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.

Don’t bloody call a pub a club, and don’t bloody insist that you have a VIP area and tell me that £40 is a discounted price to enter your dodgy VIP area.

True to form, it was exactly the pub I had in mind. And even then, someone was still being nervous about whether we would be let in wearing sneakers.

“It’s a pub for fuck’s sake”, I screamed. I kid you not though, the first bouncer stopped us and told us the dress was smart casual, no sneakers. And our friend instantly took to his phone to try and call his “insider” to bail us out”.

Before he could get his ‘insider’, one of the other bouncers came jumping with joy towards us and crushed me with a huge bear hug which of course shocked everyone at first. Big Ken though, is one of those huge ugly built like a brick shit house bouncers, and it’s understandable why the others were apprehensive. But Big Ken used to work for me in a previous life, hence the joy and excitement from seeing me after nearly 10 years.

“This dude hear tells me I can’t enter your pub” I hurriedly pointed to the offending “you can’t get into my club with those sneakers” bouncer, a huge “fuck you” grin on my face.

“What do you mean”, Big Ken laughingly responded, and turning to the other bouncer, he calmly said “I still call this guy boss. If T (the owner of the pub) found out you were freezing him, he’d have words”.

“what’s this VIP shit I hear you guys charge for the price of giving head” I asked Big Ken as he led us all inside. “And in a pub though these guys think it’s a club”. Big Ken just let out a hearty laugh saying it’s for the amusement of customers.

So inside we were – and even without paying VIP prices (for the sake of self-respect I insisted on paying the normal cover charge at the door) – of a pub I might add – and I must say, I felt like I’d lost a few years.

I didn’t recognize any of the songs being played except for one Rihanna hit, but that’s because it’s on radio nearly every day. In fact, last time I went to a club proper was nearly 4 years ago when I lost a bet to my younger brother’s 23 year old girlfriend and the punishment was clubbing with her all night in Nairobi.

I thought clubbing would be what it used to be like in my day, but the young girl really punished my body (wipe that smirk off your dirty face – not that kind of punishment) by keeping me on a dance floor all night.

Saturday was getting to be like one of those “what the fuck am I really doing here” kind of nights. But my friend reminded me that overnight visas are rare to come by so I better enjoy myself. And this I promptly started to do as I moved my bits and pieces on the dance floor before one of the DJ’s took pity on me and started playing some good old fashioned old school music. To me it wasn’t old school, I’d say late 80s and early 90s, but to the crowd around, they danced to it like it was the golden oldies.

One of the young girls next to me looked like she was still in nursery school and still getting used to solid food when House Call by Maxi Priest and Shabba was topping the charts in the early 90s, yet she was grooving to it like she had been in the music video.

There as another one across the floor who unleashed a scream of joy when the song came on and started the crouching dancing move as if to prove to everyone how fit she was. To be honest, the only thing you could think of with her face right by the crotch of the guy dancing with er was Biggy in Nasty girl rapping “Whip it out, rubber no doubt” – with the expectation that any second, the dude was going to whip his dick out and slap the girl’s face with it.

Believe it or not, when I was in the clubbing business, I came across crazy things, and it wouldn’t have surprised me one bit. I remember a few years back when talking to one of my customers outside in the club box office area, another customer walked out, calmly said hello with a smile and looked around as if checking if anyone else was about – nonchalantly lifted her dress, pulled out her stockings and panties, folded them neatly, put them in her hand bag and went back straight into the club.

And by the way, ladies, if you’re going to wear a mini-skirt, please do us a favour and wear one that doesn’t ride, especially if you’re going to get tipsy and drop your guard. A good miniskirt can look great and elegant (on the right body I might add), but when it starts riding every few minutes and it becomes difficult to tell whether you’re wearing a skirt or a belt, then you’ve got a problem.

We ended up talking with this particular girl and her group of friends and making small talk with industrial strength speakers determined to fuck up your conversations wasn’t easy at all. At one point when we were sat in the fluffy VIP seats (yes there was a VIP area, she started telling me her life story – hard to keep job, dodgy boyfriend who doesn’t’ value her, ambitions in life, and why the group decided they needed to party hard.

