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Happy Birthday Madge.

This birthday greeting is a bit belated but I'm sure Madge will forgive me.

I'm too lovable to be mad at for long.


Only two days ago...

I happily reported that I had reached and breached the 9,000th visitor to this blog.

It would seem that I have created a monster as I have just checked my stats again and I'm halfway towards my 10,000th visitor.

As a special treat to the 10,000th visitor I think I'll donate a prize or something to whomever it is that breaks the 10,000 barrier. Nothing extravagant like a holiday to Antigua, which wouldn't be fair if the 10,000th visitor happens to live in Antigua, just something simple like an exclusive one-off T-Shirt designed by me.

If that doesn't make you want to sit and click away like a Newton's cradle gone demented then I don't know what will.

I'm fucked if I know...

What the hell Michael "Hide the children" Jackson is thinking about if the rumours that he is to re-invent himself as a rapper are true.

Picture the scene...

The MTV Award show starts with a dry-ice filled stage. Lights of many colours shine through the fog as the music begins.

Michael lays down his rap to the tune of "Baby got back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot...

♫♪ I like young cock and I cannot lie,
You other perverts can't deny,
when a kiddy walks in with a itty bitty waist and a big smile on his face,
I get sprung,
wanna show him my cum.
'cos you he needs some pop star,
deep in the jeans he's wearing
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring.
Oh, kiddy I wanna get wit ya
and take some pictures.
The supreme's star tried to warn me,
but the ass they've got makes,
Ooo, Me so horny
Ooh jerk my smooth skinned
I'd love to get in your bend
So use me, sue me
'cos you aint the average groupie.

I've seen him dancin,
To hell with romancin
He'll sweat, get wet and scream like a turbo 'Vette

I'm tired of magazines,
with pics of real young teens.
Take this used-to-be-a-black-man and ask him that
shoot a cumshot on his back.

LA face with a midget booty
LA face with a midget booty...♫♪

You heard it here first folks...

Barry Scott, star of TV's Cillit Bang ad campaign, is to star as "Flash" Harry in a modern day remake of the 1954 classic movie The Belles of St Trinians.

The director of the remake is rumored to be Gus Van Gusvan Goosefan, a little known Ukrainian director whose only directing experience came last year when he was asked to do the Ukrainian version of the Cillit Bang commercial.

Gus Van Gusvan Goosefan told a reporter that he was "Moore dan hippy to be doink of the filming of ze moofee. Pearhops know eye vill be abill to be maykink ze feelm eye haff dreamened off maykink sinks eye vas a yung bouy abowt der live of der moist faymouse Ukranian in der vorld."

When asked who the most famous Ukrainian in the world was Mr Gus Van Gusvan Goosefan screamed at the reporter in Ukrainian and stormed out of the interview. Later, the reporter was informed by a kindly Ukrainian maid that the most famous Ukrainian in the world was, in Gus Van Gusvan Goosefans opinion, Andy Warhol.

When it was pointed out by the reporter that Andy Warhol was in fact born in America the maid spat in the face of the reporter, threw a chamberpot in his face and made claims that she would kill the reporters family, his friends and the people who used the same telephone company.

Mr Barry Scott was tonight unavailable for comment.

Kindly reviewed by Cassie.


♫ You're so pretty baby, You're the prettiest thing I know. ♫

♫ Where did you go? Where did you go? ♫

Far away, never to return. Or so I thought...

This post will make sense to only a few people. But that's not important. What is important is that for once something I thought I'd lost forever came back to me.


Have you ever...

Taken the fall for someone else?

Of course you have. We all have, at some point or another. Whether it was taking the blame for something minor or something major, we've all been the sacrificial lamb that gladly hopped onto the chopping block.

I once took the fall for a friend. And lost a friend because of it... Kinda. Allow me to explain...

Once upon a time there was a girl whom I cared a lot about. She had a boyfriend. A friend of mine beat him up. Selah, so it goes. I got blamed for it. Selah, so it went. For more than a month this girl didn't talk to me. All I got was icy stares and accusations, the cold shoulder and the colder heart.

