What is it about cycling shorts, exactly? If you have a shapely posterior, I can see the point. If you are a professional or club cyclist, I can see the point. But if you are a fat-arsed middle man with a perspiration problem – cycling shorts are NOT A GOOD LOOK!!

Every morning I set off to the station in preparation for my hour long commute of misery into Central London, and every morning I have to pass a stream of men, who  should know better, sweating and puffing their way to work on massively over-expensive pushbikes.

Now, I have nothing against pushbikes (especially my feet – God made cars for a reason..) but a combination of a massively expensive bit of carbon fibre, a silly crash hat, a jersey with “Raleigh” on the front of it and shorts so tight they make your arse look like two sweaty eels doing something unmentionable in a rubber sack really is beyond the pale, it’s a good job I don’t eat breakfast, or the inside of my car would reek of vomit and secondhand Weetabix before my journey is complete.

What’s really hard to fathom is why fat, flabby middle-aged somethings feel the need to dress in skin tight clothes. They wouldn’t do it in the supermarket or while making a presentation to The Board, so why the hell is it necessary to squeeze your scrotum into an item of clothing clearly not designed for the purpose and definitely designed for folks 20 years your junior?

if it’s to attract a mate, I’d say it’s going to pretty unsuccessful, unless you’re looking to attract similar sweaty middle-aged men who pant a lot.

Maybe it’s because lycra ‘makes your bum look smaller’, but I doubt it.

Which leaves only one explanation. The tight fitting clothing reduces drag and/or wind resistance therefore enabling the wearer to travel faster on said pushiron.

I have news for you fatboy, it’s not working. The lard vs wind ratio is in no way affected by the tightness of your pants or by how constricted your danglers are. The only thing that will gain some improvement, is the mood of the ambulance crew who have to pick you up after you collapse with palpitations at the bus stop up the road..

Please. Stop. Now.
   
     

After an extended break for family stuff, I’m back and more irreverent, irrelevant and complain-erant then ever.

Watch this space. Carefully.

I was watching TV with Mrs Crussell the other night when an advertisement came on for a show which featured legendary science-type Stephen Hawking.

Dr Hawking, when commenting, used the standard voice synthesiser that’s built into his wheelchair – the one that sounds like an 80s Speak-n-Spell and it was at this point that Mrs Crussell (bless her!) made a profoundly incisive observation.

She said:”You’d think with all the advances in science and the advent of SatNav’s that can talk, he could make himself sound better than that…”

And that’s when it struck me, can you imagine:

The TV studio is dark and warm. in the dimness behind the stage lights the audience sits, silent, waiting for the greatest interview of all time – the interview in which Stephen Hawking will reveal the deepest secrets behind the birth of the universe… Seconds tick past and a pin which was dropping at the time heard itself whistle through the tense air.

On stage, Jeremy Paxman shifts his weight slightly in his chair, preparing to enter the history books as the man who asked “the question”. Out of sight of the cameras, the bloke who’s job it is to count Paxman in counts him in 3…2…1…

Jeremy Paxman: “Good evening and tonight I’m here with Professor Stephen Hawking to ask the most important question in the whole of human history, the answer to this question will, without doubt, cause us to question our place in the universe and indeed, the very fabric of the universe itself.

“This question is so important that it can only be asked once.. so Professor Stephen Hawking, theoretical physicist, author and the greatest man of our time …. … … how was life created and what lies at the centre of the Big Bang?”

*huge pause as Prof Hawking types feverishly into his newly voice synthesised, wheelchair vocoder unit*

Prof Stephen Hawking: “In 300 yards take the exit A64 to Barnstaple..”

Jeremy Paxman: “I beg your pardon?”

Prof Stephen Hawking: “Speed Camera!!!!”

Jeremy Paxman: “Prof Hawking, I’m not sure I understand?”

