Okay, here’s the top three things I use the internet for – 1) checking out porn, 2) as a research tool for when I’m writing and 3) surfing the net for completely pointless yet oddly entertaining websites. Today I’m going to kill two birds with one stone. Yes I’m going to combine nos. 2 and 3 by writing about a few of the strange websites I’ve come across over the years. Hell, I may manage a hat trick by the end of the day and reward myself with some no. 1 if I get this article written in enough time.

I don’t know why these websites exist, but damn am I glad they do. They’re the perfect time killers, especially on a day like today when it’s raining outside, there’s nothing good on TV, and you just can’t be bothered working on the manuscript for that novel that’s been sitting quietly in your hard-drive for the past year, like a pile of dried up dog shit in the corner of the room that nobody wants to clean up. I’ve avoided the obvious ones like YouTube , ebay, Facebook, Bebo, MySpace…ect., and stuck with lesser known ones. Quite a few of these websites look as if they’re made on a limited budget and created and hosted from a bedroom by just one lone dork with a deep passion for ironic cultural references; and to me that’s what the internet is all about.

www.MenWhoLookLikeKennyRogers.com

When I turned 30, I made a promise to myself that within another 30 year’s time, I would bear a passing resemblance to Jerry Garcia and it’s a promise I intend to keep, despite my wife’s aversion to facial hair –who needs a sex life when you can grow a big, fluffy beard instead? Deep down inside, however, the celebrity that I would really most like to resemble is uber-awesome country star, Kenny Rogers. After all isn’t Jerry Garcia just a Kenny with glasses and a lot less maintenance?

Kenny Rogers is arguably the coolest country western singer on the planet. Admittedly that’s not saying much since there’s only maybe about five people from the entire country western genre that could actually qualify as being cool, and three of them are dead.

Sure, the Gambler’s got a fantastic singing voice – nice and silky without the much of that obnoxious good ol’ boy twang that so many country singers have these days. It’s middle of the road: manly but not macho, sensitive but without making him sound like a total pussy (y’hearin’ me, Aaron Neville?) He has a voice that’s ideal for crossing over into the pop charts – which he’s done, many times over. Yes, Kenny Rogers is the perfect entertainer for the mostly middle aged suburbanites that can’t handle today’s rock music, but aren’t quite redneck enough for country. Okay, so maybe Kenny isn’t really that cool after all.

But what puts Kenny on the cool list is his immaculate silver mane and perfectly trimmed beard. It’s a look that every white American male over the age of 50 aspires to, yet so few achieve. I’ll never forget my father calling me at 3 a.m. a few years ago, this once proud and strong man now a broken wreck, crying as he confessed to me over the phone that he would never be able to achieve the look of Kenny because his beard was just too patchy. Most men, once they hit their late 30’s or early 40’s are prone to male-pattern baldness and a middle-age spread brought on by years of donuts, beer and office work, will never come close to achieving the dream Therefore we must honour those who have and that’s what MWLLKR is all about.

The website is just that – a celebration of all those brave men who have committed themselves to the ‘Kenny’ look and have succeeded (albeit to varying degrees.) The bulk of the site is a gallery with page after page of photos of Kenny look-alikes from around the world. That there are so many shouldn’t come as a surprise, because who doesn’t want to look like Kenny? As the website proves, even other celebrities yearn to look like Kenny (including the late Who bassist John Entwhistle, Earnest Hemingway, Gen. Robert E. Lee, Papa Smurf and God.)

If you’re having trouble finding a ‘Kenny’ the site has a list of places where you’re most likely to find them – try state fairs, airports, Waffle House, Boot World, pawn shops, and A.A. meetings. And for those of you who are thinking about taking up the ‘Kenny’ look, there’s a section that offers helpful tips on how to achieve that iconic style – “grow hair longer than is currently fashionable, if it’s not white or grey, seek a professional stylist for colouring, or baby powder will do in a pinch.”

Oddly enough there are some people out there who aren’t into Kenny Rogers. Not everyone thinks a white beard and feathered mullet is a good look to have; and there are some who just don’t care for his music either. But the one thing you can’t deny is that the man can cook a mean bird. Yep, I’m talkin’ bout the rotisserie chicken from world famous Kenny Roger’s Roasters. Back in the day, this restaurant chain was so awesome, it even inspired an episode of Seinfeld. And if that doesn’t put Kenny on your cool list, then…well, then you’ve got some serious mental problems, my friend. Sadly, these restaurants are all but gone, having been brought out by Nathan’s, the hotdog chain in 1999 and subsequently restructured. But you can still get those tasty corn muffins that came as a side on every meal thanks to the recipe posted on MWLLKR.

The only problem I have with this site is that it appears to have been abandoned. The last winner of the ‘Kenny of the Month’ was in May of 2005. The site may be a one-trick pony, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be updated once in awhile. After all, there are still so many Kenny’s out there and their story needs to be told.
********

www.maddox.xmission.com (a.k.a. The Best Page In The Universe)
If you think cynical, sardonic assholes are just the wittiest thing ever, then boy are you in luck!
This is basically just one huge blog: the author, some dude who calls himself Maddox, bitching and ranting about everything under the sun from the iPhone to people who use puns. What sets him apart from the countless other bloggers on the internet is that well, for starters, he’s actually pretty well informed, unlike say, your Uncle Bob from Missouri who simply parrots whatever he’s heard from Rush Limbaugh or Fox News. Not only that, he’s actually funny. For example, here’s his take on Dave Matthews Band:
‘Dave Matthews fans are like the trans-fats of fandom: oversaturated with obnoxiousness, found everywhere, and impossible to get rid of; for example, they only refer to the band as DMB... you can't abbreviate the word 'band' assholes, it's a band by virtue of the fact that there is more than 1 person in it, and for the record, adding the word 'band' to your name doesn't make you any less of an egotistical shit head). Man, you know what I hate? Dave Matthews.
‘It's the whitest band ever, which is saying something considering 3 of the members are black, and Dave Matthews is literally an African American (born in South Africa). His music can be heard in Whole Foods stores, Live Earth concerts, or blasting from the speakers of open-topped Jeeps parked on curbs everywhere. The typical fan is either some dude wearing khaki cargo shorts replete with dangling rock climbing hooks, even though he doesn't hike because he can't afford to drive his gas-guzzling Jeep, or some chick with huge boobs, buck teeth, and an ankle-length floral skirt that she twirls around like an idiot because she thinks her awesome boobs give her enough social capital to make up for the buck teeth and hairy toes (they don't): ‘
Okay, I’ll admit, I’m a bit bias because I happen to agree with him – I too, can’t stand Dave Matthews Band or its annoying fan base. They’re the type of people who will vote for Obama in the general election, without even knowing anything about his policies or his stance on the issues, solely out of political correctness – but that’s some funny shit going on.
Aside from one or two columns about George Bush, Maddox, perhaps wisely, avoids talking politics and religion, and instead concentrates on taking pot shots at everyday annoyance – such as formulaic Hollywood block busters, advertising, Ben Stiller and people in general. Another favourite target is children. Check out ‘More Crappy Children’s Artwork’ for his reviews of kiddies’ refrigerator scrawls:
‘Ding Ding! Here comes the shit-mobile. I've never seen a fire truck that needed to be shaved. I would rather be burned to death than be saved by this hairy piece of shit. F’ He writes of 8-year-old Jon’s drawing of a fire truck.
It’s a bit odd. I could look at this website all day (and I often do), but if I had to hang around someone this negative and bitchy in person, I’d probably end up hanging myself. On one hand you’re laughing your ass off at Maddox’s scathing commentary, but on the other hand you want to tell the guy to lighten up a little, maybe even toss him a fifty or something so he could go downtown and treat himself to a piece of ass or something…anything to get him to chill out a little bit.
The Best Page in The Universe recently celebrated its 10 year anniversary. The website and its creator have achieved a sort of cult status over the years, spawning t-shirts, a comic book, a radio show and a best-selling book ‘The Alphabet of Manliness.’ Maddox created an industry out of one cheap-ass looking website, and he’s done this all by word of mouth. Most importantly however, he’s got a mention in Wikipedia. If that’s not impressive, then I don’t know what is.
The danger of achieving this sort of cult status is that we now have a shit load of imitators online. As blogs become increasingly prevalent, more people are offering their ignorant, unasked opinions on such stupid topics as ‘my boss sucks,’ ‘here’s a photo of my pet cat wearing a tiny fireman’s outfit, doesn’t he look silly?’ and ‘no, I mean it, my boss REALLY sucks. In fact, I hate him so much I’m going to sneak into his office one night and take a shit in the middle of his desk.’ And before you say anything –yes, I’m aware of the irony.
The only other problem with this site is its infrequent updates. For example, the most recent post ‘Nobody Cares if Your Puns were Intended’ is dated May 31; the post before that ‘Vague Genre Movie (April Fool’s 08)’ was updated on April 1. Okay, so your thinking its updated sort of semi-monthly. But the post after that ‘Fashion Tips for Women from a Guy Who Knows Dick About Fashion’ has a post date of October 29, 2007! And the one before that is in July! WTF?!!? I read somewhere that Maddox recently gave up his day job for this, so what the fuck’s he been doing? I can appreciate that this has been a one-man operation but still, when your output is less than what it was when you had a full time job, you’ve got something to answer for. My fear is that he’s getting tired of doing this shit and his output will eventually peter out, so that like the MWLLKR website we’ll be left with nothing but 5-year old posts about why the Dave Matthews Band is so lame.