I tried to tell her it wasn't me who beat her boyfriend up. Sorry, no reply. I wanted to tell her that I wouldn't beat her boyfriend up just because he was her boyfriend. Sorry, not listening. I wanted to tell her that I couldn't have beat her boyfriend up, I loved her too much to cause her pain by proxy. Sorry, still not listening. Talk to the hand, the icy stare and the barely hidden look of disgust.

Everytime I saw her cold look my heart got kicked. Everytime I tried to talk to her and got no reply my soul got a smack in the face. Everytime I heard her voice I got beaten up by accusatory remarks. Everytime I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her the truth...

Other people knew but weren't telling. Other people told but weren't believed. And all the while I was losing someone precious to me. Someone whom I loved, someone whom I wanted to give the world, Someone who lit me up, like a beacon for lost sailors she brightened my life.

I gave her small things. I wrote her poems about how the little things are the things that matter. She played me a song and told me that it was what she most associated with me...

You took your coat off and stood in the rain. You were always crazy like that.

Talking 'bout a revolution.

The reasons for the previous post may not be entirely clear to all of you lot out there in webland.

Allow me to straighten things up...

I've had 9000 visitors.

There, now you know.

Revolution # 9000.

Number 9000
Number 9000
Number 9
Number 9000

The visitations amount to more
climbing through the virtual door.

# 9000
# 9000
# 9000

Number 9001

John is dead
Am I the Walrus?
Close the door on the way out...



DVD Days.

The next few days will be spent watching a few DVD's.

Black Books. Series 2 & Series 3.
Billy Connelly. Bites Yer Bum Live and Hand Picked by Billy.
Peter Kay's Pheonix Nights. Series 1 & 2.
The Office. Series 2. (Even though I can't stand Ricky Gervais.)
Peter Kay. "Genius!"
Mystery Men.

I watched both series of Black Books last night but will be watching them both again, commentary on, to hear more of the wit and wisdom of Dylan Moran and Bill Bailey.


Rossi Takes Moto GP Crown.

Valentino Rossi secured his fifth successive world title, in the premier class of motorcycle racing, earlier today when he finished second to Loris Capirossi in the Malaysian GP.

In a press release Valentino commented;
"I am very happy because I gave more than 100% in the race today. We have been in trouble all weekend and this morning I wasn't sure if I would finish on the podium. But I got a good start and rode a clever race whilst other riders seemed nervous and made mistakes. Little by little I moved to the front and I felt comfortable with the bike. I passed Hayden and then swapped positions with Capirossi a couple of times, but in the last seven laps he changed gear and I couldn't go with him. Anyway, I am World Champion for the seventh time, which is incredible! Last year was a bit of a surprise but this time everybody was out to beat me. I want to thank all my mechanics, Jerry, the engineers... everybody who works for Yamaha!"


New Tune.

The Womb have just released a new song.

It's called "I Disown My Country" and you can get it free by clicking here and downloading it.


The few, the proud and the brave...


A couple of years ago I did a 10,500 ft tandem skydive to raise money for Maggies Cancer Centre and I'm in the mood to do so again. So, just this minute I have sent for the necessary forms to do a charity jump for the Seeds For Africa Charity.

My decision to take the plunge for this charity is mostly due to the fact that Seeds For Africa helps people in Mozambique. A country which I visited earlier this year when I went to stay with my cousin Steve for a month.

When I receive the details I'll see about setting up some sort of account so that anyone who visits this blog can contribute to the funds for this. Every penny counts and all that.


Are you one of those people....

Who attracts lunatics, weirdo's and freaks?

If so then why not advertise your ability with a cool hooded top?


Or how about a nice long sleeved shirt to keep out the cold?

Long sleeve

Available in all sizes and in many different colors and styles.


One step closer.

To being a millionaire.

I have sold another one of my "Trust me, I'm a Doctor." T-Shirts.