I was also amused when she complained about the challenges of wearing a miniskirt. Especially when she’s had wine, panty removers, beer and all sorts poured onto her thighs by inconsiderate bastards.

“My thighs are so sticky…” she moaned, almost daring and willing me to feel and see how disgusting it really was.

I thought if only there was really a VIP bathroom for the ladies, she could have actually taken a shower.

Some things never change though – like the dodgy mini-cab driver who hang out all night outside the club and want to charge you an arm and a leg to take you home, especially when you’re all going to different addresses. And the one thing that always cracks me up is when they insist you pay them first before they take you – something I always refuse on the grounds that they haven’t taken me anywhere – how do I know they’re not a murderer like the ones you watch on CSI New York.

As far as I know, the only professionals who get away with collecting fees before the job are prostitutes. Why taxi drivers insist on going this direction I don’t know. Besides, if I actually manage to elude a taxi driver in my state after clubbing, they’ve got bigger problems than me not paying them for the fare.

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.

“It’s for you”, I calmly suggested through gritted teeth.

“Oh! Shoot – I was looking for it” was the response.

Who was it who said the art of conversation was dead? Nobody told this girl.

Talk about a lack of spacial awareness and totally disregarding your surroundings. This girl just transformed into the world’s loudest gossip monger with a flip of that phone.

“C’mon C’mon. Spill it out”, she loudly blurted.

I thought the volume of the ring tone was bad, but this girl could talk for England and she wasn’t about to go shy on us.

“How was it”, followed with constant giggles of excitement only of the kind you would dare indulge when you’re alone. You could hear the groans and sighs from the other passengers in the cabin, as if willing each other for someone to wake up and slap the senses into this girl.

“So was it big?” she fearlessly asked before the middle aged woman sitting across from us decided enough was enough and respectfully reminded her that she wasn’t the only one on the train.

“Zip it luv”, was the curt and shameless response.

I was kind of pissed off with that response to tell you the truth. The lady didn’t deserve to be dismissed like that. But chatter box didn’t want to know. The giggles went on with the almost queued up remarks of “awesome”, “wow”, “your kidding me”….you know the drill.

I had one of them moments where I contemplated being arrested for assault because a combination of the girls voice, the nature of the conversation that was making everyone uncomfortable, and the volume of the conversation all conspired for me to consider sleeping in a police cell.

And she continued…“So what will you do, will you think about it?” “I don’t know, how big is it?”. “What are you going to do?”

I’d had enough by then, and before she could indulge further, I audibly interjected, “tell her to use lubrication, it makes it easier – nobody likes it too big”.

The whole cabin just cracked out in laughter. The girl was so embarrassed she picked her stuff up and moved right along probably to the next cabin.

Poetic justice I call it. The chap sitting opposite the lady who was earlier insulted for confronting the girl offered to buy me a drink.

The thing is though – she could have easily been talking about shoes or I don’t know, a bag of potatos? Who knows.

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.

So once in a while, you resolve to lighten the load for both of you and sub-contract some of the more straight forward chores. A live in house help is most definitely not an option, so the natural thing is to pick up the yellow pages, and look for the locally advertising domestic cleaners, who can pop in once or twice a week. The truth is, doing most of the work yourself for the simple reason that it saves money is a false economy. For the sake of sanity, investing in external help on occasion makes perfect sense.

I thought finding a cleaner would be easy. Back in my bachelor days, it was most definitely easy. I found a nice lady on the other side of the phone, she came with a cleaner on the first day, we laughed and chatted, haggled on a price, and I gave her the spare key, and that was that. Twice a week, I’d come home from work and my apartment would look like a million bucks.

I didn’t have to worry about much, and even if I wasn’t able to leave a few bob under the biscuit tin when I was broke, I could always square things on payday. They were even flexible enough to pop in on an additional day to do a spring clean if I was expecting a booty call (a sparkling clean house never harms your chances of wooing and convincing an undecided chick that panty removal isn’t such a bad thing after all)…but I digress.

I had a bad feeling about this one from the get go. The first sign should have been that a man with an annoying voice answered the phone. His response to my simple question about how much they charge per hour was delivered with an air of disdain that only Ugly Betty would expect from the pretentious, back stabbing colleagues on her first day at Mode magazine.