************
www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com
I first heard about this website in an article from a magazine I was reading ( I think it might have been in an issue of ‘Shortlist,’ but I can’t be certain.) It intrigued my sense of curiosity towards dumbness enough to have a looksey. And, yup, it’s plenty dumb alright.

The site is built around the premise that white people (W.A.S.P.S. in particular) are lame and therefore like lame stuff. It’s comprised of a list of over 100 topics of interest to white people such as 76.) bottles of water, 36.)breakfast places, 16.) gifted children and 1.) coffee. Click on a topic and you’re taken to an explanation as to why said topic appeals to white people as well as posts from idiots who feel the need to point out that just because they’re white doesn’t make them lame – and they’re one, token black friend will vouch for them.

Implied accusations of racism aside; this website is just really stupid. Worse still, it’s not even funny. I might identify with some of the references linked to my suburban upbringing in the American Midwest, but I also identify with some of the references in Jeff Foxworthy’s ‘You Might Be a Redneck If…’ routine, and that’s a helluva lot funnier. In fact the funniest thing about this website is its title.

If this review has proved one thing, it’s that I’ve obviously I’ve got too much time on my hands. Those are just a few of the websites that you can check out. The Internet is loaded with goofy little numbers like these, so feel free to look around and if you’ve a goofy website that you’d like me to know about, send me an email. As for me, I’ve got a little free time left, so it’s time for a little bit of No. 1.

Happy surfing everybody.

-B.H. 22/06/08

Hi everybody. Sorry I ain't writtne in awhile but I've had alot of crazy shit going on.
okay, first off, remember that karaokee night at the Silver Fish that I tol' youse about? Well, one a the prizes that wuz up fer grabs wuz a set of golf clubs; an' it turns out those clubs wuz the same ones that wuz stolen from the back a Joe's car (remember, Ned and his crew were in charge of collecting the prizes for the competition.) So, Joe was fuckn' mad. He saw the mamagram on the side a the bag wit' his initials - JAM an' says 'That's my fuckin' bag! What are ye playin at?'
....

Ah shit, my boss just came by an' saw me online. So I'm gonna have ta finish this later. Bye!

Well, we had our first annual karaoke night at the Silver Fish last week an’ ta be honest, it was kinda crap. Fer starters, the party supply company totally botched up the order. I had asked them for balloons and streamers an’ a banner an shit for a karaoke night, right? The balloons an’ banner were gonna have musical notes or say karaoke night or some sorta shit like that. Well, they gave me the balloons an’ banner an’ stuff, except instead of it being for our karaoke night, it was all stuff meant to be for some dude’s funeral.
I didn’t even notice it until I got to the Silver Fish an’ we started to put up the decorations. I blew up one a the balloons an Ernie shouts out “What the fuck?”

“Huh?”

“Look at your balloon. Take a look at what it says.”

I turn the balloon around so that the letterin’s facing me. ‘Sorry for your Loss’ it says.

“What the fuck?!”

Ernie blows up another balloon. This one says ‘Our Deepest Condolences.’ One a the old geezers sitting at the bar start laughing.

Ernie lets go a the balloon an’ an it lets off this screechy fart as it flys across the bar. He shakes his head an’ looks at his watch. “We’re opening in an hour. You better straighten things out wit’ those tossers.”

So I get all the stuff and run back over to the party suppliers. I slam the shit on the counter an’ this kid working the till looks at me indifferently.

“What the hell, man,” I says. “These are for a funeral.”
“Aye, so?”

“We’re having a karaoke party tonight.”

“Cool, can I come?”

“No, I mean this stuff is supposed to be for a karaoke party, not a funeral.”

The kid yawns. He’s got a large zit on his chin. It’s bright red with a yellowy- white centre filled with puss. I’ve got an urge to reach over an squeeze it until it bursts. Finally he calls his manager over – this fat broad with a pierced nose – an tells her what’s going on. She asks if I’ve got a receipt. I don’t.

“Aye,” she says. “Ah’m very sorry, sir, but there’s no much we can do. We’ve got a no refund policy, an’ it’s too late for us to re-do your order.”

“Ahh fuck,” I say. “what the hell am I gonna now?”

“Well, we’ve got this cake for ye. It’s supposed to be part o oor funeral package, so it’s yers if you’d like?”She brings out this cake in the shape of a coffin. Its covered in white frosting with pink trim an’ letters on top. It says ‘Deepest Sympathies in Your Time of Loss.’

*************

A couple hours later, the decorations are up an people start filtering in. It’s regulars for the most part; they don’t say nothing ‘bout the balloons; probably don’t even notice ‘em. We joined a coupla tables together for the snacks an’ cake. I licked the letterin’ off the cake an’ took a coupla bites so it wouldn’t look too coffin-y. Not a bad tasting cake – strawberries an’ rhubarb, I think. Nobody else is touched it though.

I’ve got a table near the stage, waiting for Joe an’ my sister to show up. I’ve got a pint a Stella an’ finishing off a curry from the takeaway across the street. I’ve also got a paper plate filled with crisps an’ stuff from the snack table. I’m tryin’ hard not to get any food on my glittery shirt ‘cos I wanna look as good as possible for my stage debut tonight.

Ned an a bunch a his pals come in. They’re all wearin’ matching shell suits – white with powder blue trim. One a them’s got a Rangers cap pushed back to the back of his head. Ned’s wearing a cap, too, ‘cept his is a red and green New York Yankees cap. He looks over at me an waives. “A’wright, Brad,” he says. I nod and waive back. They carry a bunch a stuff with them an Ernie tells ‘em to put the stuff in the store room, probably the prizes they’re giving away tonight.

A few more people come in but they ain’t regulars. Some of ‘em I don’t even recognize. That’s good, ‘cos it means more people an’ Ernie won’t have to shut the pub down. Still no hot chicks yet.

One guy I’ve never seen before comes in. He’s kinda small an’ intense lookin’ in that weird lookin’ way. He goes to the bar an orders a glass a water of all things then takes a seat by himself at the table directly behind me. I nod an’ say ‘hi’ to him but he just ignores me. What a asshole, huh?

Finally my sister an’ her husband Joe come in. They’re standin’ in the doorway lookin’ around. My sister’s got her hand covered over her mouth an nose. Joe frowns, then he sniffs an’ scrunches up his nose. He says something to my sister but they’re too far away for me to make out what they’re saying.

“Joe! Margaret! Over here!” I shout. I stand up an’ waive my arms hoping they’ll see me. After a coupla seconds they do an make their way over to the table. “Aw man, I’m glad you guys could make it. Listen, can I get you a drink – a beer or something? There’s snacks over on that table over there. You want me to get you some snacks? Some crisps or something?”

Joe pulls the seat out for my sister an she sits down. “Christ, what’s that smell?” he asks. “Smells like someone spilt a septic tank in here.”

“What smell? Can I get you a drink or something?”

“It smells like….ah, never mind.”

I shrug my shoulders an’ ask them again if they something to drink. Joe orders a bottle of Miller. My sister don’t order anything- says she’ll wait awhile.

I go to the bar to get Joe an’ me some drinks. When I come back the go out an’ a spotlight shines on the stage. Everybody shuts up as Ernie makes his way to the stage. He picks up the microphone and coughs loudly into hit.

“H’llo everyone,” he says. “Welcome to th’ Silver Fish’s First Ever Annual Karaoke Night.” A buncha people start hootin’ an’ hollerin.’ On a Ned’s gang whistles loudly. Ernie yells at everyone to shut th’ hell up. After it quiets down he starts talking again.

“Uh, I’m Ernie, an’ I’ll be yer MC tonight. First I want te thank ye fer comin;’ I’m glad youse could all make it. Anyway, let’s get the show on the road an’ bring out oor first singer – Tam McDonald. Let’s gie a big hand fer Tam, everyone.”

Everyone starts clappin’ an’ shit; as one a the two old geezers that always sit at the end a the bar makes his way to the stage. Tam’s dressed in his usual grey, woollen flat cap an’ a dirty, yellow cardigan. I can smell his piss an’ old man smell all the way from here. He starts singin’ some Justin Timberlake song.