Should you wish to buy one then please click here and do so.

Rude awakening.

There's nothing quite like a nice long lie in your bed. And this morning I had nothing quite like a long lie in my bed.

At 7am the sun came streaming through my bedroom window and shocked me into awakening from a rather nice lucid dream, which for some reason I can't recall at the moment. Perhaps I'll remember the details of it later. Perhaps not, who knows?

I've been lucid dreaming every night for the last week and I'm sure that the reason for this is that I have not been smoking myself into a ganja induced coma before I hit the sheets. If this is the case I think I'll stop smoking as much ganja as I do on a regular basis. Lucidity in my dreams is far more fun than sleeping the sleep of the dead.

In one of the lucid dreams I've had in the last week I discovered that I could fly like a bird. Though not exactly like a bird, they have to flap their wings. All I had to do was to think, with total commitment and belief, that I could fly and lo and behold... We have lift off.

If you've no idea what lucid dreaming is then please feel free to read your way through these links.

Now I'm off back to my bed to walk in the dream world.


Recent listening.

Just a small list of what I've been listening to over the last week or so.
  • K T Tunstall. Eye to the telescope.
  • George Carlin. Back in Town.
  • George Carlin. 7 Words you can't say on TV.
  • Richard Pryor. Greatest Hits.
  • Richard Pryor. Is it something I said?
  • Jack Johnston. Brushfire Fairytales.
  • Ana Gabriel & Vicky Carr. Amiga.
  • Robin Williams. Live on Broadway.


He who has understanding, let him calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. His number is six hundred sixty-six.

The Anti-Christ has come. Prepare for the end of days...

It's dark here. Very dark. There are ominous looking clouds in the sky. The wind is whistling through the boughs of the trees, creating noises that sound like the low whine of the undead.

Will the sun rise tomorrow? Was today the last time we shall see the sun? Was today the day that brought the coming of the beast?

Read all about it by clicking here...

Rumors are that his name is Sean..


Hanging with the Hawkings.

I have an urge to go out drinking with Stephen Hawkings.

I can just imagine Steve and I partaking of a few... Me with a bottle of Stroh rum in my hand and Steve with a bottle of whatever he wants to drink duck-taped onto the end of his feeding straw. That's the kind of thing to brag about. It's certainly on a higher level than any drunken story that has been wheeled out in the pub.

I'd even go so far as to say it would be a mind altering experience.

Picture the scene...

It's late on a Tuesday night somewhere in Edinburgh. A full moon peeps through milky white clouds. The shadow of a drunk passes over the face of a wall. A strange voice grates onto the, unhearing, ears of the night...

"Show-me-the-way-to-go-home-I'm-tired-and-I-want-to-go... Taxi! Oh-shit-I-missed-it. Never mind Hawkings, my good friend, we'll get the next one... Are you alright there Davros? How are you getting on with that kebab? Do you want me to wipe the drool off you? Ahahaha. An IQ so high it's only detectable to sniffer dogs and you've got kebab all down the front of you. Ahahahaha."

An electric wheelchair comes into view. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt is clinging onto the back. The synthesized voice of Steven Hawkings emits from the wheelchair. "Where-are-we?-And-how-did-I-acquire-this-parking-cone?"
"Never mind that H, we need to get back to my place before the police catch up to us. Maybe trying to ram-raid the Co-op for some more booze wasn't a good idea after all."
"You're not in London any more Hawk, this is Edinburgh, you being an MBE sufferer won't stop them from kicking the shit out of you."
"I warned you about mixing your drinks H. You should have done what I suggested. For every drink of one spirit you have, have another of the same. Repeat until vision and mobility fails."
"That-is-alright-for-you-Ross. You-have-mobility-to-begin-with."

A Police car swings wildly around a corner in the middle distance. Sirens and flashing lights pierce the quiet streets of Edinburgh.

