisers, having walked to the moon - I'm very fucking tired!

I mean really.

Then we've got the ruddy cake-makers, wheeling their trolley full of sick-making cakes in and out of our offices every day this week.

If it wasn't enough being felt forced to shell out £1 for a mediocre flap-jack yesterday, I'm going to be asked to do so again today, and tomorrow, and the next day, right up to the big night itself on Friday. 

Presumably we'll also get visited by the intrepid Everest mountaineers on their way up and down the stairs, pausing in their difficult ascent only for the nourishment of lemon drizzle cake and to count the many coins they've accrued through the pretence of endeavour.

Well, at least when I get home on Friday night I can put it out of my mind and relax in front of the TV with some of the special edition programming commissioned exclusively for Children in Need. I hope James Corden is doing something!

Brilliant!

 
 
 
*Children In Need of Getting Out of My Fucking Angry Face.

Love & Marriage

Rejoice!

OK, so I got married a couple of weeks ago.

Woo-haa!

It was an amazing day. If you haven't tried it yet, do give it a go as it's a lot of fun and you get a wife at the end of it.

The planning side of it - well, that wasn't much fun. It was at first actually, but by the time the big day was upon us we had both had more than enough of talking about it to everyone, of pouring over planning spreadsheets, of worry about who sits with who, of problems with people either not RSVP-ing, or dropping out, or somehow managing to do both.... It was headache after headache, stress after stress.

There were a few Groomzilla moments, I'll admit. Thankfully, Fantastic Mrs Ox was an ocean of calm amidst my wedding-inspired flip-outs, and we got there in the end.

The day itself started at Diana's Diner on Endell Street, where myself and my Best Man tucked into a hearty cooked breakfast - the last meal of freedom. If you are interested, mine consisted of a fried egg, a sausage, a pool of baked beans, black pudding and fried bread.

Oh you weren't interested? Oh, sorry.

I wasn't particularly nervous at this point, to be honest. I was a bit tired and a bit excited, but not nervous. Having put my lovely tweed wedding suit on though and stood for a moment looking at myself in the mirror - I suddenly had rather clammy hands. Christ. I was actually getting married today.

Best Man & I took a cab to The Allsop Arms near Baker Street, just around the corner from Old Marylebone Town Hall where the ceremony was taking place (In a lovely godless environment). It was just myself and him in the pub at this time - 2 hours before the wedding.

I seemed to down that first pint in the Allsop rather quickly. I was on edge, finding it hard to sit down and instead pacing around the bar whilst the Best Man went over his speech and worked out what other duties he had to complete on the day.

Guests started arriving in the pub in dribs and drabs. All of them looked amazing of course. My parents arrived and divvied up the buttonholes, and soon my Ushers and I had to all go around to the Town Hall to have some pictures taken before the ceremony.

Soon I was being interviewed, to make sure I'm not already married or currently seeking asylum. I was happy to tell the registrar that I was not - and she seemed to trust me as I saw no background checks taking place. A tip there for would-be polygamists and illegal immigrants - just lie about your circumstances, no-one checks.

The guests all filed into the ceremony room - It was a very humbling and warm feeling to know all these people were there just to see us get married. We'd mocked up a 'football programme' as the order of service for the day - I'll be honest I was amazed my sport-ambivalent fiancée ran with the idea after I'd put it forward, but they turned out an absolute treat. Here is the front cover, along with some lovely guests enjoying a good read.



Official Wedding Programme





Enjoying the Programme: Alice & Jon

 

There was a brief moment of wondering whether Mrs Ox would turn up or not - as captured here.



But turn up she did. Early as well.

I was wondering at what point I'd end up getting a little over-emotional on the day, given I'm the sort that can often be found blubbing for no good reason. I cried when Oxford won at Wembley in May. I cried when Johnny Depp's mum died in Gilbert Grape. So I thought I'd struggle to hold it back on my wedding day.

Sure enough, the sight of my bride-to-be walking down the aisle with her father set me off a treat. So the rest of the photos of the day I had red puffy eyes to go along with my red-puffy rosacea cheeks.

Signing The Register: with Red Eyes & Cheeks.

The ceremony itself was a relatively brief affair, and all of a sudden I was married. We had a couple of lovely readings from friends, but within 20mins we were all filing out for pictures on the stairs outside and the obligatory coating in bloody confetti. I'm not sure where this tradition stems from, but it's quite clingy to tweed. I had just got married though, so wasn't really bothered with the sartorial problems this caused.

We had hired two old routemaster buses to take all the guests from Marylebone to the reception in The City, via a short tour of the sights, sounds and smells of London - which went down a storm with the out-of-towners and the children. To be honest, my new wife and I loved it too, and went downstairs to stand on the open platform and wave at the tourists as we wizzed through the city.

We paused briefly for a quick picture on Waterloo Bridge - where I had proposed last year. It had been an overcast (yet pleasant) day, but as soon as we stepped onto the bridge the sun seemed to shine out from the clouds right upon us just for the duration of our stay there. A sign of approval of the union from the Gods, perhaps?

