STONE COLD HAVEN

One of the most offensive comments I’ve ever heard was “he said if we paid £40 extra each, we’ll get into the VIP section”. This was one of my friends in a taxi feeling excited about getting off the phone with an “insider” from the club we were going to. Up to that point, I really hadn’t taken notice of where we were going clubbing, I was more interested with what we were going to eat first because I was hungry.

“£40?!”, I exclaimed in shock, “to get into a pub in South East London? You can get a blowjob for £40”.

“That’s for a VIP pass” the argument followed, “And it’s not a pub, it’s a club”.

I’ll come back to this VIP thing in a bit. It had been a great Saturday that started with us drinking at midday. It’s been a while, but I applied for my overnight visa from er indoors and it was duly granted to allow me to attend a Christmas drink up after a game with my Arsenal supporting friends. Even she knew there was absolutely no chance expecting me back home on Saturday night and promptly granted the visa.

So we sang and made merry, and even thought of opening a book to bet on how many of us would actually make it to the stadium. It didn’t matter that the pub was literally a few minutes’ walk from the Emirates, 5 pm got to us quicker than we could order enough pints. It’s one of those things that always gets you – being in your seat before kick-off is just an elusive bastard.

We quickly got into the cheering rhythm as the first half flew past – with one of my friends who was there for the first time (he supports Liverpool unfortunately) spending most of the time being mesmerized by the magnificence of the Emirates stadium. Seriously, this guy was taking photos of the pitch and the players instead of enjoying the football match. We excused the poor bastard – it was his first time in a proper stadium, one of the best in the world.

The result was disappointing, but I’ll take a point after a European weekday game with our boys coming back with a late equalizer. Everyone was still in a party mood as we headed back to the pub. Those who did not have overnight visas ended up having the traditional ‘one for the road’, and making mental notes for the next time – “make sure your missus sanctions an overnight stay”.

Fast forward a few hours later, and we had been roped into visiting an African club in South East London. When I heard the driver in the taxi being told the address, I said there’s no African club anywhere near that road and it’s a bloody long road with hundreds of nightspots. An African club is not one of them.

So imagine my surprise when they said we need to pay extra for a VIP pass. You see, I have a problem in principle. This whole “VIP status” in clubs or entertainment venues is just taken too far. It makes no business sense whatsoever. Why create second class citizens and try to segregate people in a place that is a shit venue in the first place.

If you’re going to make me a VIP – it better be VIP. Don’t try and entice me with a section of the pub with a few fluffy seats and a huge ugly fuck off bouncer built like a brick shithouse stopping people from entering the fluffy seated area.

I’m still listening to the same dodgy music, still smelling the same sweaty bodies like every other fucker in the pub, fighting like everyone else to get a pint at the bar, using the same dodgy and smelly toilets with the same lollipop selling, chewing gum peddling toilet attendant that’s’ smiling at everyone. If you’re going to make me VIP, make sure you have heated toilet seats, a surround sound system playing jazz fm, a toilet that can wash my ass with soapy water, and blow dry all the cracks and curves that nature endowed on me. (more…)

I always figured I was in the wrong profession. Not that I’ll even get away with trying to sell my body. A sell-by date doesn’t even apply in my case. I doubt that I’d ever pass any type of screening that would declare me fit for purpose for what seems to be a very lucrative trade in austere times.

Legend has it that there’s only 2 professions in the world that are recession proof. Being an undertaker and prostitution. You’ll never run out of a ready customer base willing to pay the going rate for services rendered.

But of course once in a while someone just takes the piss and redefines their own rules in the market. Take poor old Dawn. She thought she’d hit the jackpot, but didn’t account for her client being a thief. For the record, whoever pays for sex to the tune of £1.7 million in less than 3 years deserves to be locked up in prison and the keys thrown away. That kind of stupidity endangers the human gene pool.

It’s bad enough that the guy steals over £3 million from his employer, but he should have been executed for the manner in which he spent the proceeds of the heist.

The lady argues that her sexual services were value for money and the guy was prepared to pay the market rate – a rate her accountant estimates at about £20,000 a week. Even the judge in this case hard a problem with that appraisal of the defendants market value as a professional provider of horizontal refreshments. Which makes you really ask the question – is any pussy worth circa £3K a day? The law of the land clearly thinks not.

But then again, what price do you put on someone being a platinum idiot and agreeing to pay that amount. The lady is clearly aggrieved that she’s losing the fruits of her loins, literally – but you really can’t argue about a judge clawing back the proceeds of crime. It’s forbidden fruit.

My take – she should have hired a more savvy accountant to keep her hard earned money away from the long arm of the criminal justice system. There’s nothing that’s more of a bastard than thinking you’ve earned £1.7 million for a judge to tell you “actually, sweet heart – you need to pay that shit back”.

Or maybe she should have opted to become an undertaker. There are no grey areas when it comes to splitting hairs over the prices of the services rendered.

So I’ve also joined this twitter thing. I’m told its safer and more sane than MKZ – but what do I know. You can follow me on twitter and find out whether I get the hang of it.

Wonders never cease to amaze.

I guess in business this would be lauded as innovation.

But hey! This NGO charity thing seems to be the new thing on the block. Let’s all get out there and help the poor helpless Africans…

Maybe I’m just getting too old.

Train journeys can be as much of a pain as they are comical. There are indeed some strange characters who frequent this mode of transport, and perhaps I should include myself in this category. My M.O is straight forward – get comfortable, hook on the IPOD and resurface when the announcement for my station blasts over the tanoi. I don’t blame anyone for considering this anti-social, but my defence is that it’s probably the most normal thing to do considering I didn’t get on a train to meet people and chin wag the way to my destination.

Sometimes you just want some quiet and some private head space to contemplate stuff. Usually, it’s taxi drivers who can’t get the concept of leaving a passenger alone wanting to eagerly chat to you about everything from the weather to the problems that immigrants are bringing to the beloved British isles. Every once in a while though, you’re forced to become a third party to a telephone conversation on the train that let’s face it, you really don’t want to be part of.

I took my seat across the table from a “quietish” young woman who was busy reading some magazine or something. Even when the conductor approached us for tickets, she was very soft spoken when responding and asking about something or the other. The hits started rolling when her phone violently vibrated on the table and started ringing.

I don’t know what it was that ticked me off instantly. Maybe it was the fact that she left it there wringing for what seemed to be ages so that we could hear the hideous song that was her ring tone, or the fact that it was so loud, I’m sure you could hear it from outside even if the diesel powered train swept past you at 120 miles an hour.

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If there’s one thing I envy about living back home, it’s the options available to any working family to get an affordable house help or maid, more popularly known as a mboch. Having a live in house help out here could easily cost you the better part of your salary after tax – and for most of us, we have to make do with tackling those oh so unwanted chores , come rain shine or snow.

You see, some of the most drama generating issues for any couple are the mundane things like who does what in the house from washing the toilets and changing diapers, to mowing the lawn and scrubbing the pots and pans. They say it’s the stuff relationships are made of, but in the same token, it’s most definitely the stuff drama is made of. Of course, it doesn’t help that you’re both probably busting a gut at work to make ends meet, and there’s a small matter of kids who might not see things as you see them when it comes to being reasonable.

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