Feline Truths

In life, animal lovers fall into one of two categories: dog person or cat person. Me? I’m a cat person, through and through. Dogs are cool and that, I grew up with three of them, but cats have this je ne sais quoi that just catches me right in the feels. I believe it was Morrissey that said he liked cats because you have to earn their love and, whilst I take everything that man says with a pinch of salt, he was right about that. Cats certainly choose you. Have you ever been over someone’s house, in saunters the cat, and she susses you out for a bit before finally allowing you to pet her? Sometimes she’ll go as far as curling up on your lap. It’s a holy moment. There’s nothing quite like being the chosen one.

Of course, there is the alternative view…when it comes to the feline variety of pet, they are very much like Marmite. Sometimes Mother Nature decides for you and you are allergic to the bastards but, other times, its just a case of not being particularly attracted to their arrogance, teeth, and claws.

If you are of the latter, this post may not be your cup of tea. However, for the dutiful cat owners out there, this one is very much for you. Incoming…the six realities of owning a cat.

1. The Staring Competition
You’re having a good day. It’s one of those days when you are getting shit done. You’ve finished the housework and you’ve just sat down with a nice hot brew…and then you feel the burning sensation in the back of your head. There she is – sat, perfectly poised, staring at you. You smile and say something cute like “Hello! Aren’t you beautiful?” desperately trying to get a reaction with various platitudes. Nothing. Not even a fucking blink. This cat is not just staring at you – she is searching your fucking soul. Is she plotting your death? Is she forming a revenge plot for the vacuuming this week? Is she waiting for you to royally fuck up just so she can tell her cat mates down the woods later on? Or is she just hungry? Before you know it, your brew has gone cold and she gives one solitary yawn before sauntering off.
Who the fuck knows what that was all about.

2. The Hedonist
You’re having a moment with your feline buddy. They’re enjoying the head scratches more than usual and you’re just bathing in their love…and then they just fuck off and do something weird. Like, jump in the bathtub and sniff the hot tap. Or find a piece of carrot peel on the floor and rub their head on it. Or they decide to have some alone time and spend some time rubbing their faces on your shoes. Or maybe another day they sit on a piece of paper…which happens to be in a book…that you’re reading. No permission, no fucks given; if it feels right they just do it.

3. The Crack Addict
More mysterious than the KFC herb recipe is the recipe that has flummoxed cat owners for a number of years – the ingredients of Dreamies. Whatever they put in those crunchy, little parcels, my cat will make herself a nuisance just to try and get a gram of them. She sits directly under my feet when I’m washing up and I have literally kicked her (by accident, calm down) without realising she was there. No matter how many times I wedge a toe between her ribs, she doesn’t care, just so long as she stands a chance of persuading me to open that treat cupboard and give her a fix.

4. The Lint Roller
Gone are the days when you could carelessly leave the house with an arrogant touch of nonchalnce. Oh no. Now we are humbled by the need to spend an extra five minutes lint rolling the shit out of our clothes. Also, it doesn’t matter if the entire contents of your wardrobe have been washed because, you can guarantee, those motherfuckers will come out caked in cat fur.
Black suit? Not anymore!
LBD? Dream on!
Black tank tee? Nope. Not today.
Basically, there’s so much fur on those motherfuckers Peta might as well organise a protest.

5. The Sixth Sense
You’ve bossed the day. You’ve come home, you’ve unwound, and you’re in bed with a book ready to sleep. You’re alone, except for your faithful, feline, companion. You’re chilling. And, without warning, he awakens. It’s the fastest he’s moved in the entire day and he’s staring blankly at the wall. Why? What’s going on? For what seems like a lifetime, he’s staring, unmoving, with eyes like saucers. Shit. Shit, fuck, shit. What is he seeing? They say that animals can detect ghosts, after all. Is death in the room? God I wish he was staring at me again like earlier. Is this a case for Derek Acorah? Will I need to get a priest in? I don’t even know a bloody priest. I need to move house. I knew there was something off about thi…Oh. No.
It’s a gnat.
A fucking gnat.