Hawking hammers furiously at the keyboard of the vocoder,,,

Prof Stephen Hawking: “The next Costa Coffee is in 12.3 miles…”

A riot breaks out in the studio…

My fan has been complaining again that I rarely post to my blog any more. There are several good reasons for the lack of updates, the first too being my very demanding but insanely cute daughters

The other reason is the fact that I’ve been slaving away over a hot keyboard on http://thezombiediaries.worldofcrussell.com

What manner of madness is that, you may ask (go on, you know you want to..). Well, taken from the exhaustive “About Me” page I wrote while ont he train the other day:

The idea for The Zombie Diaries came to me one grey afternoon on the
train on the way home from work. I’d had a number of ideas and musings
running around in my mind for a while. all of which revolved around a
zombie theme but I’d never had the opportunity to expand on them or
write them down.

At some point
I’ll get round to adding bios and other self-absorbed rubbish, but for
now, sit back and (hopefully) enjoy this for what it is – Zombie
Fiction…

So there you go, a free read what I wrote meself which I can update as and when I feel the urge. Currently, it stands at about 12000 words and will reach “novel” status at 40,000+ (actually it could probably do to be 80,000 plus but let’s not split hairs shall we?)

Anyways, nip over there, have a read and let me know what you think.

Adverts, they’re all around. Ads for cars, insurance, food and stuff we don’t really need, or want, for that matter.

And it’s all lies.

It astounds me sometimes just how stupid advertisers think we actually are. Take for instance the recent ad for Pringles. There’s lots of groovy music, some hip young types dancing about and lots of wavy lines and hip and happening goings on. Then they hit you with the lie:

Apparently, because there are 90 crisps in a single tube of Pringles they are officially “more fun”.

How the hell can a packet of crisps be fun? Going out for a day at a theme park with the kids = FUN, going out for a drink with the lads = FUN, eating a packet of pre-chewed, re-constituted corn offal on your own and consuming so much salt you could wither up and die like a blubbering, solitary slug = NOT FUN… is it?

Another example, say I wanted to reinsure my car, I could go to the firm GoCompare. Apparently, if I do, some fat tosser will appear from nowhere and below at me in a fake Italian accent until I suffer an insurancegasm in my pants. Clearly, another lie. If that cretin appeared within 500 yards of a prospective insurance buyer they’d be forced to slash his throat open with the jagged edge of a broken bottle – WHO’D BE THANKING HIS LUCKY STARS THEN???? EH?? EH???

What’s required is some truth in advertising, and here’s my take on it…

For miracle weight loss drug Alli:

The ad fades into a messy kitchen. A vastly overweight woman is curled up in a ball in the corner, her face is tear-stained with traces of smeared chocolate across the cheeks. The voiceover says: “With Alli you could shed pounds in a matter of weeks but you won’t because you’re a greedy fat cow who’ll stuff herself full of sweets then try and cover it up out of a sense of guilt by overdosing on our pills until you irreparably damage your kidneys. Give up now or die” 

Or for popular cheap lager Carlsberg:

The camera opens on a happy family scene, a well groomed man hugs his gorgeous wife, kisses his smiling blonde-haired daughter on the top of the head and shakes hands with his unfeasibly good-looking pals as they get into the car and head off to play golf.

Voiceover man says: “Carlsberg don’t make perfect family moments, and round about now you’re lying screaming in a gutter with blood running from a gaping wound after you got pissed and mouthed off at some skinheaded nutter in a cheap boozer”

Finally, how about car insurance…

A hilarious cartoon animal, say a Meerkat, tells you:”For gorgeous animated cartoon hijinks visit my lovely website or for car insurance that appears to cover you for everything till you need it, when you actually find out that you are covered for precisely FUCK ALL, go to this other similarly named website.”