"It's good that you can joke about it H, but can you make this fucking chair go any faster?"
"We-could-try-the-Einstein-Rosen-Bridge-capability. It-has-never-been-tested-though."
"There's no time like the present Hawkster, hit the button and lets get the fuck out of here."

A small red light flashes on the arm of the wheelchair. Lightning strikes the chair and flames scorch the tarmac. The wheelchair flashes neon blue and vanishes...


It's a googletastic and thoroughly blogariffic thing.

How's that for a snappy title?

I think it's nice for a small posting to inform you of the latest, and I think rather groovy, Google search engine.

Google Blog Search.

Are you stuck for something to do on Saturday?

And will you be in the general area of Leith?

If you are perhaps you'd like to go to an arts fair.

Why not drop in.


Scotland the Whore.

I've been thinking about national pride over the last few days and I've come to the conclusion that being proud of your country is retarded

From an early age nationalistic pride is pumped into your mind and you're forced to swallow it like a cumslut in a cheap porno movie. You're taught the anthem, shown the flag and told to salute them both. And don't think for a second that I didn't swallow it either. Oh no, I ate that shit up with a smile on my face and asked for more. I waved the flag, sung the songs and tattooed my arm to prove it.

But what's the reason? Why is it that you should be proud of the place where your parents got jiggy with it once upon a time? Well, it's because it's easier to control a population when they're divided. It's an old Roman trick called Divide and Conquer. You've no doubt heard of it. If not then read this, and for the love of God stop jerking off to porn and use the computer in front of you for what it's for... Learning.

For example; Say I ran a country, as frightening a thought as that is, and I wanted to gain better control over my subjects, what's the ideal solution? Separation. These days it's easier to use sport as a way to separate people what with Sky TV and the like, but in the old days it was easier to divide the land and create warring factions within those divided lands. If a nation is divided it is easier to keep those without power arguing amongst themselves while the upper 1% keep all the money and riches.

Another thing that's pumped into your mind when it's still soft and is sufficiently underdeveloped to blindly accept everything that it told to it, is that you should know the history of your country. But, here's the rub... It's not actual history... Oh no, whatever religion/political body/false democracy/dictator/media mogul is in charge at the present time decides what version of history you get taught.

Only personal history should be recognized as truth. All other history should be disregarded. As Mark Twain said, "All history is bunkum." And so it is. When reading history you have to bear in mind that the writer, unless he/she was physically present during the period he/she is writing about, has only previous historians opinions upon which to base his/her opinions on. Ergo; Res Ipsa loquitur. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the thing doesn't speak for itself. Maybe I'll have to draw you a diagram. But I doubt it. You're clever enough to figure it out for yourself...

Slightly late and not what I intended. Festival report.

During the Festival, Edinburgh is alive with people from all over the world taking in the sights and sounds of this fair city. Tourists, journalists, comedians, artists and performers can be seen in many of the coffee houses and pubs. The city bursts to life in a dazzling array of colors and sounds that would make a synesthesia sufferer think someone had spiked his lemonade with LSD.

This year saw a strange lack of the usual energy that drives Edinburgh for the month of August. The stream of people making their way around the city centre had lost its similarity to an insanely colored Chinese dragon and had dwindled to looking as though it is no more than an average sunny day in Edinburgh.

There were, of course, just as many shows on this year and the ubiquitous luvvies in garish costumes still gathered on the high street. Whether touting the latest innovative and daring adaptation of Frankenstein, or handing out flyers for shows, they were there. Bright shirts and bright smiles all round. Assorted freaks stepped and strutted as though Edinburgh itself was their stage. And in amongst it all was me, wandering around taking in all the sights and sounds.

Wierdo magnet.

City residents, as usual, took all this guff and nonsense in their stride. The local police made allowances, looking upon half naked women juggling fire on a unicycle, with no more than a cursory glance and a wry smile. Local drunks staggered, swayed, swanked and swept as though seeing people in 18th century clothing sword fighting outside the Tron Kirk was an everyday occurrence. Street performers took no prisoners when teenagers interrupted their show. Crowds laughed and children in prams stared in wide eyed wonder. Shoppers struggled and strained to get out of shop doors. A five piece orchestra played classical music on Princes Street. And people from all walks of life lay lounging in the sunshine in Princes Street Gardens.