6. The Invisible Hourglass
It varies from cat to cat. No one can tell when it runs out. Humans are at the mercy of the invisible hourglass. You’re happily having a pet of the cat, having been the chosen one or just having a trusted moment with your furry friend, when the hourglass runs out. Lawd help you, child, because you are fucked. Suddenly, something which begun as a treat has turned into torture and the cat attacks you. She’s growling at you like she’s just hit a bad comedown from the purring happy place she was just occupying and the claws sink into your vulnerable wrist and you are helpless. She is a Venus fly trap around your arm, before jumping up and walking away, leaving you with a bloody stump where your hand used to be.
The house cat – truly, the Jekyll and Hyde of the animal kingdom.


Room 101

Room 101 – the room in George Orwell’s book 1984 where innocent people’s worst fears and most hated things are inflicted upon them. Or, for a more pop culture version, a television show presented by Frank Skinner where various celebrities are asked to discuss their pet hates and if they should be banned to Room 101 for eternity. Either way, Room 101 contains the hates and fears of humanity. (I think this was also where Donald Trump was born.)

Anyway, these are mine…


Band Tees in High Street Stores

So, a huge fan of The Ramones are you? How about Black Sabbath? Ah, Metallica…always on repeat, eh?

Look, I know it’s not your fault. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about the fashion status of band tees but its a sad state of affairs when this happens. I can no longer take The Rolling Stones seriously knowing that they have whored out their famous lick symbol to H&M for pre-teens to wear and feel somewhat edgy. As a rule, if you have never listened to the band…or even seen them live…you haven’t earned the right to adorn yourself with the apparel. And, no, I don’t care if it was on sale in TopShop. That just makes it worse.

I know I sound like a pompous, hipster prick but maybe that’s because I am a pompous, hipster prick when it comes to these things. I am full of self-loathing and self-righteousness in a precarious balance, unfortunately.


Clean Eating Instagram-mers

 If I see another picture of a Protein Bowl, Kale, or Pinterest’s latest overnight oats recipe, I’m going to cry. Legit. What the fuck is with this clean eating crap anyway? I still don’t fully understand and I really don’t think the people who live by it fully do, either.

I mean, I know pizza isn’t exactly high on the list of “Things to Eat Daily if You Want to Live Longer” but this is a whole new extreme. I think the thing that really grinds my gears (after reading the ridiculously long caption about how many reps they did at the gym, their personal history, “trigger warnings,” and #strongnotskinny) is that these motherfucking pictures are posed as much as their selfies. You know. You know. The almonds placed a little too carefully down the centre of the protein bowl with bananas on one side and blueberries on other like some kind of fruit apartheid…

Just eat your dinner, Susan, for goodness sake.


Pet Owners Who Call Themselves ‘Mum’/’Dad’

I’ve got something to tell you – you know that Mother’s Day card that Mr Fluffs wrote you last year? He didn’t write it. Your partner did. Why? Because Mr Fluffs is a fucking rabbit and can’t read, write, nor hold a pen.

You are not a parent. You have a pet. And, likewise, Whiskers has a human who puts up with him shitting on the floor, scratching the bejesus out of your brand new DFS sofa, and still feeds him at the end of the day. In his eyes, you are a less than a mother and more of a mug.



Madge, darling, at one point you had it. And you had it good. And then you just got a bit crazy and now everyone watches you on stage like they’re watching a build up to a low-budget horror movie.



Mexico. What the fuck, bro? Tequila is Satan’s tap water. I never will enjoy it and the moment someone comes over with a big grin on their face holding a lemon, balancing salt on their hand, I want to weep because I know what’s coming. Serious. I’d rather swallow bleach. Or watch Madonna in concert.


Salted Caramel

“I know what would make this caramel better…Salt.” said no-one ever.