“A’hm bringin’ sex-y ba-uck…them uthoor bhoys don’ know how t’ act,” he warbles. “Doorty bab-ee, you see these shack-les, bab-ee, A’hm yoor slaa-vve.”

He starts dancing, doing some crazy old man moves. Not bad for a dude who just celebrated his 81st birthday last week. Then he grabs his crotch an’ starts gyratin’ an’ thrustin’ his hips. I look over an see my sister an her mouth is hangin’ wide open ‘cos she can’t believe what a great singer this old guy is. Joe’s impressed, too, I can tell. His face is all red an he’s grindin’ his teeth an’ shit. He’s lookin’ at me like he’s kinda pissed off, like –‘why didn’t you tell me before that this place was so cool? The last 38 years of my life have been a waste.’

Tam’s still doing that sexy dance of his. “Git yooor sex-y ooot,” he sings. Then he thrusts his hips out again. “A’hm bringin’ sex-y baaa….Ahhhhgg! ma’ BACK!”

The music stops and he puts both hands on his lower back an’ stoops over. “Ma’ back! Ma’ fuckin’ back! It’s goone oot!” he shouts. Ernie an’ the other old geezer come onto the stage to help him off. When he’s safely escorted from the stage, Ernie turns back to the microphone.

“Well that was Tam McDonald, everyone let’s gie Tam another roond a applause,” he says. Everyone starts clapping again. When the noise dies down Ernie introduces the next act.

Ned an’ his crew rush to the stage. Ned starts rappin’ to MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This,” while his pals are dancing behind him, busting out these crazy break dance moves. They ain’t bad. Everybody in the joint’s clappin’ along, even Joe an’ my sister. I brush the front a ma shiny shirt. If they like this, then they’re gonna totally looove me.

A couple a more people come on. Doris sings “You Are the Music In Me,” from ‘High School Musical.’ Her voice is alright, but she screws up the lyrics a couplea times which pisses me off. She’s no Troy or Gabriella. Tam’s pal, Frank, gets up an’ sings a Frank Sinatra tune. An some other broad gets up an struggles through that Nickelback tune that’s so big right now…something ‘bout playing baseball in a bathroom, or something. There’s some good acts but so far none a them hold a candle to what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna win this thing hands down.

Ernie decides to get in on the action an sings the Ronnie James Dio classic “Holy Diver.” He’s pretty good, but he can’t quite reach those high notes. When he finishes, everyone claps and whistles.

“Thanks everyone,” he says. “Now this next performer is gonna sing something really special. It’s a song that’s got to do with one a my favourite drinks an’ favourite ice cream flavours, as well.”

...This is it, I think, now it’s my turn to shine.

“Singin’ the ‘Pina Colada Song’…please give a warm hand for…..”

yessss.

“Mr. Walter Lattel.”

WHAT!!! Who the fuck is Walter Lattel?!?

***********

A spotlight follows a guy onto the stage an’ it’s the guy I saw earlier, that weirdo that came in an’ ordered a glass of water. He takes to the stage wearin’ a heavy trenchcoat, like some he’s some kinda fag or something.

There’s a moment a silence after the applause dies down an the guy stands there with his eyes closed. Then the opening chords play. He starts bobbin his head and swaying to the rhythm.
Then he starts singing:

"I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long.
Like a worn-out recording, of a favorite song.
So while she lay there sleeping, I read the paper in bed.
And in the personals column, there was this letter I read"

I look around an’ notice the audience is completely entranced by this guy. No one’s saying anything; they’re all just staring at him, bobbing their heads in time with the music. Then when he gets to first chorus he suddenly rips off his trenchcoat an’ flings it into the audience. Underneath he’s wearing a suit, made out a the same sparkly stuff as my shirt, except it’s his entire suit that’s sparkly.

"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."

The whole place just goes nuts. Fuck! What a asshole this guy is. First he steals my song. Now he’s stealing my wardrobe. Can you believe it?

After a couplea more verses, the guy stops singin’ and the music gets turned down real low. He looks up like he’s in deep thought , then he says:

“Friends, I gotta tell you…y’know, every relationship, every marriage, every friendship has it’s ups and downs. When you’ve been in a relationship for a long time, it’s natural to get bored from time to time. You start thinking ‘gee, maybe I don’t need to put my cock in the same goddamn vagina for the rest of my life. Maybe there is some one better out there for me; someone sexier; someone smarter; someone who’s better in bed; someone who doesn’t bore me with the minutia of their shitty, boring-ass post office job every night when all I want to do is just chill out, have a beer and watch CSI; someone who won’t make me feel obligated to down an entire six pack in half an hour when I come home from work, just so I can resist the urge to cut the bitch’s head off and stuff it in a bowling ball bag.’ Sometimes you just want some who will just shut…the…fuck..up.

“Well, I’m here to tell ya, appreciate what you’ve got. Love you’re woman. Cherish her, man; cherish your lady. Let her know just how special she is. Because I’m telling ya if you’re thinking that you’re getting tired of her, you can be damn sure she’s thinking the same thing. And while you’re thinking about putting that personal ad on the sly, you can be damn sure that she’s already placed a personal of her own. And unlike the narrator of this song, it won’t be you that she ends up inadvertently hooking up with. It will be somebody else; probably Jason, that son of a bitch that came out to repair your washing machine last month. That bitch,….y’see him an’ her? They’ll run off together, right under your nose, too. And you? You’ll end up living all alone; eating cold hot dogs from a tin with stale bread and mayonnaise for breakfast every morning; sleeping by yourself in semen-and-tear stained sheets every night…for the REST OF YOUR LIFE!

“So take it from me, the next time you feel like getting some on the side, drink a pina colada instead. Seriously, drink a pina colada and just sing this song:”

"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."

The music gets louder an’ everybody’s smilin’ an’ shouting out the chorus back to him, an he’s just standing there with this smug look on his face. I don’t believe it. What a cock sucker.

When the song ends he walks off stage an’ everybody jumps to their feet and claps and whistles. The roar a applause seems like it ain’t ever gonna end. A couple minutes go by an’ whistlin’ and stompin’ their feet. He comes back onto the stage an’ waives at the crowd. “Thank you everyone, I wish I could just hug you all! Free Tibet!” he shouts an’ bounces off the stage.

The place goes nuts. Shit, there’s no way I’m gonna be able to follow that kinda act.

Finally the applause dies down an’ Ernie comes back on stage. There’s a couple a people still shouting for Walter Lattel, but Ernie just tells ‘em ta shut the fuck up.

“Aw’right, now, let’s bring on oor final act for the night. He’s a good friend a’ mine an’ we all know him well. Please gie it up for my mate, Brad Hasselbrook!”

I hear a couple a people clap as I make my way to the stage. I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do. That Walter guy stole my act. There’s no way I can sing ‘Escape (the Pina Colada Song)’ after he just sang it. I stand in front a the microphone an’ it’s total silence. I can’t really see the audience too good cause there’s a spotlight shinin’ directly inta ma eyes. I stand there for a good coupla seconds wondering what to do.

“Sing something, ya twat,” I hear someone shout, it sounds like Joe.

Fuck, what the hell am I gonna do? Ma minds a total blank. Think, Brad, think. I try ta think of another song, any song, but I’m struggling. Finally something comes to me. I cough to clear my throat an’ singing.

‘And we can build this thing together, stand in stone forever, nothing's gonna stop us now….’

Part Too

Man I am totally psyched about tonight. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve been this antsy ‘bout anything since I found that wallet on Union Street a coupla years ago. There wasn’t any cash in it or anything, but I did find a unopened condom in one a the pockets an’ it still had three days before it’s use by date!!! But the reason why I’m so excited about tonight is because tonight’s a big night down at the Silver Fish - it will be the pub’s first annual karaoke night.

The karaoke thing was kinda my idea. Ernie was trying to come up with ways to bring in more business an’ give the place a bit a class. An’ I said ‘hey Ern, howabout a karaoke night?’ An’ the rest is history. Hell, I probably saved the place from bein’ shut down an’ brought out an’ turned into a Yates’ or a Weatherspoons or some kinda gay bar. Y’know, chances are I probably saved ol’ Ernie’s life. Wonder how much I’ll get in his will.

Anyway even though it was my idea, we all said we’d chip in ta get this thing going. Ernie said he was gonna make some calls to hire out a karaoke machine an’ stuff. The two old geezers (don’t know their names –something like Don an’ Ron, or something) were gonna make the flyers an’ pass ‘em out. Ned the ned said he was gonna get us some free advertisin’ space, though he didn’t say where. An Doris the whore was gonna tell all her customers to come to the Silver Fish an’ check it out. Also, we thought it would be a cool idea to offer up some prizes –y’know for the evening’s best singer an’ all that shit. We didn’t really know what we were gonna put up for prizes but Ned said he’d take care of it.