Normally, during the festival, the bandstand in Princes street gardens is home to the best free show in town. A myriad of people sit and listen to music and songs beneath the castle. On a sunny day workmen, office workers, tourists and residents all dance to the same tune. This year, however, the Gardens seemed a bit quieter than usual. No music was playing at the bandstand. The gates were closed and padlocked. The stage bare and bereft.

In a moment of madness I decided that the Bandstand should be used by at least one performer. So I jumped over the gate and walked towards the stage. I strode up the steps and onto the stage like a seasoned performer and walked confidently towards front of house. I took a bow to the invisible audience and yelled at the top of my voice "Hello Edinburgh!"

I did a little dance and took another bow. I felt I should at least sing something so I took a deep breath and let loose in my best singing voice the chorus to Always look on the bright side of life by Monty Python. I took one last bow and jumped from the front of the stage to make my way back out of the padlocked enclosure. As I jumped back over the fence a voice called to me. I turned and saw that it was one of the Edinburgh City Council gardeners who was yelling at me.

"You were on camera the whole time you were up there. There's security cameras all over that place." He said. I asked him why the bandstand wasn't being used for the festival and he told me that the Council department in charge of it was asking for too much money for the festival to use it. This I found surprising, as the Bandstand is always packed at festival time and the opportunity to generate income was surely easier than falling off a log.

What surprised me more was when the Council gardener told me that the Council department responsible for the bandstand were attempting to charge too much to a different Council department. I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders and said goodbye to the gardener. I wandered along wondering how it was that one Council department could prevent another Council department from using Council Property.

The next day as I walked along Princes Street I looked into the gardens to see that the stage was in use. A band was playing and people were dancing along to the music. I searched amongst the crowd for the gardener I had seen the previous day to see if he knew why the bandstand was in use now but I didn't see him.

Perhaps, I thought, my act of climbing the fence had been a catalyst for other people to do likewise. Perhaps there had been some musicians show up and begin to climb the gates in comradeship with me and that the Council had been forced by the sway of public opinion to allow the show to go on. Then I thought that I was making too much of it and stopped thinking I somehow had started a musical revolution by climbing a fence and doing a little dance.

I walked from the gardens to the High Street and stopped to get my picture taken with two policemen whose powers of observation I decided to test.

Idiots on parade.

As I stood having my picture taken, by my friend Steff, a tourist with a camera stood next to Steff and began taking pictures as well. Later, while walking to catch the bus home, Steff pointed out that technically I could say that I'd performed at the Edinburgh festival because of my stage show.

And I suppose he's correct. I can now say I've performed at the Edinburgh Festival. One day, I hope I'll be doing so again. And perhaps I'll have an audience...


Woman wanted.

Ok ladies here's your chance. The writer of this blog, which is me, is in need of female company.

I've been single for almost five years now. Five long years.

Five years, where the only sexual contact has been with either their hand or a hollowed out melon, isn't good for a man. Strange things can happen when you go that long without sex.

And I blame myself. Really I do. It's entirely my fault. Oh sure, there was a small outside influence in my Ex-girlfriend breaking my heart and leaving a hole so big I could feel the wind blow through it, but generally I'm to blame.

The problem is I'm too honest. When someone asks my opinion, and often when they don't, I let them know my exact feelings. There's no skirting around the edges of the subject, no sitting in the shallow end of the debate, no fucking around on the fringes of politeness, it's engage brain and let loose.

But the thing is that women generally don't like real honesty. Nope, they prefer their honesty sugar coated and watered down so that they don't actually hear the truth so much as skirt around it. Which in turn forces us men to do something we were not designed for... Thinking.