I’ll tell you what happened. One day Bill the Baker went out on a Friday night with the lads and was mad hungover on Saturday morning. Anyway, time is money, so he opened his bakery and put out his best selling batch of Caramel Donuts. However, Bill was a fucking state this morning due to aforementioned sesh and instead of sprinkling sugar on top, the daft bastard grabbed the salt instead. What to do? He was opening in 10 minutes and he didn’t have time to make more. So he just spun it like a pro and added “NEW!” on a sign next to them.

Turns out they were a big hit and caramel was ruined forever.

The end.


Protein Shakes

You know what else has protein? Food.

There’s a time and a place for protein shakes – after a gym session, or a long ass run, but not throughout a normal working day. (Unless you are the size of a London bus trying to bulk not sulk.)

Walking around the office with your My Protein bottle like a status symbol? Not the time nor place. Just…stop.


Amazon Reviewers…

…Or, more specifically, the Amazon reviewers who leave something the length of War and Peace. They act like they’ve got their own column in The Telegraph, for gods sake. They’ve only bought a can of de-icer and they’re off, setting the scene…

“It was a cold and frosty morn’ when I awoke Tuesday of last. The winds were blowing and the snow was but a whisper away; despite my reservations, I required to leave for work in less than 35 minutes. I tip-toed past little Timmy, my wife’s Chihuahua, and crept outside to find my fears a reality – my car was, indeed, frozen. I recalled I purchased a de-icer akin to this one a few Januarys ago; for, indeed, that were a bitter winter thou shalt not forget. It’s memory still sends a chill to my core…”

Listen, Charles Dickens. All I want to know is it going to work, was it worth the money, and should I fucking buy it.


Matalan Cards

I still don’t understand the necessity of these. You pop into Matalan to buy a few tops for summer, maybe a pair of pants, and some slippers for Aunt Julie; you arrive with your stash at the till and they ask – nay, demand – for this card.

This card which, to my knowledge, gives you fuck all in return except for a sworn loyalty to the most beige retailer in history. No points. No Christmas benefits. Its just a club card to access the tills and pay for stuff. The moment you say you haven’t got one the cashier looks at you like you’ve just dropped a massive fart. “Do you want one?” they ask.

Well, Colin, I don’t have much of a choice do I?

The Office: Part 2

Where were we?
Ah yes.
You work in an office – AKA Graveyard of Dreams. Everyone around you is qualified in something other than the mundane shite of what they do all week; yourself included. Most of them will have been aspiring teachers, chemists, midwives, engineers, solicitors, entrepreneurs, fucking astronauts…but, instead, they ended up next to you sorting out another Excel spread sheet.

Let’s talk about Excel for a moment. Indulge me, here. Does anyone confidently and unwaveringly understand their way around Excel? Because even if you think you do, Jackie sends you one to complete on Friday afternoon at 4:50pm and suddenly you’re in a Microsoft minefield. One typing error and you’ve fucked the whole thing up. Instead of numbers it’s screaming “#VALUE  #100085! #ABORTABORTABORT!!” etc.  In a desperate attempt at rectification (i.e avoiding royally fucking up) you try and exit the page. Usually, it asks if you want to save and you’ll likely click “Hell No”, allowing you to start again pre-typing error. However, it’s 4:50pm on a Friday, you are knackered, and you have that post-work pint firmly at the forefront of your mind. On auto-pilot you click “Yes” and…well, fuck it…there’s no going back.

Anyway. Moving on. Let’s talk about something else. Office Etiquette and other things.

‘Tis a strange sphere, the office. You’d think that this, of all places, would be a haven for all stationary…alas, the irony is that there is not a pen in sight. But, on the bright side, you’ve got plenty of post-it notes. It’s kind of like having the imbalance of sprinkles : yoghurt ratio in the Muller Corner (which you’ve packed for lunch but you forgot to put in the fridge this morning. Yummy! Warm Yoghurt at 12pm!) Abundance of one, lack of another. Nightmare.