Now, wouldn’t that be better for all concerned?? Adverts that tell it it like it is and tell the truth rather than a tissue of pointless lies that deceive absolutely no-one…

Right, time for a cup of penis enlarging, weigh reducing, salary increasing tea that I saw during Jeremy Kyle the other day…

Stop the presses.. it turns out Roman Catholic priests have sex with children. It’s been an open secret for years and the butt of many a joke, but the Vatican really is in the shit now so it’s a good job they’ve got a suitable excuse.

Apparently, the Vatican has been infiltrated by Satan.

Yup, Satan. senior church exorcist Father Gabriele Amorth recently blamed: “cardinals who do not believe in
Jesus, and bishops who are linked to the Demon”.

He went on: “When one speaks of ‘the smoke of Satan’ in the holy rooms, it is all true – including these
latest stories of violence and paedophilia,” he said.

So there you go, if your child or children has been abused by someone purporting to be the Mouthpiece of God recently, you can blame the little red fella and the perverts in black who forced themselves onto the kids are just puppets of a greater power.

Mouthpiece of God?? Ringpiece of God more like. The RC church has refused to acknowledge what it’s members have been doing for decades and now they’ve been backed into a corner. Even Pope Nazi hasn’t escaped and is currently under scrutiny for having ignored allegations when he was in charge of the anti-buggering unit in Vatican City.

The worst part of the whole affair is that nothing will happen. The RC church is way too powerful to let something like paedophilia get in the way, it’s already proved that through decades of denials and the practice of moving priests from one area to another when they’ve worn out the locals.

Still, it’s not all bad, consider this: When the Muslims frighten the shit out of us by blowing things up, the priests of the Roman Catholic church will be standing behind us, pushing it back in again.

Amen to that, Brother

It was five past twelve and the chaps of the Conservative fifth were toying with the idea of a little light footer after lunch.

So, not content with using his dead daughter to gain political leverage and show the nation what a “nice” man he is, now he’s bullying his own side – what a great example of leadership by example, all hail the most hated Prime Minister in recorded history..

I’ve been watching a lot of TV news recently and I’ve discovered that government and local councils have presented us with the ultimate “Get Out of Jail Free” card. In days of yore it was sufficient when getting caught for doing a bit iffy to tell the police and/or courts “I did it because I’m a drug addict”.

Sadly, this excuse has now been wrecked by the likes of Docherty and Winehouse so it’s become necessary to find a replacement. And the replacement is so simple it’s genius.

Are you ready…?

Ok, say you’ve caught with a ton of crack in the boot of your pimped out Austin Allegro and your bitches are getting fractious, just tell the five-oh; “Well, I regard this arrest as a wake-up call” – UTTER GENIUS!!!

Using the phrase “It’s a wake-up call” apparently means you can get away with a broad spectrum of ass-hattery ranging from letting  abused kids die without taking action right up to failing to properly equip troops you’re busy sending to their deaths. And the best part is, not only is it an excuse, it’s also negates any need to apologise – EVER!!

The scandal over MPs expenses was described as a wake-up call for political reform and, as expected, nothing happened as a result. Haringey Council promised their wake-up call in the wake of baby P’s death would change things – no action there then and as for the scandal over troops body armour…

It seems to me that “wake-up call” is a euphemism for “doing fuck all”.

So ne’er do wells of Britain, take note. If you get ins a spot with Customs, the Police or even Immigration, when you get to the point where you have to answer for your actions just tell anyone who’ll listen there’s a wake-up call in your immediate future. Promising some form of internal investigation or audit just adds to the believability of the situation, giving you time to make good your penalty-less escape.

Winner…     

Me! I’m the daddy!!! as of 9am on February 2, 2010 I became a dad to two gorgeous little girls *beam*.

Normal service will be resumed fairly soon, as a new dad I clearly have many issues to get off my chest so watch this space…

Call it pressure of work, call it pressure of impending fatherhood, call it laziness if you will but it’s been nearly three months since my last rant post.

That’s all I wanted to say really, except that I hope it’ll be less then three months to my NEXT post!