My job was to make up a banner an get the balloons an decorations an’ stuff. Easy enough; there’s a party supply store across the street from my office, so I just stopped in there after work one night an order the stuff I need –balloons, streamers, confetti, an a big-ass banner that’s gonna go right across the stage; actually, it ain’t so much a stage as a cleared-away area where the snooker table an’ a couple a empty crates used to be….an, uh, excuse me, gotta take a dump. Back in a sec.

***

Okay, I’m back. Sorry ‘bout that folks but I really needed ta go. I mean really, ya should’ve seen it. Sucker was huge; one of those really long ones too – like a giant brown cucumber.

Anyways I ordered all the stuff a couplea days ago, so’s it’ll be ready for tonight. I just need to pick it up, which I’ll do this afternoon on my way to the Silver Fish. I got my outfit picked out, too.

I invited my sister an’ her husband, Joe, to kinda help make up for settin’ fire to their couch a coupla weeks ago. Joe didn’t want to go at first, but my sister talked him into it. She said it would be rude for them not to go since I was obviously tryin’ ta make amends by inviting ‘em. Besides, Joe could do with some cheerin’ up; he’s been kinda bummed this week ‘cos somebody broke into his car an’ stole his golf clubs.

I’m tellin’ ya, they’re in for a treat. ‘Cos they’ll get ta witness the finest karaoke performance ever given by man. For starters, tonight, I’m wearing this sparkly shirt and a pair of black slacks. I got them outta ASDA ‘specially for tonight. They’re a bit snug, to tell tha truth, but so what? The tightness will accentuate my rather generous package – so’s I only hafta stuff one pair a socks down my trousers instead a two.

But never mind the outfit, really, tonight’s about the music. The song. No, make that THE song. The song I’ve chosen for tonight’s performance is none other than “Escape (the Pina Colada Song.)” by Rupert Holmes. The songs’ about a guy that doesn’t wanna bang his girlfriend anymore so’s he decides to put an ad in the paper an then some chick answers the ad but it turns out to be his girlfriend. So’s they go home and have sex because they both like pina coladas. It’s a perfect karaoke song ‘cos it’s got a nice beat an the lyrics tell a story. I’m telling ya, Rupert Holmes is a genius. No one else will think of it either, they’ll probably all do some stupid song by Frank Sinatra or Nickleback. I’ve been practicing this mother fucker for days. The chicks’ll cream themselves when they hear me. I’ll be getting’ all kindsa pussy after tonight. Yeah, I’ve definitely got this karaoke contest in the bag. I’m sure to win first prize, whatever it ends up being. (hope it’s an Xbox or a Wii, ‘cos if it’s another Anne Summers voucher, I’m gonna be pissed.)

Anyways Ernie’s expecting me to be at the Silver Fish with all party supplies in about an hour so’s I need to go an’ get ready. Come back tomorrow an’ I’ll fill you in on what happens –assumin’ I’m not still fighting off the babes.

*For more information on Rupert Holmes and the Pina Colada song, go to www.ruperholmes.com. Or check your local library.

**Escape(The Pina Colada Song) and other hits can be found on Rupert's landmark album -"Partners in Crime."

I been hangin’ out at the Silver Fish a lot this week. I’m off work for awhile on account a the beatin’ Joe gave me over me settin’ the couch on fire. I ain’t in the hospital or anything, I mean it ain’t nuthin’ serious – just a couple a black eyes, a broken nose, a busted lip, a couple a cracked ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, an a’ strangulated testicle – but it does gimme a lotta free time fer the next month or so. Ahhh, it don’t get much sweeter than this, now do it?
Anyways for those a youse who ain’t regular readers a ma’ blog, (an’ by the way, youse can go fuck yerselves if ya ain’t) the Silver Fish is this pub that I discovered a couple a months ago. I guess it’s what the American’s would call a “dive” (editor’s note: actually the term “roach infested shit-hole” is a more accurate description.) But it’s got a certain charm to it, an’ for me it’s become something of a second home.
The cool thing about the Silver Fish is that it’s reliable, y’know? Every time I comes in, I see the same three or four old geezers sittin’ at the same exact spots at the bar, starin’ into the same ol’ drinks day after day, an’ never sayin’ a word. The landlord, Ernie, is always behind the bar wipin’ off a pint glass wit’ the same moldy ol’ tea towel, or killin’ a cockaroach wit’ the palm of his bare hand an’ wipin’ it across the front a his shirt. An’ at 9:30 every Friday night, you can be sure to see Doris – this 50 year-old prositute with no teeth, lopsided boobs an’ an this thing growing out a the side a her neck- stumble in offerin’ the fellas hand jobs for 3 quid a piece. An at least twice a week, the same two junkies that hang out outside the joint will get into a vicious knife fight that ends up with one a the cops sent ta break it up endin’ up in the emergency room. It all happens like clock work, an’ there’s just something comforting about that.
Only problem with the place is that there ain’t any chicks in there. Well, okay, there’s Doris, an once in awhile some dodgy-looking guy in a shell-suit, with a bit of giro money ta spend will wander in wit’ his date – a drunk an’ heavily pregnant 14 year old with a greasy ponytail an’ a shiner under her left eye. But I mean, there ain’t no real hot babes here. It’s okay for now, ‘cos I can’t pop a decent boner ‘til my left nut heals, but that ain’t gonna be for long, an’ once that happens I’m in serious trouble. I’m not kiddin’. I mean, how the hell am I ever gonna get laid if there ain’t no decent puzzy in here? Doris’s hands are like sand paper. I might have ta go someplace else, an I don’t really wanna do that.
So I mention this to Ernie one time.
“Aye, ah think you’ve got a point there, mate,” he says. “Ah’ve been trying ta think o ways to class the ol’ pub up a bit anyways, get some more punters through the door.”
“Exactly,” I says. “Don’ get me wrong, I love this place, but it don’t really draw in the younger crowd much, no babes.”
A water bug scuttles across the counter between us an’ wit’ a loud slap, Ernie crushes the bug wit’ the palm of his hand. He flicks the dead bug across the bar and it lands in a bowl of nuts. Then he wipes his hand on a towel he’s been usin’ to wipe down pint glasses. He looks around the nearly empty pub and shakes his head.
“Aye, Brad, ah’ve got some real, right mingers comin’ in here.”
“Ya need a gimmick or something, like a theme night.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Howzabout a Indian night…a whatchacallit? A Bollywood Night? Chicks cream their pants fer shit like that.”
“Okay, okay wot’s a ‘Bollywood Night?’”
“I dunno…somethin’ ta do with Indian food an’ dancin’ an shit.”
Ernie thinks about this for a second, then shakes his head.
“Naw, naw. Do you know how to make curry, ‘cos ah sure don’t. Besides, ah don’ wanna bunch a Pakkis in ma pub. They’re a dodgy lot. Next think ye know they’ll be startin’ an Al Kaydah terrorists cell here an try ta nuke half a Glasga. Rest assured, ma friend, ah’ll be havin’ no part o that lot.”
I raise up my hands an’ try ta cut him off before he goes off on one.
“Okay, okay, no Bollywood night, then. But ya gotta think a something.”
Ernie makes a go for the bowl of nuts sittin’ on the counter a couple feet from us an’ pulls it towards him. He grabs a handful an’ tosses ‘em into his mouth. He offers me the bowl but I shake my head no. I’ll stick with my beer, thank you.
“Ah’ve got it,” he says. “How aboot a arm wrestlin’ tournament?”
“I don’t think yer gonna bring in too many chicks wit’ an arm wrestlin’ contest, Ern.”
“No?”
“Well, think about it, how many arm wrestlin’ wimin do ya know?”
“Margaret.”
“Besides yer wife.”
Ernie chews this over for a coupla seconds.
“Aye, ah suppose yer right.”
“Yeah, I am.”
I finish my beer and order another one. When Ernie returns with a fresh pint, I goes, “I think I got it.”
“Oh?”
“What do ya think a speed datin?”
Ernie scowls and slams his fist on the counter.
“No! Absolutely not!”
“Why, what the hell’s wrong with speed datin’?”
“Ah’ve got enough trouble as it is wit’ those junkies outside. Ah’ll be havin’ no DRUGS in ma PUB!”
“Huh? What the hell are you….”
“Ah said NO!”
“But I think you’ve …..
“NO! An if ya bring up the soobject again ah’ll kick ye oot a ma pub, ya fookin’ junkie bastard.”
“Okay, I hear ya. Christ, Ern, just forget I mentioned.”
Ernie an’ I spent most of the rest of the afternoon thinkin’ bout ways to bring in the poontang. But so far we had nuthin’, nada, zilch, zip, zero, jack shit. Every time one of us came up with an idea for a theme night, the other would shoot it down. Speed dating, foam party, rave night, male strippers, female strippers, transgender strippers, book club, movie club, TV club, chess club, club sandwich club, fancy dress, 80’s night, 70’s night, 40’s night, poker, blackjack, disco, bring your daughter to drink night…all of it got shot down. I even had this idea about bringin’ in a giant fish tank filled with sharks an’ manta rays an’ shit and having a deep-sea fishin’ night. I thought it was cool as fuck, but Enrie shot that one down, too; sayin’ something about it being unimpractical or somethin’.
This was gettin’ seriously bad. Shit, we had to do somethin’. Bad enough having to lay low on the lady action while my pecker gets better, but the threat of a continuous dry spell loomin’ over me even after I’m healed, well, that’s just too much for a guy like me to bear. An’ it definitely ain’t gonna be no picnic for them poor, deprived ladies.
“Ach, it’s just no use, mate,” Ernie says. “Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m pretty wiped out anyways. This de..di..dilaudid, this stuff that the doc’s gave me for my ribs gets me pretty loopy, especially after a couple a pints.”
I was just about to call it a night and head on home when it suddenly happened: Doris staggered inta the pub, hanging off the shoulder of some old fella. He was just as drunk and ugly-looking as Doris. The couple stumbled over to the bar an’ the fella ordered a couple a pints a superlager, while Doris loudly announced that she was gonna go take a shit. While she was away in the ladies’ room, the fella started hummin’, quietly at first an’ then gradually building up to full on singin’. Next thing ya know he was shoutin’ at the top of his lungs, I mean really beltin’ it out:

“And we can build this thing together, stand in stone forever, nothing's gonna stop us now.
And if this world runs out of lovers we'll still have eachother.
Nothing's gonna stop us, nothing's gonna stop us now.”

Then suddenly, it hit us, like a sign from God. I looked at Ernie an’ Ernie looked at me and nodded. We knew what we had to do; one word –KARAOKEE.

End of part I

Next week: ‘The Singin’ Silver Fish’, or ‘That’s Not My Wife, That’s Karaokee’

First off, I wanna let everyone know that after last week’s sofa fire incident, I’m okay; a little shaken but doing okay.

My sister an’ her husband Joe came home late the following day, so I was able to get the house cleaned up a bit; mostly empty beer cans, takeaway cartons, dirty clothes, cigarette butts an’ that enormous goat turd that wuz sittin’ in the bathtub. But the living room is still charred ta shit –‘specially the sofa, an’ them curtains. Oh, an’ the walls got lotsa smoke damage.

Were my sister an’ Joe pissed when they came home an’ saw everything? Hell yeah! Joe even said he wuz gonna twist my head off an’ piss down my neck. Then he said afterwards he wuz gonna come to my funeral dressed as Batman an tell everyone what a stupid prick I wuz , an that I had a thing for young boys, an then he was gonna take a big steamin’ dump on my grave after the burial. Then my sister started cryin’, saying she wuz ashamed a me bein’ her kin, an tellin’ me that I wuz adopted because there’s no way anyone in our family could be so fuckin’ stupid. Even their dog was mad at me. Sparky wuz growlin’ at me an’ tryin’ ta bite ma leg, which is funny cos’ he usually just tries to hump it.

So I decided to split, figuring I could find another place ta stay until things cooled down a bit. Problem I had though wuz where wuz I gonna go? I hadn’t bothered with packing, so I left my sister’s with just what I wuz carrying with me at the time - £7.32, a mobile wit’ no credit on it, an’ a wallet with nothing in it but a 14 year-old-condom an’ a picture a Penny Marshall in a beekeeper’s outfit.

My first stop, of course, wuz the pub; not that good one down the street, The Stag and Thistle - cos’ I got kicked outta that one for spilling a glass a urine all over the quiz machine -but the one across town, The Silver Fish.

I’ve been going to the Silver Fish a lot recently. It’s sorta become my ‘home away from home’. It ain’t the classiest joint in town, but it’s got a charm of its own. The Silver Fish is what the Americans might call a ‘shit hole.’ It’s dark and dingy. It smells of piss, smoke an’ stale beer vomit. An’ because the landlord doesn’t enforce Scotland’s smoking ban, there’s an ever present haze of smoke in the place. The floors are always sticky. The seats on the bar stool are ripped an’ patched up with duct tape, there’s graffiti an’ pin ups of naked chicks ripped from girlie magazines taped to the walls in the toilets.

Ernie, the landlord, is a real hard man. He’s a veteran of the war in the Faulkands an’ also did a stint in Northern Ireland. He wears an eye patch an’ a tattoo on his right bicep of a snake with the head of Chuck Norris eatin’ a live baby. He’s also got half his left ear missing an’ one a the biggest beer guts I’ve ever seen. He’s 4 ft 10.

“A’right, Brad, what’re yea havin?” he says as I walk up to the bar.

I grab a stool and order a pint of Stella. I look around an’ notice the place is empty except for the same three old geezers that are there every time I come here. They’re not saying anything, just sitting at the bar smoking and staring into their beers.

Ernie comes back as I’m finishing my first beer. He gets me another pint an’ then asks me what’s new. So I tells him ‘bout the sofa, the track suit, the fire an’ how Joe said he wuz gonna come to my funeral dressed as Batman.

“I gotta find a place to stay for awhile, Ernie,” I tells him.

“Sorry, mate, I’d let you stay up at ma bit, but…eh, you know…the missus,” Ernie says.

“That’s okay, I’ll see if I can crash at my ex’s. She ‘s lifted the restraining order on me last month, so we’re cool, we’re practically back together.”

“Aye, that’s good,” Ernie says. “Well, yer welcome tae stay doon in the pub fer as long as ya want, or until we close.”

“Ta, mate,” I says.

Time passes an’ I order a couple more beers. I skim through The Daily Record an watch a bit of Jeremy Kyle on the TV in the corner. Then I get bored an’ decide to do a bit of people watching, but it’s just the same three old geezers that were there when I first came in, and they ain’t doing anything. Not even sure they’re breathin.’

I go to the toilet an’ take a leak then decide it’s time ta leave.

My first ex-wife, Beverly, lives all the way out in Airdre, which means I gotta take a bus. So I’m waitin’ at the bus stop when one of those shitty white busses pulls up. I hate these fuckers. Every time I ride one of those things I’m reminded why I prefer takin’ the train ta work in the mornings.

It’s pretty late when I leave the pub, nearly 11pm so this is the last bus for the evening. Thankfully the bus is nearly empty when I get on. There’s a chunky Polish broad in a cleaners’ uniform, a tired looking nurse, both of them working the night shift apparently; a young couple making out on the back of the bus an’ an elderly man sittin’ across from them, nodding off to sleep. It’s quiet an’ peaceful on the bus, so I can have a good think.

Unfortunately the peace is short-lived. About two stops after mine, a gang of neds get on, along with three of the most drunken people I’ve ever seen. The neds go towards the back of the bus, they’re carrying on an’ laughing and playing their ring-tones too loud….doing the stuff that neds do. But they ain’t bothering me too much. The three drunks, on the other hand, are. There’s a fat, dumpy lookin’ broad, an’ equally dumpy looking guy, an’ a youngish English chick dressed in a dirty fur-lined parka an’ trackie bottoms –an’ despite the bus being nearly empty, they all took seats next to mine.

The broad says somethin’ to the English chick that I can’t quite make out because she’s mumblin’ an’ slurrin’ so badly. The English chick can’t understand her either apparently, ‘cos everytime she says somethin’, the chick says “wha?” Then the broad repeats herself , an’ the English chick says “wha?” again. This goes on until the English chick gives up an’ just says anything whether it has anything to do with what the broad was saying or not.

The guy sits in the seat behind me. An’ of the three, he’s the one who looks most bombed out a his skull. He’s slumped in his seat kinda half passed out, an’ every once in awhile he shouts out something in response to something the broad says.

Five minutes into this shit an’ its startin’ ta really drive me nuts. Then I suddenly smell a really strong stench a piss, an’ I’m wonderin’ where it’s comin’ from. Couple minutes later the guy behind me sits up an’ shouts. – “Ah bullocks! A’ve pished maself!”

I can hear the neds laughing from the back o’ the bus.

Then the other two look at him, an the older broad shrugs her shoulders and slurs out somethin’ that I make out as – “Ach, it happens sometimes. You’ve been at the pub all day; can’t be helped.”

God, why didn’t I stay an’ have a couple more drinks, so I could at least tolerate this shit if needed, I think. Even the crowd at the Silver Fish ain’t this bad. The smell is really startin’ ta get me. I desperately wanna get off this bus, but Beverly’s place is still a good six miles away.
The smell is so bad that when the bus stops at the next couple a stops, people start to get on, then change their minds. Even the bus driver is getting annoyed.