Except one day, by sheer luck/fate/god, you find a decent pen. This is like no other fucking pen. This pen is a Parker knock off, blue ink, and it’s like writing on silk. You lend it to others to have them acknowledge your godly status of pen; they comment things like “This is a nice pen.” and you feel like a proud parent. But, beware, because every motherfucker is out to get this pen. Suddenly it’s like The Hunger Games except it’s not your life you’re guarding, it’s your pen. Every fucker you’ve lent it to is out to get it. Oh yes. Those bastards – they’ll nonchalantly put it in their bag, seemingly unaware of what they are doing. You’re onto them…
“Where’s my pen?” you enquire, keeping your cool on the surface whilst the panic rises within.
“Oh, silly me!” they giggle in reply. “Sorry!”
You’re not laughing. Why? Because you know they’re out for you. Watch your back.

Insofar as cellotape, scissors, Tippex (the Holy Grail of office equipment), stapler, ruler – hardly ever found when needed and yet in abundance when not required. Paperclips are everywhere though. (And there’s always that random massive one just lying around.)  At the end of the day, you’ll sound like a prat when you’re trying to make a note of something whilst live on call to a customer and you’ve only got a post-it note and a fucking paperclip. Finding myself in this situation once and trying to sound professional as fuck on the phone, I desperately scoured my own resources and used lipgloss to write information down.

Speaking of telephones, does anyone else shit their load when it comes to making a call? I swear to Zeus that when the phone rings I stare at it in fear for a good few seconds until someone else picks it up. Mad respect for the Customer Inbound Teams out there – my sweat patches would be too real by 5pm.

As for the printer, it’s always out of order and looks like it was bought in the 1980s. Sounds like it, too. In a world of Mac Books and iPads, why are printers still the size of Mount fucking Everest? Always the awkward moment when you’re waiting in the printer line – you’ve got a rainforest to print out and some poor sod comes to print off their one-sheet letter. Ensue the terrible small talk about the weekend, what your tattoo says (and if it hurt), and some bashful joke about the weather.


What are the perks of office life, then? Well, there’s always the fun of internal emails (I got to know my husband this way. True story.) and office pranks.
Ah! The good old office prank. Covering the laser in the mouse so it doesn’t work, pulling the plug out of the monitor, moving all the keyboard tiles for the rusty typists who need to look at the keyboard whilst writing very important letters, pulling faces at your colleagues when they are talking to customers, searching for the most ridiculous customer name on file (Richard McCunty, Evelyn Twatt, Charles Dickett)…These are the things that make you feel alive between 9am – 5pm. To top it off, there’s the occasional email drama – the passive aggressive sign off. You can bet your arse that if an email is signed with ‘Regards’ as opposed to the usual ‘Kind Regards’ then you, my friend, have offended.


Thus far, we can gather we hate our office jobs. So, the question is, how do we survive?

1) It’s hard but, for your sanity and the sake of the human race, your colleagues are human beings. They have lives. They have families. They are someone’s sister, mother, auntie, brother, Dad, grandson…View them as individuals who are here doing a job to get by, and you will make the day a little easier. Acting like a prick in the office is usually a cover for those who are shit scared and winging it every day. Like you. (And, it’s OK, no-one else knows Excel either.)

2) Don’t get disillusioned. I know, I know…it’s easy to say and fucking hard to do. If you are dealing with customers who act like complete arseholes…please remember no one is born an arsehole. They become one because they’ve been wronged, betrayed, or hurt somehow. Same with colleagues. Be gentle. We’re all fighting a hard battle. I promise you that the whole world is not like the customers you converse regularly with during working hours. You know something – you can bring light to someone’s day. A smile. An offer to make tea. Bring fucking cake – everyone loves cake. Negative ions are transferred (#science) and take over positive ones. Fuck that; defy the laws of physics and stay positive and watch that shit spread like butter.

