Are you Jez Buzz?

It is 2003, August, somewhere in Berkshire, Reading to be precise and i find myself multi-tasking like the female Buddha. Myself along with three fellow gents are making our way steadfast back to our canvass lodgings. My head would be a tad fuzzy but circumstances call for clear, concise thoughts. Balanced in my left paw is a vessel of nondescript lash, in my right is a hoodlum of the highest calibre. I should explain that my erstwhile chum, Jeremy, is beginning to feel the effects of drinking the equivalent of a water butt of Russia's finest. It takes two men, myself and Gareth to keep his bearings steady, as i said there is yet another who could and perhaps should help ease the load, but that's never really been part of Richard 'i want what Mackie's got' Mackie's mandate. Instead making crude maternal suggestions and coaxing a physical altercation with Jeremy seem to be his only useless input, thus increasing the burden placed upon the saintly Gareth and your very own chivalrous narrator.

This short anecdote really has nothing much to do with anything anymore, but it does go someway to reveal the curious dynamics that encompass social groupings. But before over-analysis ruins the feel good factor of this edition i should note that it is not a deep set love for Jeremy that prompted me to hoist his half weight over my shoulder, moreover the fact that i was closest too him at said juncture. For if i was an extra three feet adrift then it would have been yours truly directing the matriarchal abuse rather than Richard. It was merely a product of coincidence.

Now coincidence is a funny thing. People say that bad things come in three's, this is not a view that i would generally be in accordance with. However recent events have planted the seed of doubt well and truly into your esteemed hero's anus. Having just been informed that my employment is to be terminated forth with, coupled with the recent bereavement endured, would and probably should reduce this once mighty titan of manhood to a quivering heap of patheticness waiting nervously for the third installment of this triangle of despair. However, not wishing to put too fine a point on it, i ain't a pussy and with that view i say 'Bring it on world.'

In contrast to the the aforementioned view on bad luck and the frequency with which it can affect, it is your humble teacher's view that there is such a trait as being lucky and indeed creating your own luck.

A very short example; whatever notion or action possessed your gallant hero to listen to the UFO 'best of' album is not significant, what is crucial here is that whatever 'it' was, was lucky, as they fookin' kick posterior. Indeed it is very likely that their progressive rock ballads would still be lost to the heap of non-played itunes classics if it wasn't for 'it'.

I for one would like to salute 'it' and pay homage to the luck it has bestowed. Oh and before you yin-yang types spark up with that nonsensical balance effluent that you love to preach i say get a life, get a grip, get some UFO.

Ya mums got big hands and shops at aldi

Hello children, again you find your valiant narrator manning his station, 7 floors up on the charing cross road and never a job at the top of them.

Today is indeed a sombre one, with news reaching this outpost of the most maccabe form, a time of self-reflection seems to be in order. However looking within has never been a strong character trait of this protagonist so therefore a skinfull and some flapjack will be the preferred tools of cleansing.

Last night was indeed an event cut from the same linen as most standard fit student jeans, well on the surface anyway, but mistakenly laughing OUT loud at a lush falling on her arse would appear to have been a highlight, if not for the fact that she was actually having an seizure of sorts. So with tails very much between legs we closed open mouths and returned to the act of dance.

As the social rumbled on, copious amounts of lager beer washed away the boredom a treat and made the overall evaluation much more favourable, the dancing was, as always clinical with diddy getting a reet good runout. There was rumblings of a round of pull the curtain, but this particular example was just a touch too floral for the general consensus. Romance did indeed blosom between two members of the far removed party and a distant colleague looked to be laying the foundations for a subsequent night of carnal funness. But alas the freedom afforded with mickey not in attendence ironically made your faultless hero quite insular. Thoughts of like, infatuation, lust, ran through his gallant bonce but all were diminished and dismissed as another quart of Beck's collided with stomach acid.

So with the promises of a bastard behind the eyes laying ahead your favourite tricky trio made good for home. Obviously a road sign was liberated and some other artefacts were accumulated to pay hommage to the missing group member. However plans to construct a shrine of doors, mattresses, cones and a desk chair with FULL SWIVEL capabilities were thwarted by that harlequin who doubles as night security. After a torrent of incoherent poetry he retired back to his dwellings or so we thought. The sneaky so and so witnessed the counter-strike operation to re-steal the aforementioned goodies and followed the trio back to the batcave, where a fiduciary warning was met with general disdain and apathy. After failing to instill ' the fear' among the trinity he buggered off. The last act was to repeatedly watch what has been officially recognised as the most humourous of all film sequencies, 'Oh we have a volunteer...'

A potentially difficult evening for your conscientious narrator turned into one of almost stooge like farce and helped delay any untoward sadness for the time being.

Time is great for grief, but so is lash and lash is much faster ;)

Dedicated to the grandest of old birds ... 1928 - 2009

You should see the size of the hair i just pulled out of my nose...

As i sit in my 7th floor penthouse gazing out across the bredth of the UK's disputed second city and onward to the restless power of the pennine mountain's, my mind begins to wander. I try to place myself as one of the thousands of economic migrants perfoming their daily exodus en mass and in my darkest hour i wish i was one of them. To say i have become disillusioned with the general discourse of my much maligned, ever repeating routine would indeed be putting it lightly. In terms the general populace can relate to, my degree sucks, im too stupid to actually do it and it's sapping the very life from my balls!

But i digress ... this is not my first venture into the world of general procrastination and self-promotion, far from it, i am an expert on me and feel it is my duty to inform the populace of my every whim, for this belief it has on numerous occasions been said that i am, arrogant, annoying and a downright scoundrel, to name but a few err's.

But enough of me, there are far more important matters at hand and i hope to use this page as a way of venting my frustration very much in a darkly, morbid, jack dee type of way.

First on my shitlist, why on earth do replacement razors cost as much as buying a new one. Now i know liverpool want a new stadium but to messers gillette and hicks i say BALLS, i'm one more dull shave away from growing a fabulous beard or indeed signing my life away to endorse Bic disposables, even if they are only good for a baby to shave with.

Speaking of gillete, why do they have Henry endorsing their razors? They talk of being the best etc, but for all the elegance and expertly delivered renault adverts, big terry has not sustained the type of success that should warrant a place among inter-sports elite. Federrer having a bad year and still claiming an olympic gold AND a major ... and as for tiger, destroying the field on one knee for the better part of two years is proof enough of their worth. I'd personally like to see Chris Hoy grapple with the gillette fusion, power, stealth, wunderkind, generic manly cool name, razor to tame the obviously muscular growth that dare dwell on his noble mandible. Imagine the advert ... 'Gillette, ach the best a wee bastard can get.'