“Fuck,” he shouts a couple miles after our last stop. “A’ve taken a wrong turn. A’m totally lost!”
The bus brakes to an abrupt stop and the driver gets outta his seat and storms back to where we’re sittin’.

“That feckin’ pish smell distracted me; ah’ve nae scoobie where we are now,” he screams. He looks at the four of us, trying to decide who’s the culprit. Then his eyes settle on me.

“You!” he shouts, pointing his finger at me. “You’re the mingin’ bastard that did this. Ah could get sacked ‘cos a you!”

“Me?!? Look, man, I’m tellin’ ya, it wasn’t me,” I protest. “I ain’t even that drunk.”

“Don’t give me any o’ yer shite, ya stupid Yank, I ken it was you.”

“Yank? I’m not American…I’ve got a sp…”

“I said shut up,” the driver interrupts. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs. Spittle is flying into my face. The chords of his neck stand straight out and the vein in the centre of his forehead pops up. The three drunks are laughing and egging him on. Then the driver grabs me by the collar of my shirt and hoists me out of my seat.

“I’ve had it with you arseholes. Off ma bus, now! FUCK OFF!!!”

So now I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere. It’s 1 am and I’m freezing my ass off. I start walkin’ towards Airdre – or in what I’m guessin’ is in the direction a Airdre. I’m prayin’ that a car comes along an’ stops ta give me a lift, ‘cos I’m really cold.

A car finally does stop but the smell of piss is clinging to me; so as soon as the guy rolls down the window an’ gets a whiff a me, he quickly rolls the window back up, locks the doors and speeds off. Two more cars stop an do the same thing. Then it starts to rain. Ahh fuck.

I finally stumble into Airdre around 4 am. I’m freezin’ an’ sick and still smell a piss. I find Beverly’s flat and ring the bell. No one answers. I wait a couple a seconds an’ ring the bell again; still no answer. Well, maybe she’s asleep. I ring the bell an’ knock on the door an’ still there’s no answer. What the hell? She used ta bitch about my snoring all the time; when did she become a heavy sleeper?

I’m standin’ at her door for a good 30 minutes, an…nothin’. The rain’s still going but the wind’s eased off so it’s a bit warmer now. There’s some bushes along the side o the house. I remember fallin’ asleep under ‘em a couple a times after we split up. I wuz waitin’ for her to come home so she could give me a new set of house keys ‘cos my old ones suddenly stopped workin’ for some odd reason. I remembered those bushes were actually pretty comfortable. So’s I climbed back into my old spot under the bushes and dozed off.

A little while later I wake up. It’s daylight, the sun is shining an’ Beverly’s screamin’ at me.
“Brad, what the fuck are ye daeing here?!?”

“Waitin’ fer you,” I says. “Where the hell were you?”

Beverly looks at me, then down at her nurses’ uniform, then at me again.

“Where dae yea think? I was at work ya twat,” she says. “Now tell me what the fuck yea daeing here?”
“I got kicked outta my sister’s place. Had a bit of an accident there an’ now I need someplace to stay.”

“Well, yea ain’t stayin’ at ma bit, that’s fer sure….Christ, yea smell terrible”.

“Look, Bev, c’mon…I’m desperate.”

“I don’t care. You fuck off back tae where yae came from,” she shouts. “Now PISS OFF ‘for I call the polis.”

“Well can you at least give me a lift back to my sister’s?”
“PISS OFF!!!!”

I head back to my sister’s place. Somewhere along the way last night I lost any and all money I had left. I ain’t got a single dime in my pockets right now; so I can’t even afford bus fare. I’ve gotta walk all the way back. But that’s all right. It’s a nice day out an’ the walk gives me time to think of a way to get back into my sister’s good graces. I’ll beg, grovel and plead if I have to. Or maybe I should just let Joe smack me around a bit. Whatever. ‘Cos there’s no place like home.

Sorry it's been awhile but let me tell ya, I've been busy. First my sister's basement got flooded - word of advice, don't ever try flushing sandpaper down a low flush toilet.; better yet just don't bother wiping yer ass with sandpaper, no matter how curious you might be - so I had to sleep on their couch for a couple a weeks.

Then last week my sister an' her husband Joe went outta town to see Joe's folks down in Liverpool. It was cool because the basement just got fixed too, so not only did i have the basement to myself, I had the whole friggin' house ta myself. How sweet is that, huh?

Anyway, I didn't do much the first night they were away because it was Friday an' I was tired from being at work all day. So I just had a couplea beers and a bottle a single malt whiskey that I found in the back a Joe's liquor cabinet. it looked kinda expensive, but the bottle was about 20 years old so I figured that if Joe's had it for that long, he'd probably forgotten it by now. Heck he' d probably thank me for not letting it go to waste.

Then I ate a frozen pizza and fell asleep.

Then next day was Saturday, my day off! yeah!!! I woke up aroun' 2pm. an' made myself a bowl a cereal for breakfast -Wheetabix with plenty a shugar. No milk in the house an' I couldn't go to the shop to get any 'cos I was in just my underwear an Mr. Ali, the shopkeeper, said that I next time I came into the store without wearing trousers, he'd have me arrested. But l was in luck, Joe's bottle a whisky was sittin' on the kitchen table an' there was still some left in it,,,,so.

After throwing up, I decided to get dressed. I couldn't find any clean trousers of my own so's I raided Joe's wardobe. I found a pair a hiz old track bottoms. Joe's a bit thinner than me, but I've cut back on the fried Mars Bars and mayonnaise, so I 've probably lost enough weight now to fit in these no problem. It wuz a squeeze but I got inta them no problem. But a coupla minutes later I bent down to pick up a crisp that had fallen on the floor and wouldn't ya know it, the damned things ripped. I took the trackies off, wadded them up and threw them in the corner of the couch. Geez, for as much money as he earns, ya'd think Joe would buy clothes that weren't so cheaply made.

A little searching an' I found a pair of my own trousers lying underneath the sofa bed. They were relatively clean so's I put 'em on. Then park my butt on the sofa and watch some TV.

Somewhere during that time I must've dozed off because when I wake up it's 8pm. Ant an' Dec are on TV and Ant's giant forehead is jumpin' out at me while Dec's not doing or looking like much a anything.

I'm hungry so's I go inta the kitchen an' make myself a cow tongue and cheddar cheese sandwich wit' ketchup an mayonaise, a packet of crisps on the side. I eat it but I'm still hungry, so's I go back to da fridge. Allright!!! i find a carton of eggs in the back o' da fridge. I'm in heaven now. They smell kinda funny but that could just be cow tongue. I boil a coupla them eggs, eat em an' wash em down with some beer.

I'm watching TV but gettin' bored now so I decide to go online. I check my email an' go on a coupla websites - one wit' naked chicks shootin' machine guns grabs my attention, but then they ask for my credit card number. I'd give it to 'em but I lost my credit card a couple a months ago when some neds threw my trousers up a tree. So I decide to listen to some music instead.

I grab some a my cds a couple more beers an' turn tha stereo to 11 - nothin' get's a party started like Jethro Tull, then some Winger, an' some Quiet Riot, then top it all off with the soundtrack to High School Musical -man, that albums just bitch. I'm tellin ya.

By now I'm really bored and really starting to git drunk. Nothing's on TV, I can't find any good DVD's to watch, don't feel like going on the computer again. I'm bored shitless and need ta be entertained myself. So what do I's do?

Well, do's eggs are makin' me a bit gassy. An man they're bad - even my sister's dog Roscoe is in the corner, cowering away from me. I'm just drunk an' bored enough ta try lighting my farts on fire. I find a lighter in one a tha kitchen cupboards, lean over an flick...Fwooooooshhh!!!

Allright! The first one was totally awesome. Figure this is even good enough for YouTube so's I grab a camcorder and set it up. Light it again...ALLLRIGHT!! This is fun! He he! I can feel the gas building up so's the next one's gonna be a REAL cracker. I bend over, put the lighter to my arse and Fwoooooooshh!!! Wow! Then I turn around and notice that the couch is on fire. Well, not so much the couch but the track bottoms that I wuz wearing earlier are.

Oh shit! I try makin' a grab for the burnin' trackies but singe my fingers. Now the couch really is on fire an' going fast. The living room is really startin' to fill up with smoke an' i'm gaggin. I run to the kitchen sink to pour out a big glass a water to put the fire out wit. When I return I splash the water on the couch but it's no good, the fire's too big.

Ahh fuck, I'm gonna die, I think. This smoke is really getting to me.

Just then the front door bursts open and the fire brigade charges in wit a hose an puts the fire out.

When it's all over, the couch is completely destroyed, but the living room's okay. Just some smoke damage. When I tell them how the fire started, the fire guys just laugh at me an' call me a tube.