3) Finally, and most importantly, you spend most of your life in work. You need to enjoy it. If you don’t, leave. I swear now, if you get that ‘Sunday Night Feeling’ of dread in the pit of your stomach about Monday…Go. Quit. Find something that turns you on. Don’t stay because it’s easy but makes you loathe your very existence. You’re too good for that shit, trust me. You are a talented human being and deserve to make something of yourself. If you change jobs, great…if you stay in the job but take up a hobby outside of work…this is also good. Don’t live to work…work to live. You have skills from this job – write them down. Fuck it, email me and I will help you. You’re not wasted. You’re not talentless. Regardless of how you feel, it is never too late. As Rachel would say at lunch time whilst you’re eating your warm Muller Corner and trying to balance the yoghurt : sprinkles ratio…Go for it.


Office Workers, we salute you. You are the fucking nuts.

The Office: Part 1

If you’re half way through life then it’s highly likely, at some point, you’ve suffered the woes of The Office. Not the witty television show (UK did it best) – although having an office with David Brent would’ve made the place more bearable – but the actual Seventh Circle of Hell. The point where you realise that there’s more to life than Excel spread sheets, being another rat in the race, and discovering that Sick Building Syndrome is too real.

For those of you still surviving the perils of the office, have survived the perils of the office, or have never endured the office…This is for you.

It begins on Sunday evening.
You’ve had a good weekend, regardless of the thumping hangover you’ve had to survive. It ended with a Dominos so…swings and roundabouts. You’re just putting the Pizza boxes on the side (shut up. No-one puts them in the bin straight away) when it hits you like a Calzaghe punch in the stomach – Monday is around the corner. You start inwardly cursing the working week (two days out of seven for a break. It’s a joke) and retire to your well sculpted ass groove in the sofa.

Those of us who are of the more optimistic mind set may adopt the great British “Keep Calm and Carry On.” It’s Monday. You’re (semi-) revived after the weekend, you mentally prepare to hit Monday and finish off Friday’s work, and you’re ready for the week ahead. Come at me, bro.

The rest of us who are more pessimistic realistic may decide to rebel against the ever-ticking clock and attempt to stretch out Sunday as far as she can go. That is to say you fall asleep on the sofa at 12am, watching a crap documentary on Elephants or some shit, and wake up at 3.30am to the BBC news rerun. You drag your weary ass to bed hoping that the next three hours sleep are going to somehow cure you of all fatigue.

Bullshit. Your alarm goes off at 6.30am and it’s like an air raid siren. Snooze that motherfucker – You’re getting at least 10 more minutes…

…Until you wake up at 7.40am and realise you’ve slept through the second alarm. Shit fucking shitty shit.

Shower, shit, shave (applies to both genders.) Except you’re late, asshole, and you have to skip the shower, squeeze out a nugget, and don’t wear anything above the knee because you’re a gorilla from the waist down.

Made it to the car and you’re still wiping the sleep out of your eyes. At this point, you may have a weird head rush thing as your brain catches up to the fact that you are definitely not in bed and the cold air has shocked your system to shit. Let’s say it’s Winter. The steering wheel is Baltic but you haven’t got time to cry; you need to get to the office before 9am because they want you work-ready by 9; the bastards.

Traffic…of all that is unholy. Fucking traffic. And when it’s raining it seems that Britain just cannot cope and everyone panics. Either that or they just drive like absolute monkeys everywhere. Here is the part of the day where, if the Swear Jar was in the car, you’d be able to afford a two-week holiday to Barbados by the time you got half-way to work. Every driver on the road is a use-your-fucking-indicators, stay-where-the-fuck-you-are, are-you-having-a-laugh, prick. It’s all very dramatic. The rain is causing spray to go everywhere; you can’t actually see but you know the route so well you could do this shit with your eyes closed. Nick Grimshaw is babbling his way through the morning with his cheerful Northern accent…Doesn’t he realise its fucking 8.15am? With the paycheque he gets at the end of the month, I’d be fucking laughing, too. Smug arsehole.