“I need to arrange an appointment to come and view your house”, the Pratt kept insisting.

“I don’t think you need to see my house to answer a simple question about your hourly rate. Does it change depending on the number of rooms I have?”, was my simple riposte.

“Oh no – sir, we have to follow a certain procedure and make sure that everything is right”.

I should have hung up and just left the fucker out to dry, but I needed to get someone in to do some regular cleaning, and I really didn’t have time to call around left right and centre. And so I gave him my address, and told him that either ‘er indoors or myself will be at home at a certain time, and that he should call before he gets there to make sure that someone is at home.

I found the freak waiting up front 15 minutes before he was due to visit, and his blunt excuse was that he had other appointments so he thought he might turn up early. This was a clear red flag that I ignored (maybe I’m getting soft in my old age), but I decided to just get it over with.

The dude reminded me of a former college lecturer who was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. His arrogance oozed out in everything that he did, how he moved and his appraisal of the living room as he entered the house. Now, every parent with a toddler will know full well that a living room looking like a building site with all manner of toys and implements is a normal state of affairs. I don’t know if he was more pissed off at the fact that Pepper Pig, a popular kids TV show was playing on TV – and clearly, it didn’t make any sense to him (not that it was ever supposed to, it’s a kids show, or the state of the living room was not up to his standards. I would have normally said “sorry about the mess”, but considering I wanted them to clean the mess regularly, I figured it was appropriate that he had an idea of the intensity of the chore.

He started by giving me a history of his company, to which I responded by cutting him off. I didn’t have the time for niceties and I had to go back out again. And so the ridiculous started.

“I have to look around the house and then describe it to “my lady” who will be cleaning. They usually clean from top left to bottom right.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less”, I responded, “but it still doesn’t answer my question about how much it costs per hour. I’ll only agree to it if it’s a reasonable cost”.

“Well, this type of house we would charge x and y per hour, and it has to be a minimum of z hours”, he answered with anger as if I had twisted his arm and slammed his face onto the wall.

“And you couldn’t tell me this on the phone?”

“No sir, we have to agree on the terms and conditions”.

“What do you mean – it’s a cleaning job, I’m not asking you for a loan”.

“Well sir, we usually sign a contract with clients, and then we go through a check list of issues. I have to examine the house for health and safety and for insurance purposes to satisfy that our liability insurance will be met.”

By this time I was rolling my eyes and wishing this fucker had never walked into my house.

“I also need you to sign a direct debit mandate and we normally collect payment 3 months in advance for the first payment as a deposit, and then a monthly payment in advance”.

“For what”, I cynically asked.

“It’s our policy”, the freak says.

“It’s a cleaning job. Why would I want to do something as stupid as sign off a direct debit to you? Besides, I haven’t agreed to it yet”.

He still insisted that they had to take the first deposit and payment in advance and by this time I was already pissed off enough to try find a way to get him out of my house without drop kicking him onto the front yard.

“You see Mr. So and so” I calmly said, “Where I come from, the only people who get paid before a job is completed are prostitutes. Unless “your ladies” are coming here to regularly get laid for a fee, I really don’t see why I should even contemplate paying in advance”.

That clearly got him as he stormed up and suggested that I need to think about it then and give him an answer.

To which I responded, “don’t call me, I’ll call you before the end of the week”….which was clearly a mistake. I should have perhaps said, “fuck off”.

A few days later, ‘er indoors hands me the phone and says “your friend is on the line asking why his lady is still waiting”.

Lo and behold, the dude had the arrogance to say that he had been waiting for my phone call, and that he needed to respond to his lady as she was waiting to know when she can come and start and to organize her schedule to accommodate me.

“I thought I told you I’ll call if and when I decide to go ahead with this”

“But my lady has been waiting”, was his persistent response.

“Then tell her to stop waiting”, and with that I hung up.

Did I mention that he insisted that I needed to buy cleaning materials for his so called ladies? At the hourly rate they were charging you’d think that they were hiring a cherry picker to clean the windows and roof.