No - just a meteorological event - nothing more. Don't be ridiculous.

Some consternation from the Best Man during this bridge stop - guests from the other bus were all piling off onto the bridge, unaware this was no more than a 30 second stop.




"Get Back on The Bus!" Beckham & Sparrow nonchalant.

 

As you can see here, the Best Man was most insistent that the person who was taking this particular picture desist and immediately "Get back on the bus!"

Nice to see David Beckham and Yvonne Sparrow from Goodnight Sweetheart here out for an afternoon stroll, incidentally.

Via Westminster, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square & St Paul's, we were soon at our reception venue, a marvelous pub in the heart of The City, near the Bank of England.

I had expected the day to be a stressful one - worrying about everything running smoothly and making sure everyone was happy. But that is what the Best Man and Ushers are for - and to be fair, they all did a remarkable job, Best Man especially. I'd been told by a few people that the most important thing on the day is to try and sit back and enjoy it - as you'd never (hopefully!) have another day like it again in your life. I was certainly able to do this thanks to everyone else's help, and felt almost serene by the time I had a glass of Champagne in my hand on arrival at the reception venue.

The nerves were not over for me though, despite enjoying the canapés and champagne, as my mind soon turned towards the dreaded Groom's speech I would have to give shortly after the meal.

I'd not really even started writing the speech more than a few days before, so difficult had I found it to get started. I'd tried to put a few too many jokes in there. Some of them inappropriate. Thank goodness I'd read it through a few nights before to Fantastic Mrs Ox, who put me straight on a few things. Probably not for the last time, I'm sure.

So although I was reasonably happy with what I'd finished up with, I hadn't really practised it and was worried about how it would go down. When you are not used to it, public speaking in front of 100 people is quite a daunting task, even if they do all like you (at least they say they do).

I'd already made about three toilet trips in 20mins before the speeches, and as my new Father-in-Law was wrapping up his speech, the nerves were beginning to get on top of me. I think I must have downed two full glasses of wine in 10 minutes.

Soon, I was up. Gulp*.


The Loyal Toast.

 What better way to start, I thought, than a toast. So I toasted The Queen. It seemed to break the ice quite nicely, although I did detect some consternation from some quarters. I had no idea we had let republicans into the reception, and was abhorred to find out as such.

Nonetheless I plowed on, and quite enjoyed it, by the end. I even ad-libbed a bit. I was considering a career on stage before I ended up blubbing again when I started to talk about how much I loved my parents. What a soppy git.

That was the difficult bit over though, and the rest of the evening was for revelry in some form or other. What a fantastic evening too. A great old schoolfriend had brought his band down for the evening, and they treated us to a wonderful fusion of funk, soul, jazz and hip-hop. A small plug but check out Tonic here.


Tonic - Funkalicious.

 Let me tell you, that until you've heard a Doctor of Physics rapping over some funky bass lines, you have not lived. Perfect wedding band.

There was some amazing dancing to be had even post-band, when Fantastic Mrs Ox's iPod wedding playlist came front of stage and delighted all and sundry. There were a couple of congas, and one of my ushers even did The Caterpillar on the dance floor. His rendition really does have to be seen to be believed.

Brendan does The Caterpillar.

By now, I was pretty relaxed, as is demonstrated in the next set of pictures, in which I attempted to orchestrate the dancing throngs to Prodigy's 'Out of Space' with glowsticks.



I'll take your brain...



..to another dimension.





Pay close attention!



It seemed to go down quite well. Although I'm dreading the video footage (which is apparently out there somewhere) ending up on YouTube.

All too soon, the day was over and my Wife and I said our goodbyes to all our lovely friends and took our leave of them. The following day, it all seemed like something of a dream to be honest. I also felt terribly nauseous all day Sunday. I don't think it had anything to do with the alcohol consumed (as actually I didn't drink a terrible amount), I actually think it was mostly the pent up tension and nervous energy finally being released. A very odd feeling. My feet hurt too - I'd done a lot of dancing.

I understand now though why they say it's the best day of your life. Obviously, it is anyway because it's the day you and someone else commit your lives to each other. We all know that. But what makes it even more special is sharing that day with all the people that you respect and love, knowing they have all turned up because you mean something to them. It's a truly amazing feeling - I do heartily recommend it.

Although you should first make sure you have find the right person to marry and all that. Probably helps if they feel the same way also.

So this marriage malarkey partially explains the lack of updates of the blog in the past few months. Rest assured, the new Fantastic Mrs Ox has agreed to allow me out once in a while, so I may yet still experience some exciting things and let you know about them.

Off on Honeymoon this afternoon to The Outer Hebrides.

Yes, the Outer Hebrides.

Yes, in late October.

Yes, we are driving, actually.

How long? Oh, about 13 hours each way, including the 3hr ferry trip.

Good Luck you say? I have no idea what you mean...

Married. Brilliant.



+++With thanks to various guests for their lovely photographs of the day , reproduced in this blog.+++

*That was me swallowing nervously, not downing a third glass of wine.