The hypertext online internet web log of Chris

The varying levels of waiter attentive-ness and the imaginary reactions they create.

You aren’t asked for your drinks order for over 9 minutes

The first drink of the evening is often the most sought after. 9 minutes is the exact time it takes a man to drink his first pint. Therefore to make a man wait over 9 minutes for his drink is a crime against humanity.

The waiter asks how everything is before you order any food

This is just a test of your manners. He knows that you haven’t ordered, it’s just interesting to see how you will react. Maybe you’ll be a sarcastic twat and try a witty retort, and then maybe your food will come out all crap.

The waiter asks you how everything is as you move food towards your mouth

Your brain goes into overload. Your mouth wants the food, but your larynx wants to say “Fine, thanks”. You end up saying something inaudible and then you shove the food in as quickly as possible. Then you nod at him like an idiot.

The waiter asks you how everything is just as you start chewing your mouthful of food

Now is the time for The Super Chew. You try hard to chew faster than you have ever chewed before. The steak takes longer than you wish to break down. You end up smiling and nodding at the waiter whilst the mash that you put on top of your steak oozes out between your teeth.

The waiter asks you how everything is towards the end of a mouthful of food

You rush to finish the delicious food between your cheeks. You manage to swallow a whole potato and a sideways carrot, but ultimately you end up smiling like a weirdo and saying “Fine, thanks” with food around your face.

The waiter asks you how everything is, but you’ve eaten all of your meal

You feel as if the tepid nature of your runner-beans warrants an official complaint, but the lack of evidence and trivial nature of your feelings means that you go home in a sulk. Inevitably, your feelings reveal a secret of your past in which you was force-fed cold food on a school trip to Swanage.

The waiter fails to ask how everything is

This is the perfect outcome, but only if you had an acceptably average meal.

… is that I hate them.

I really, really hate dressing up in any way. I don’t like pretending I’m someone else, or even appearing to look a little bit like someone else. I have never, ever deliberately dressed to impress. I hate wearing things that are obviously trendy. I rarely wear anything considered  a suit, although they look great, they just aren’t comfortable enough to sit about in. I’m also worried about ruining it the whole time.

I hate spending more money than is required to celebrate an event. How can I show you that I mean it when I say “Happy Birthday”…. should I dress up as someone else? Spend £30 on a costume? Yep, that one.

I hate trying to think of a costume that is different enough for people not to think of, and also good enough for people to recognise. I hate it.

I hate hired costumes. There’s usually a “Best Outfit”  contest at parties. Last one I went to, the winner was someone in a hired Jim Carrey “Mask” costume. That’s cheating! No thought, no effort, just hire the whole thing.

At the same party, I decided to go as “an idiot”. I wore terrible clothes, some terrible glasses , a terrible woolly hat.  The hat was red and white. For this single item, I had people coming up and saying, “Oh nice! Where’s Wally!” It wasn’t a Where’s Wally outfit! The only bit that even resembled it was the hat.

Was it that easy to get away with a bad costume? Do you only ever really need one prop and the whole outfit is a success?

I have also been to a 1970′s fancy dress party. I decided to wear typical 1970′s clothes. As in, real vintage clothes that people actually wore, and not some pretend “groovy” outfit. When I got there, everyone was wearing “Disco” clothes. They were all in afro wigs and funky dresses and stuff. I should have just gone down the lazy route.

I’m going to a fancy dress party tonight. It’s an old friend from when I was a kid. As much as I want to celebrate his birthday, I have really dreaded the build up of the whole process.

Here’s some embarrassing pictures of my previous attempts…

I might update this with a picture later of tonight’s outfit. Then again, why would I?

4 months have passed since my last blood donation and yet again I took myself down to Gorse Hill to donate blood.

I was running early from work so I had to wait around for 20 minutes. There were a few people there waiting too, but I couldn’t be bothered to talk so I put on my iPod and ate a plum outside. (I already had the plum with me, I didn’t go scrumping.)

In doing so, about three additional people came in and I lost my place in the queue. They knew I was there first, but I guess that’s my loss if I want to walk around instead of lurking outside the room. “MUST GIVE BLOOD AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE!”

I’d misplaced my forms, so I had to start over and fill out a new questionnaire. I had an iron test and the blood drop blobbed and floated in the right direction.

“Are you ok having a plaster?”

Yes… :/

What is it with plasters? Are people really allergic to them or something? (Yes)

The nurse went through all my questions and yet again they have to double check I’m not a malaria risk. I will definitely make a little list of countries I’ve been to so they at least write it in the correct order. It’s an effort to list every country in the right order and then have it questioned.

“So you went to Australia in between?”

No, we went the wrong way round and then went there last.

“Oh… ok. Anyway, that’s fine, thank you.”

I had some water and ignored the bloke next to me. I could tell he wanted to say something, but I just didn’t want to talk blood. Opening line at the blood bank… “Is this your first time?” It’s a winner. You can then go on to talk about how many times, and whether you was sick or anything, or your favourite blood-bank.

I was then led to my table. The nurse (she’s a nurse right?) caught my surname and it turned out she was the mother of an old school friend. Apparently they are doing well, with children, which is nice to hear. (Honestly, I’m not being funny. I’m not trying to be anyway.)