And yes, you drive down the centre lane because you’ve got at least seven junctions to pass on the way to work and are you fuck as like going to wait at every single one to stay legal. Out of my way, I’m coming the fuck through.

You’ve made it. On time. You feel euphoric until you realise there is no victory in arriving at the office. It’s the same feeling in the pit of your stomach as when your parents used to look at you with those sad, sympathetic eyes and say “it’s the taking part that counts”; deep down, you knew you’d never be the Egg And Spoon Champion. Finishing last won’t get you anywhere, kid…

Morning routines ensues:
Blame childhood errors for current situation.
Have a little cry in the toilets as you come to terms with the fact that this is your life now.
Grab vile coffee from Linda in the canteen and know that this is the only warmth you will feel inside you today.

Here things get interesting because human interaction. There are certain types of people you will encounter during your office career:

  • The Debbie
    You’ve called her the Oxygen Thief because that bitch can talk. No matter what topic. No matter what time. She’s like a ticking time bomb of conversation – legend has it that if the world ended tomorrow you’d still hear the echoes of her voice.
    Her favourite topic? Herself, mostly.
    You’re going on holiday? She’s been there.
    You have a wedding? She’s had two.
    Your daughter learnt to walk? Her niece just learnt to sprint and do the high jump at the tender age of 3.
    Oh, fuck off, Debbie.
  • The Rebecca
    Works in admin. Young, fun, and way out of the legal age range. Still, doesn’t stop you having a lingering look when she walks past. Nice face. Thick as shit.
  • The Robert
    Doesn’t say much. In fact, doesn’t say anything. No one has any idea what he does. Sometimes laughs at your jokes with the rest of the you – and when I say laugh, I mean he exhales forcefully out of his nose and maybe twitches his mouth. Maybe.
  • The Chris
    The only ‘normal’ one of the office. Has a wife and three kids and, let’s face it, he looks like he has a wife and three kids. You and him are in it together. Mostly takes the piss out of everyone else but somehow everyone loves him. Last time you tried to make a joke of the same calibre, Debbie didn’t speak to you for three days. (Note to self: Make more jokes like that toward Debbie.)
  •  The Jackie
    Your boss. Hates everyone. Seems to hate you especially. Might be because of the joke thing but you’re not sure. She looks like a cross between a horse and the hulk. Often demands unreasonable amounts of work in impossible amounts of time. You deliver, just, whilst loathing the fact that you are essentially whoring out the best of yourself to her every day. You daydream of throwing your keyboard at her face. The only thing you have on her is that she was impeccably pissed at the last Christmas party and walked around with her dress tucked into her pants most of the evening.
  • The Margaret
    Sweet Maggie, the maternal one of the office. Understands the trials and tribulations of life and when you turn up smelling like last night’s empty can of Fosters, she gives you a knowing wink. Makes tea often and calls you things like “Petal” and “Sweetheart.” If you’re going to cry on anyone’s shoulder today, it’ll be her. (Often happens at least once a week.)
  • The Kevin
    Workaholic wannabe who sucks up to Jackie at any given chance. Tries to fit in and make a joke but ends up sounding like a twat. Wears wonky glasses and eats Tuna sandwiches everyday. Acts like he knows everything but knows nothing.
    How did he get where he is? It’s who you know, not what you know. Covers up his lack of intellect with an overly enthusiastic attitude that Jackie adores…mainly because she’s found someone to make her coffee every half an hour.
  • The Rachel
    Twenties. Chances are she’s part of your lunchtime group. Will join in with you whinging about the job and how much she hates it. However, she’s saving to go travelling and this is her stop gap. Your biggest fear is that this is your forever. One of those positive types who tells you to “Go for it!” and “You can do it!”

This is your 37.5 hour a week company. No wonder you find Mondays so damn hard, eh?

…You know I tease you with the cynicism. You already know I’m a bitch. Part 2 coming soon.