But Joe an' my sister come home tommorrow, an I'm trying to figure out what ta tell 'em. I figure if I make somethin' up, it's less likely that they'll kill me. I dunno, we'll see what happens.

Wish me luck.

Holy shit, am I ever feeling rough today. No, I’m not hungover or nuthin’; just a cold, but it’s really kicking my ass.

My sister says I’m sick on account a’ me sleeping in the basement where it’s all damp an’ shit, ‘specially in the winter –although this being Scotland, it’s damp pretty much all a the time. Yeah, that might be true an’ all, but where else am I gonna sleep?

Joe says it’s time I move out an’ get my own place. He says he’s tired of me barging in on him an’ taking a dump in the toilet while he’s trying to take a shower every morning. The smell makes him gag, he says. Well, I can hardly help it, can I? When ya gotta go, ya gotta go. Besides, if I have to pay rent for a flat, then how am I gonna afford to buy eggs and beer?

Anyway, I wake up this morning feeling like total crap. My head is pounding. There’s like this mask of pressure that goes around my eyes and down my jaws. My teeth fuckin’ hurt. My throat feels I’ve been swallowing snot and shards of broken glass all night. It hurts to swallow and I feel like I’m constantly gaggin’ on phlegm. I’m tired as fuck an’ I got that Jefferson Starship song drummin’ through my head –

‘And we can build this thing together, stand in stone forever, nothing's gonna stop us now.
And if this world runs out of lovers we'll still have eachother.
Nothing's gonna stop us, nothing's gonna stop us now.’

……Ugh! Even I know that’s a terrible song.

Now I’ve gotta go to work. I think about phoning in sick but then I remember that I’m still on double probation ‘cos of that thing with First Rail – God, how I hate Dan Brown. So I decide to suck it up and tough it out. Maybe work won’t be so bad today.

On the bus, I bring plenty of tissue with me so I have it with me. I took some paracetemol before I left home, but didn’t get any breakfast so the tablets are floatin’ around my empty stomach an’ I’m feelin’ a bit queasy. An’ a bumpy bus ride ain’t helping. My nose starts runnin’ heavy so I get a bit of tissue and blow hard – too hard actually. I look at the tissue an’ notice there’s a big wet hole right in the middle. Then I look up an’ see there’s a big wad a snot on the back of the head of the guy in front a me. He don’t seem to notice, thank Christ. Well, maybe he’ll think it’s just a spot of hair gel that he forgot to rub in.

After 50 agonizing minutes, the bus finally pulls inta Buchanan Street Station an’ I get off an’ stagger on to work. The fresh air clears my head a bit an’ I don’t feel as queasy. But my nose is still running like a faucet.

I get to work , have a quick coffee down from the coffee machine in the break room and then go to my desk. I check my e-mails – nothin’ really important, just a couple a new orders from some customers in Dundee an’ a company-wide memo from the corporate bigwigs, something about a meeting to discuss redundancies or something. I’m guessing by redundancies they mean they’re gonna tell us not to send the same orders or memos repeatedly. Then I stare at the computer screen for an hour, first thinking about how rotten I feel an’ then thinking about that black chick in High School Musical. For the life a me I can’t remember her name.

At 10:30 it’s break time, so’s I go down to the canteen an’ have get somethin’ ta eat - roll an’ bacon with a tattie scone an’ brown sauce. The bacon’s pink an’ fatty an’ swimmin’ in grease an’ the scone is fried black. Mmmm.. Just the way I like it.

Before my break is over, I go to the bathroom an’ restock my tissue supplies. I’m going through these things like candy. Then I go back to my desk and stare inta the computer some more. I’m still trying ta think a that chick’s name. It’s really starting ta bug me. Fuckit, nobody’s around so I Goggle ‘High School Musical’ an’ the website comes up. The black chick’s photo comes up an’ just as I’m about to click on it Jason Watson from sales walks by an’ sees my computer. He points at it an’ laughs.

‘Haw, haw! What are ye, Hasselbrook, some kindae poof?’ he shouts. ‘Y’know it’s only 11-year old girls an’ gay men that are intae that stuff, don’t ye?’

A buncha people look up from their desks and gimme this sort a smirk.

‘Well for your information, Jason, I’m lookin’ this up for my niece.’ I say.

‘Aye, right,’ Jason snorts. He shakes his head and walks away. I can hear a couple a people giggling. That Jason, what a fuckin’ prick.

Pretty soon it’s lunchtime. I ain’t too hungry an’ I’m still feelin’ pretty run down on account a this cold so I decide to skip lunch an’ just get something light to snack on from the vending machines – 2 packets of Quavers, 2 packets of cheese an’ onion flavoured crisps, 3 packets of salt an’ vinegar flavoured crisps, 4 Mars bars, 3 Snickers an’ 2 cans a cola. When my snack is finished I find a space in the corner of the break room where I can take a quick nap.

Nancy Kerr, one a the team managers, wakes me up an hour later, asking me where I’ve been. My lunch hour ended half a’ hour ago an’ she’s wondering why I’m not back at my desk yet. I try telling her that I must’ve fallen asleep because I’ve got a really bad cold and I’m really tired but she just shakes her head and waves her hand.

‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘We’ve got a meeting with the directors in the 6th floor conference room in 15 minutes. Be there.’

I go to my desk to check my emails real quick an’ to get the stuff I might need for this meeting. Just as I’m leavin’ my desk I let loose with a vicious sneeze. Suddenly my nose starts running like crazy. Two little rivers of mucous snake down from my nostrils and make their way towards my mouth. I look around my desk for some tissue but there’s nuthin’ there. Ditto my pockets. My nose is really runnin’ now. I run to the bathroom to see if I can get some more tissue, but all three stalls are occupied. I check to see if there’s any paper towels in the dispenser near the sink, but there ain’t even a dispenser there. Instead it’s one a those hand blow-dryer thingies. Fuck! I really gotta blow my nose. There’s gotta be something I can use.
…………………………………………………………….
I show up at the meeting about 5 minutes late. Everybody’s starin’ at me kinda funny. Probably it’s because I walked in late. Oh well. I’m hoping that maybe if I act real casual, nobody will notice the big gloop a snot in the centre of my tie. I thought about taking my tie off before I came in, but didn’t think it was too noticeable. An’ besides, this is the board of directors we’re talking ‘bout. You gotta dress nice for them.

Ten minutes later I notice that everybody is still starin’ at me, even the board director, an this was in the middle of his presentation. I’m too tired to care and eventually I start to doze off a little. When his presentation is done, someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s my turn to speak. I start to tell everybody about how the number a customers’ orders gettin’ mixed up is going up….but then someone starts laughing. It’s that Jason prick again. Then a couple a other people join in. Pretty soon everyone is laughing at me, even the director. Then he makes some snide comment about my tie.

‘Nice tie, Brad,’ he says. ‘Split-pea soup for lunch?’

Ahh Christ! Ya just can’t win, can ya?

"Holy shit! Bob's dead!!! And where's that slob that we brought in to interrogate? He's gone! That guy must've killed Bob! He couldn't have gotten far! Get him before he escapes!!!"

...........
Oh cripes! Twenty minutes ago I was stuck in some tiny room being interrogated by a government lookin' asshole with a thing for Burger King. All a tha sudden the guy dropped dead after chocking on a buncha french fries an' I just walked on outta tha room and wandered into an office down tha hall. The office has a computer sittin' on a desk. An' by sheer luck, the computer was on and open to a file containin' what looked like a top secret document between WH Smith, the British and American governments and First Rail to finance the supplying of Iran with nuclear weapons through the proceeds from Dan Brown's books.

Now it sounds like they've just found out that that guy is dead an' they think I killed him. I gotta get tha fuck outta here. Quickly I shut the door and push one a tha chairs up against it as sort of a barricade. Theres's a printer sitting in the corner of the room so I click on the file and print it off. Someone's gotta see this.

The printer slowly and noisly comes to life. It's an old looking printer and this document is 15 pages long, so I'm worried about how long this is gonna take. The printer whirrs and shakes and gives off a smell of burning ink as it warms up. C'mon, c'mon, hurry up, I mutter. There's about five minutes of this shit before the printer finally spits out the first page and drops it into the tray to the side.

The printer slowly churns out four more pages before I hear a lound grinding and a clunk. An error message flashes across the screen : 'PAPER JAM- PLEASE CHECK TRAYS AND CLEAR OBSTRUCTION.'

"Fuck!" I shout. Down the hallway I hear more footsteps and voices. It won't be long before they discover me.

There's about five trays on this thing. I check the first tray - nothing. Second tray - nothing. Same with the third tray. On the fourth tray I'm in luck. There's a chewed up sheet of paper stuck behind a couple of the rollers. I lift the rollers up, remove the paper and close everything up.