The donation took 7:02 minutes and I gave 470ml (like everyone does).

I felt fine afterwards, had some complimentary tea, Penguin chocolate biscuits, some crisps, and a Special K bar.

I made my way home as usual. A pretty uneventful and boring blog.

Should I mention I had 5 pints of Guinness that night? Had a great time talking Street Hawk, Airwolf and Knight Rider… and Jeremy Beadle.

See ya.

I’ve been wondering for a while whether or not to do a more diary-type blog entry on this blog.

At the moment I’ve kept it to short random thoughts that I believe are either deliberately stupid, just an insult, or a deliberate joke that I’ve constructed. By telling you this, it kind of ruins the point. I think some are quite clever, but are so unfunny that they just come across as stupid. Which is great. Because that means you haven’t understood that it’s a joke. Which is the point.

So I think maybe an diary-type update here or there would be good. Then I can shoe-horn in a subtle “joke” when I fancy. Any stories on here are true and the so-called (by me) jokes are usually because I’ve thought of them whilst out-and-about or in-and-around. I don’t “work” on thinking of things to write on here. Except this entry…

I’ve also been thinking of making a “Facebook status” compilation. I think I’ve wasted some good one-liners on there. One-liners that I haven’t stolen from a “Funny Status” website. Anyway, they are long gone now.

I have a perfectly average life. A few downs, a few ups. That way, I’m never devastated, but I’m not usually too impressed either. I’m normally happy at least. Would anyone even read it? I don’t mind.

So, maybe I will, maybe I won’t. At least that’s for certain.

Have a good one mate!

Also, just because it’s free, don’t over do it on the wine.

Doctors’ waiting rooms must be the most depressing place ever.

At least there’s a point to a funeral. Waiting is just pointless.

The walls are so boring…

Are you living with cancer?

Do you care for an elderly person?

Cheesy face?

Put up a poster of something nice; a kitten or badger at least.

A couple of times a week, I wait outside a hospital to give a friend a lift home from work.

It’s quite sad and depressing to see people coming out looking weak and weary.

Some of them are so shaky, they can barely light their cigarettes.

A list of random memories from the Isle of Wight.

Still packing my bag at midnight
Lasagne the night before
Red Jet ferry
Slowest bus journey over 4 miles ever
Pitching the tent slower than the girls
Listening to some lads sing “If you’ve got a foreskin; clap your hands”
Carnage in Morrison’s.
Buying premium lager, instead of “Better buys”
Clean toilets
FALAFEL!
Dancing like nutters in the Barcardi tent
Chick pea curry
Playing “Wally”
Enjoying Mel-C
Alcohol rub
Aching back
Aching feet
Baby wipes
Watching a bloke peeing in a cup
Girl with one lense missing in her glasses
Cup of piss kicked over on to a friends foot, causing some drama
Massive long snake of Carling cups
The “Extreme ride”
The biggest poo ever waiting for me in a toliet
Wobbly loos
Sunburned feet

I’ll add more later

more..

Shoot 5
Girl up the path, looked like Beth Ditto
Naked man on guitar
Poo on a box on pathway
BBQ for lunch, but no cooking equipment
Jill stealing the milk
Jonah’s black feet
Jonah stealing the chili sauce
Lads camping round the corner. Just there to steal mobiles (probably)
Trampled tents
£35 for a crate of Carling…. nice work spending £105 mate
Red wine before bed to help us sleep
Coco pops
Zimmer frame
The Poo train had “Poo 2 Get” as number plate
Shower queues

Yeah!!!

We’ll be there Thursday, can’t wait.

I gotta pack yet tho, and I don’t even have a back-pack.

It’s a “pack” that you put on your back.

Why isn’t it a back-sack, like a ruck-sack is?

Ruck-sack sounds like another word for testicles.

It’s a sack that goes in your ruck. Dodgy no?

[All mixed tense, doesn't read well, but this all happened Friday night]

I’m an idiot, I drove the wrong way

So I’m off to a gig tonight and I got 40 minutes to get to Bristol from Swindon. Perfect. I’ve got directions over the phone. Brilliant, I can’t go wrong. Get on at J16 off at J19 of the M4. Easy, right?

So I get down to the motorway, and the motorway is nice and empty. Making great time and thinking that I will be able to mingle before the gig starts.

Then I realise I just gone past Juntion 15! I’ve gone the wrong direction when I got on the motorway. What an idiot face.

Gig

So, I get to the gig, which is at Filton College. After going in the stage doors, I’m directed to the real entrance and stand up on the balcony. Good little gig.

It was a big mix of covers and a few original instrumental pieces. College kids are well young. Was I ever that fresh faced and fashion consious? In college, I think it was all shirts and well polished loafers. No-one looked like a tribute to Dexy or the Ramones when I was 17.

A friend was playing there, so if he reads this, good job!

Bad Movie

After the gig we had a few drinks at another friend’s house and watched whatever was on the tele.

It was film called Sleepstalker. It was well bad. Had every possible horror movie cliche ever, but still we stayed up until 2 o’clock watching it, and then didn’t bother seeing the end. What a waste of time.

Anyway, got to see M & A’s new house, really nice old terrace in Bristol. Nice work, and good luck with the plaster

And, yeah, I like Will Young, so what.