I’ve become very skilled at hitting the mute button on the remote to stop my blood pressure from rising because of sucker TV commercials. In fact, I try to break my own record of how fast I can zap the bastards off. The ones that get me the most are those that try to shop you secured loans and always start with stupid questions like “Are you a home owner? Do you have debts you want to consolidate?…” Or the ambulance chasing ones from Accident Direct or Injury lawyers for you or something like that that start with “Have you been injured at work, on the road or whilst walking in town??? We could help you make a claim!” You know them type of adverts I’m talking about…LOL!

So last week, my wife and I were approaching a roundabout and we had to slow down. My wife was driving and I was fiddling with the car Stereo trying to locate one of my favourite songs by Mwamburi – Stella mpenzi wangu (I just love the part he brings his whole clan to the airport to meet Stella his long lost love flying in from Japan and she chucks out of the plane holding a baby with a short Japanese fella following her behind…).

As we came to a halt to give way, the car behind us ploughed into us with such force I could feel the pain of the bumper hitting the ground and a woman wailing like she had just seen Elvis or something. My first thought was – “For fuck’s sake!”. I guess I was more concerned with the fact that we were going to be stuck there for a while and I had stuff to do – and I mentioned as much to my wife whose first response was to shake her head and ask if that’s all I was concerned about and pointing out that someone could be injured – or our son might have been in the back.

Well – my son wasn’t in the car and she didn’t look injured and I certainly wasn’t, and to be honest with you – the fucker behind us is the one who ploughed into us – so I didn’t see what the need for the drama about my lack of concern for injuries was. Maybe she was thinking of the screaming and wailing behind us, but honestly, not doing what I wanted on time was a bigger deal. Besides, we were literally cruising just above 0 and I really couldn’t see how it was possible for an immobile object to inflict casualties.

Boy was I wrong…LOL! Not about the casualties – but more about the state of the perpetrating vehicle. The whole of the other driver’s front grill was hanging by a thread (if you can call it that), her front bumper was on the ground full of denting and her number plate was literally under our car strewn among the broken glass from her head lamps. You couldn’t help but wish the poor lady had insurance. Actually, you couldn’t help but be more concerned for her car (not her at this point by the way), considering that ours only had minor scratches at the back – Well, they weren’t a big deal, but they looked ugly as if someone had run a key (well, a whole bunch of them) from left to right – and it wasn’t cool.

What concerned me more is that she was wailing like a baby and starting to seriously annoy with her apologies and not meaning to hit us sobs. In between picking up her number plate and having to listen to the diatribe, she crossed the line when she told my wife that she had seen us slowing down and stopping – and that was what she also meant to do…only that – she stepped on the accelerator instead of the brake.

That’s when I said fuck it – and I went back to the car. What a load of nonsense. Some people should never be allowed to drive….LOL! I carried on looking for Stella. After what seemed ages, my wife came back armed with the poor lady’s details and we headed off. Of course the drama about my insensitivity continued – but my take is simple. She was stupid – why should I be sensitive. We’re late, our car looks like a bunny boiler had given it a good going over – and for what? – Because some silly woman can’t tell the brake from the gas pedal?

A few days later, we receive a call from an ambulance chasing law firm. That’s when them accident direct adverts came to mind….LOL! How the hell did they get our number? Forget I asked, I should know better in this data savvy age of information selling. Apparently, aside from the insurance process, this company were willing to assist us in a personal injury claim.

So come the questions, were you injured? Who else was in the car? Were they injured? Yada Yada….My question to them was about their intent and how they make their money.

“Oh Mr. Stone – you get 100% of the compensation. We claim our costs from the other party and its a no win no fee arrangement”. But even after telling them no one was injured and the poor lady’s insurance company are paying for our damage they still push on and push on.

I guess you know the economy is bad when ambulance chasing law firms are willing to convince you first that you have an injury and then help you make a claim. I even asked if I can claim for the time I lost. You see, time is of value to me and I would have otherwise been doing something instead of listening to silly people who can’t drive. The answer was amusing “No sir, we only do claims on personal injury”.

I bet you these guys have spotters on roundabouts waiting for accidents and then dig your details from licence plate info – “We know you got injured sir – we were there”…LOL!