General [Irrational] Annoyances

Cashier Conversations

Look. I understand your job isn’t the best out of the JobSite search results owing to the general monotony of it all but I really…I can’t…

OK, picture this; you’re on your way to meet a friend and, obviously, you’re running late because your eyeliner was being a little bitch. You stop into Asda/Aldi/Morrisons/Large-British-Supermarket to pick up a few bottles of Get-Me-Drunk-It’s-Friday and off you pop to the tills…So far, so good…

Until you choose Barbara. Fucking Barbara who happens to be on shift with BFFL Anne. Right now, all you want to do it pay for your booze and be on your way but…

Babs: “Well I says to Stuart, I says, I says I can’t work Saturday because it’s our Lucy’s birthday, it is…”

Anne: “It’s never ‘errr birthday! She’s twenny one already?! My gawwwwwwwddddd…

Babs: “I know, aye. Dunt half make yer feel old, I says dunt half make yer feel old. I’ll be gettin’ me bus pass soon enough! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!! Twelve punds and severnter faaave pence love.”



…Suddenly, you’re the third wheel. You’re the one feeling like you shouldn’t be there. Babs, babe, we’re paying customers and you’re making us feel like the burden.

It’s just fucking rude, OK? Rude. Have a chat, by all means, but don’t act like we’re invisible or in your sodding way. We don’t ring up a call centre and hear on the other end “Good morning, you’re through to Josh, how may I help…Gareth! Mate! Remember that film I saw the other week…?” No. No we would not.

On top of that, as if I wasn’t already late for my date with the bottom of the alcohol bottle, I’m practically celebrating Christmas because you’ve miscounted my money. There’s even a computer to do this shit for you, Barbara. 

I know I sound like a bitch, but I really couldn’t give a flying ass monkey how old who is and whether it makes you feel ancient. Just scan my shit, take my money, and let me leave.



Being told to ‘Smile’ or to ‘Cheer Up’

Always comes from smug, over-confident pricks who barely know you except for a brief nod ‘Hello’ in passing. Suffering with RBF (Resting Bitch Face) comes with it’s pros and cons but this is my main beef. I mean, for all you know, something may have legit upset me this morning…Were you thinking that this comment would help? That I would turn around and cause me to say “You’re so right!! Thank god you said something because I was at a complete loss as to what to do!”

As it turns out, I was fine. Until you opened your fucking mouth, that is.



People who boast about having no sick days off work…

Honestly. Honestly. Just do not. This is not good. This is not worth boasting about and I will not feign being impressed with this fact. I mean, if you’ve genuinely not fallen ill in the last 20 or so years…that’s epic and I want a full break down of your diet and exercise regime.

However, chances are that’s bullshit and you have been ill because…wayhey motherfucker, you’re human! In which case, what the fuck are you doing with your life?

The reasons this annoys me relates to my overall hatred for Britain’s work ethic…in the sense that I think it is unethical. If you’re on a 37 hour week contract and you’re clocking 50 hours, then y’all need to ask a few questions and cut that shit out. When you’re on your death bed, you really won’t be wishing you spent more hours in the office.

Put yourself first and stay home. Don’t come in with your flu/sickness/herpes. And, besides, better one person out of the office than taking five others down with you.



Drivers who do not use indicators

‘Oh my GOSH you are SO LUCKY my psychic powers are on point today because I KNEW you’d pull out of that junction right in front of me! I just LOVE being kept on my toes!’


Clue is in the name, asshole. It’s literally a fucking centimetre away from your left hand. FUCKING USE IT.



Wooden Flooring

Nothing says ‘Cosy Home’ quite like a wooden floor..!
Said no-one ever.

It’s cold. It looks crap. And have you ever been sat there, watching a film, and some clumsy twat drops the remote? Fuck me…the noise was so unexpected I’ve shat my pants and I might as well give up on the rest of the film because my FUCKING EARS ARE RINGING from the impact. Brilliant. Happy fucking Friday night.