Two more pages print off before another error message flashes across the screen: 'TRAY 4 OUT OF PAPER - PLEASE REFILL,' this one says. I check the other trays to see if they have any paper. Nope. I rifle through the desk and find a stack of blank paper in the bottom drawer. I refill the printer and then we're back in business.

On about the 11th page I hear a knock at the door and nearly shit my pants. Waitaminute...sniff, sniff...nah, nevermind but,whew, that was close. It was only a 'shart' - one of those really juicy farts that leaves you checking your underwear afterwards.

"Hello, is anyone in there?" a voice says from the other side of the door. I keep quite but the printer seems impossibly loud. There's a pause followed by another knock.

"Dave, are you in there?" There's a third knock followed by the jiggling of the handle.

I'm running out of time here. I've got twelve pages and that should be proof enough so I quickly stuff the evidence in my coat pocket and look for a way out. There's a window behind the desk and it takes all my strength to yank it open. I'm about halfway out the window when the door swings open and the chair clatters to the floor. It's another guy in a suit - this one a little younger than the others. We look at each other. He stands there frozen - not really sure what to do next. I don't either, and I'll probably get caught, but then I slip and fall out the window.

I land in some bushes about six feet below. I hear sirens - cop cars coming, so I get up, brush myself off and start running. Now I'm not sure where I'm running to, just as long as it's away from there. A couple of blocks later I've convinced myself that I've ditched 'em. There's a pub across the street an' I realize I haven't had anything to eat today. So I go in, get myself a burger and chips an' a coupla pints to calm my nerves. Then I go to the toilets for my morning dump which is waaaay overdue.

In the stall I sit an' think about what to do next while I'm pinching out a loaf. This stuff is gonna have to get to the media somehow, give it to the most reliable, trustworthy newspaper I can think of. Ah ha! 'The Daily Record.'

Just as I'm deciding this I hear someone walk into the bathroom. My heart jumps an' I try my best to be still in case it's one a those FirstRail guys. But after a couplea seconds the guy just sniffs and groans. 'Hey pal, get to a hospital will ya? 'Cos something crawled up yer arse and died!' he says and then walks out.

I wait a few minutes before leaving the stall to make sure the coast is clear. I splash some water on my face and leave for the offices of 'The Daily Record.'

I find 'The Daily Record' and ask to see their editor. The editor, a tired-looking English guy with a paunch and a fag dangling from his lower lip comes out to see me. He directs me back to his office and I tell him my story. I take the papers outta my pocket and hand them to him. He stares at them for a couple a seconds.

"Wow," he says. "This is fucking incredible. This...this is huge. Bigger than Watergate. Bigger than Iraq. This is gonna run on the front page of every major newspaper in the world....and we broke it first."

He smiles at me and shakes my hand. "Thanks. Thanks alot, Burt."

"Oh, thank you. And it's Brad...not Burt."

"Whatever," he says. Then he presses an intercom button on the top of his desk. "Martha, tell the boys downstairs to stop the presses, we've got a breaking story here."

"Yes, sir." the box says.

The editor goes on to thank me and tell me how great my find is when a kid barges into his office. He's sweating and frantic.

"Cheif, I just got word from a reliable source that Britany Spears and Amy Winehouse got drunk and made out at a club in L.A. last night!"

The editor shot up from his desk. "Holy shit! Tell the boys to stop the presses. This is our lead story. This is huge. Bigger than Watergate!"

"Waitaminute, what about my story?" I ask.

The editor looks at me. For a second I think he forgot I was even there.

"Sorry pal, but this is huge news," he says. "we'll try to fit it in if we can."

...........

The next day it was back to my job. My boss yelled at me an' I got into trouble for missing work - six months double probation. I told him what had happened, but he didn't believe me. I checked 'The Daily Record.' On the front page was a full page photo of Britany Spears and Amy Winehouse snogging. The headlines said "Brit and Amy in Drug-fueled Lesbian Affair." I looked around for any info on the FirstRail consipracy. All I found was four inches buried on page six.

GodDAMN! That's a good fuckin' cheeseburger."....

Okay, let's recap. This mornin' I got up an' took the train to work, just like any other day of the week. Pretty boring train ride. I don' have a book or nuthin' to read, so I just sit an' watch everybody else readin' their Da Vinci Code paperbacks trying to look important with their ipods an' mobile phones.
When we pull inta Glasgow Central, I get picked up by two big goons with buzzcuts. They drag me away an' next thing I know I'm locked up in this empty room. I don' know what the fuck's going on. I'm waiting for HOURS in this damn room. Meantime, I'm really late for work an' gettin' really hungry an' I ain't even taken my morning dump yet.
Then comes a guy, one a those mysterious goverment agent types in a black suit an' tie. Except the guy's got carrying his lunch with him - carryout from the nearby Burger King.

"GodDAMN! That's a good fuckin' cheeseburger," he says. The guy's speakin' in a sorta flat accent -American or Candian, on o' the other. I can't really tell.

He takes a couple more ravenous bites to finish off the burger before crumpling up the wrapper an' chuckin' it at me.

"Think fast," he shouts.

The wrapper bounces off my forehead an' lands on the floor. I'm so hungry that I'm not even phased. All I can think about is how hungry I am, an' how much I need to shit.

"So I understand you're not a fan of Dan Brown," he says while pulling a handful a fries outta the Burger King bag.

"Huh?" What the hell has that got to do with anything, I wonder.

"I said I take it you're not a fan of Dan Brown."

I look at him an' shrug my shoulders. "He's okay, I guess. Tell ya the truth I don' think much of him one way or the other."

The man shovels a handful of fries into his mouth, chews, takes a long sip of his soft drink and glares at me.

"Is that a fact?"

"Look, can I go now?" I ask. "C'mon man, I've gotta get to work. My boss is gonna go apeshit. I've already been late three times this m -"

"Why don't you like 'Angels and Demons?" he asks, cutting me off.

"Huh? I dunno, I've never even read it," I respond. "Look, what's any of this gotta do with my rail card?"

"Okay, then what about the Da Vinci Code? Have you read that?"

"Started it, but didn't finish it; an' I thought the movie sucked. Why? What do you care what I read?"

The man took another sip from his drink and cleared his throat. "Let me explain something to you Mr. Hassebrock, we here at FirstRail have certain standards we like to maintain; and one of those standards is ensuring our passengers read only travel-industry approved literature...that includes top selling suspense and action/adventure novels by the likes of authors such as John Grisham, Micheal Crighton, and especially Dan Brown.
"Now, I've noticed in the last two months your reading fare has consisted of the following: one NHS-produced pamphlet entitled 'How To Get Rid of Crabs,' an issue of Nuts magazine from May 2005, a Batman comic and the back of a packet brown sauce."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Yeah, so..."

"Well, this is hardly the image FirstRail would like to promote. And frankly, along with your general appearance, Mr. Hassebrock....you frighten children."

The man grabbed another fistful of fries and shoved them into my mouth. He picked through the carton and waved it in front of me, offering the last remaining fries - the little burnt ones that nobody wants. I shook my head. He shrugged his shoulders and popped the stragglers into his mouth.

"Wur gnnu huv t du smtn bou tis," he told me through a mouthful of fries.

I was startin' to really worry now, wonderin' what was gonna happen to me when all of the sudden the man seized up. He brought his hands to his throat an' started making gurgling noises like he was chokin'.

"He man, you okay?" I asked. But it was pretty obvious he wasn't. He was turnin' blue.

I stood up and slapped him hard on the back a couple of times to try an' get the fries outta his throat, but it didn't work. His face was turnin' purple now.

"Hold on, I'll go get a doctor or someone," I said.

The door was unlocked so I walked out and on down the hallway. No one was around. A little further down I came across a door that was opened slightly. I knocked on' it and asked if anyone was in. I waited a few seconds and got no answer, so I pushed the door all the way open and walked into the room.

It was a little office room. Pretty standard stuff: a desk, a phone, a computer, two chairs an' a Dilbert poster. I walked around the desk to use the phone an' noticed the computer was on. There was a file on the desktop marked secret documents. I clicked on it. Some words appeared on the screen - it looked like some sort of contract. The words 'WH Smith', 'Dan Brown', 'CIA' , 'MI5', and 'slush fund to finance covert and highly illegal operations to supply Iran with nuclear weapons' caught my attention. I read a little further down. Suddenly it dawned on me.

Holy shite! This is a contract between WH Smith, the British and American governments and First Rail to finance the supplying of Iran with nuclear weapons through the proceeds from Dan Brown's books. Oh my God.

Down the hall I heard someone suddenly shout out. "Holy shit! Bob's dead!!! And where's that slob that we brought in to interrogate? He's gone! That guy must've killed Bob! He couldn't have gotten far! Get him before he escapes!!!"

Oh cripes, I thought....

TO BE CONTINUED