When a woman asks a question about her looks how is it possible for a man to answer with honesty and not seem like a heartless, degenerate pig. We can't. The reason is that we are, underneath the cool exterior that we show, heartless degenerate pigs. Plain and simple.

Take this example...

A former girlfriend of mine, who shall remain nameless, once asked me if I liked her tits. I, of course, told her that her tits were wonderful orbs of mystery and amazement to me.

She looked at me in the way all women look when they want you to be serious, you know the look, it's akin to the look of someone who has just won the World Lemon Sucking Contest and is celebrating with a nice big glass of chilled lemon juice, and asked me to be serious.

I sat up and paid attention. I didn't once let the fact that she was standing there naked with her tits in her hands, like they were Indian orphan children who needed emergency attention and I was the medicine man, put me off one bit and studied her ample bosom for at least two whole minutes.
"Well? Do you like my tits?" She asked.
"I think your tits are lovely. If I was the head researcher for a TV show entitled "The 100 Best Boobs in the World" your boobs would be top of my list." I said, smiling and hoping that she'd let it go before one of us got hurt.
"Ross, please, be honest. Do you like my boobs?" She asked, again.
"Ok then, honestly I think your tits are great... They're big, and I like big boobs. They're soft and cuddly and I love playing with them."

Then the world went quiet...

Traffic noise, which previously had been a cacophony of horns being tooted in frustration and engines being gunned in anger, fell silent. Birds, that had been singing in the trees so playfully, stopped chirping as though the apartment was haunted ground or the site of a recent UFO landing.

Then her face changed.

It went from the look I had grown accustomed to of beatific beauty to indescribable rage. I panicked and said I was sorry, even though I had no reason to be sorry and tried to placate her. Which was slightly more difficult than trying to placate an angry Mexican with a machete who has just come home to find his wife in bed with his favorite burro.

Then she screamed at me.

"I hate this about you... You can't be serious for one minute. You're always making jokes about things and when I want you to be honest with me you never are. Is that your idea of a relationship? Is that it? You think that it's all a big joke and that it's going to last because you can joke about everything and all the problems will just fade away? Well it doesn't work like that, I need you to be honest with me, I need you to know that whatever you say to me will be OK because I love you and nothing you could say will ever change that..." She said, impassioned.

I looked her in the tits, presumably because they had been bouncing quite sexily as she let off some steam, and then looked into her eyes and said... "Ok, you want me to be honest?"

"Yes, I want you to be honest." She said.

"The left tit is bigger than the right tit, your right nipple has a slight droop and when you lie down they fall into your armpits like a lost adventurer into an ice crevasse." I said.

The following day she dumped me.

So much for honesty in a relationship. So much for "Whatever you say will be Ok because I love you and nothing you say could ever change that" So much for all that... And all that, and all that.

So, if there is a woman out there who can handle that level of honesty then feel free to give me a holler. I'm a nice guy really...

Reviewed by Gencie Matone.


Change the music, change the movie.

Film Directors, when they seek to set the mood for a scene, often use music to evoke a certain emotional state.

Whether it's to increase the tension that you feel, or to get you on the edge of your seat before the ax wielding maniac pops out from the bedroom cupboard of an unsuspecting blonde and savagely murders her, music plays its part.

The music that you listen to on a day to day basis can also change your emotional state. For example; Someone who listens to Bach's' Prelude in G-minor will be a calm and easy going type of person who enjoys the country air and likes to go off on a shooting weekend with mumsie and pater. Whereas a person who listens to Derek and Clive get the Horn will say "Cunt" a lot.

I'm more of the latter than the former. I've never been on a shooting weekend and I can't stand Bach. But Derek and Clive? Now they're a funny pair of cunts. Ho ho...

I've been listening to a lot of Derek and Clive in the last week or so to try to lift me out of the slight funk I have found myself in. And it worked. Surprisingly.

So what did I do? I popped one of my comedy compilation disks into the drive and listened to some of the finest comedy in the world. Listening to the kings of the laughmasters lifted me from out my funk thereby proving that laughter is indeed the best medicine.


Whoever reads this first...

Please post a comment so that I can highlight you as being visitor number 8000 on this blog.


How bad do you like your movies?

Are you one of the legions of people who likes their movies on the bad side of shite?

If so I highly recommend that you check out the Robocop movie Prime Directives.

I've spent the last three days watching these movies and I can honestly say I've had more fun slamming my nuts in a door. Poorly acted and terribly written would be considered praise.

If you've ever wondered how you would feel having lost 375 minutes of your life grab the popcorn and sit down to this movie. Just don't say I didn't warn you.


Problems in the Gulf.

Hundreds of people have been killed in the Gulf in the last few days. And for a change it's not the Gulf in the middle east that's the killing ground. It's closer to home for George W Warmonger this time...

The devastation in the southern states of the USA has brought about many commentaries from all parts of the world as to why its taking so long to get assistance to those in need. The Mayor of New Orleans' impassioned statement demonstrated the human spirit in action whereas the actions of the President and Government agencies fall sadly short of sufficient.

To hear the Mayor of New Orleans, Ray Nagin, call for assistance Click here.

To help those in need Click here.

To impeach George W Bush Click here.


Optimistic Voices.

♫♪♫♪ You're out of the woods, You're out of the dark, You're out of the night. Step into the sun, step into the light ♫♪♫♪
And so begins a new day. All jolly and bright. Well, dark actually as it's 1:30 AM.

Gone are all thoughts of my previous depression. The cloud that hung over me is gone and the fog has lifted. Joy to the world! Hallelujah! Praise be to our lord Jesus Christ... Don't worry, I'm just kidding, I aint gone all religious on you so you can stop panicking.


Almost Dead...

At 11am this morning I rose from my bed and smiled at the bright new day ahead of me. My depression had vanished mysteriously during the night and I was ready to face the world again. I popped the kettle on and had a coffee while I booted up the PC to check my E-Mail.

After I deleted the fifteen E-Mails offering me Viagra at very low prices I pulled on a t-shirt and went to work tidying up my apartment. Whistling happily to myself I got tore in.

About an hour and a half later I grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom to have a shower. I stepped into the warmth of the water, reached for my razor, and began shaving. Which was when I saw it...

My first grey hair.

In a moment of disbelief I did a double take. Then yelled. "What the fuck! A grey hair!"

I stood staring into the mirror and cursed like a trooper with tourettes. I threw scorn and derision upon all the people in my life that could have told me that when you see your first grey hair you almost shit yourself.

As I stood talking to myself in the mirror, which I do quite a lot, I asked my reflection why it was that my Dad hadn't mentioned this to me in the past. There has been plenty opportunity for him to do so, so why didn't he?

Surely the trauma of discovering you have a grey hair is something that sticks in your mind. Why couldn't he have dropped a small warning into a conversation... "So son, how is work going? Are you keeping busy? By the way, before I forget, when you get your first grey hair you'll panic like a big fucking blouse and think your life is over..." Or something to that effect.

The the answer hit me. Revenge. No-one had told him what to expect when he got his first grey hair and he took it upon himself to pay out his revenge upon me. He no doubt remembered the shock and surprise of seeing his first grey hair. He must have. He's not senile... Yet.

It's akin to what happens when you bring your first girlfriend/boyfriend home and your mother pulls out the old photo albums and starts to show your first love pictures of you when you were younger. Oh sure, You promise yourself that when you have kids you won't subject your kids to the same ridicule, but as soon as you have a kid out comes the camera and you begin taking pictures. Not as mementos, as you tell yourself, but to have ammunition in the future for your inevitable payback.

It's a vicious circle. And I have a cure for it. From now on when I see someone who is young, sprightly and has a full head of hair that isn't flecked with grey I'll stop them for a few seconds and tell them in a hushed voice...

"When you discover your first grey hair you'll do one of three things, A; Panic. B; Scream. Or C; Both of the above... And by the way, doing that thing doesn't make you go blind."