Friday, 28 June 2013

Inadvertent Exposure.

I'm sitting outside a TK Maxx, which in itself is a frightful thing to be doing. I didn't go in, I promise you. I just happened to be there when a young gentleman of the Shoreditch twat variety, or Hipster, hoved into view sporting the latest in eighties retro hairdo, clothes and footwear.

The sight of him alone made me giggle to myself, but then something truly awful caught my eye. I didn't mean to be looking but once I had seen it I couldn't look away. His too tight skinny jeans were, how can I put this... deficient in the zip department, and he was going commando. Everything was on display like the proverbial last turkey in the shop window.

There were people about. Ladies may faint at the sight of this man's unfettered meat and two veg and could drop like flies, no pun intended. Something needed to be done... Swiftly. Just not by me. I looked around to see if anyone else had been unfortunate enough to have witnessed this act of inadvertent indecent exposure... Nope, just me then.

As is always the way of my life, he started to walk in my direction. Why me? Do I ignore it or tell him? It would certainly be funnier to ignore it and wait for the inevitable scream that would happen any time now from a passing lady of the fainting persuasion. But what do I say and how do I say it..? Should i do it quietly and politely with a well recognised euphemism like, 'you seem to flying low there old chap..' Or should i just go for it and...

"Oi..! You..! Your dick's 'angin' out you plank..."

Thank you white van man. Ever the stoical, down to earth and plain speaking modern Englishman. He was parked behind me with a mouthful of burger and a cab full of other builder types, laughing.

I mentally packed away my well worn euphemism and sense of British politeness. I guess it's not required any more.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Friday, 21 June 2013

The Gents Lavatorial Rule Book

A good blogging friend of mine, Scaryduck, commissioned a survey a while back into the toilet habits of the modern British male. Having been on the road for a few hours today, the time inevitably came when I would need to.. Err.. Relieve myself. There was a petrol station not far off so I decided that is where I would stop. Perhaps this story could go towards his lavatorial study...

Walking towards the gents door I noticed in my peripheral vision another man walking towards the same door. Having been here before, I quickened my pace knowing that the gents only had one urinal. If I get there first, he would have to use trap number one, not me. Those things are usually filthy in your average roadside gents lavatories and are to be strictly avoided unless you are in an absolutely unavoidable touching cloth scenario. I made it first with a few steps to spare and opened the door. The man followed in behind me. As we did so, I found to my horror that trap number one was engaged. There were two toilets and three blokes... This could go badly.

I stood at the urinal thinking that the man would do the decent thing by realising his gentlemanly faux pas and leave to wait outside. He didn't. He was about three feet behind me, unmoving. He sniffed. I coughed and stared at the wall dead ahead. You can't be in a small gents urinals and stand in silence. It's not the done thing, the rules of the urinals state that if one man sniffs then the other must cough, at least he knew that. Whoever was in trap number one remained silent, he too it seemed, knew the rules.

Maybe he was too shocked at finding out there was only one urinal and was too embarrassed to be seen by others walking straight out again. It would certainly look suspicious to any casual observer of the gents door. So I guess he stayed there frantically trying to remember the gents lavatory rule book.

Having finished my turn at the urinal I now turned to wash my hands and the full horror of the situation struck me. The tiny wash basin was directly next to the urinal, less than a foot away. If I washed my hands would the man stand next to me as he did his business? We would basically be touching each other at the shoulder, him peeing and me washing my hands. Under no circumstances is there to be any physical contact in a public toilet, it's rule number one in the gents rule book on pain of a potential beating by a stranger, or worse, an invitation to 'Go and observe the nearby badger set..' Also, there was a real danger of splashback or sidespray.

I prayed that he knew of his earlier mistake and would now show common bloke decency by waiting until I had finished washing my hands. Thankfully he did. I sniffed again, he coughed and trap number one remained silent. I took this a a sign that he understood the rules and was sorry for the earlier gaffe, a kind of bloke lavatorial audible sign language that everyone understands from an early age.
I turned and studiously avoided eye contact, again, another rule of the gents had been observed. I was relieved that gentlemanly lavatory honour had been restored as I dried my hands under the blow drier and left, but it was close. So very close.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Home Improvement, DIY And Will I Be Needing A Sponge With That..?

I found myself on an industrial estate yesterday. I don't work there and no, I wasn't looking for illicit drug dealers, prostitutes or a shady cash deal on a new washing machine from a bloke in a van with no questions asked and no VAT.

I was there to deal with another kind of man who strikes fear into my heart every time my wife says we could do with a new bathroom, kitchen, carpet or self assembly wooden contraption for the bedroom or hallway. The DIY showroom man. This is a man who expects me, as another man, to know what I'm talking about. I don't. Sexist stereotyping... That what I call it.

I was there to buy tiles for the bathroom and was confronted by a myriad of square ones, oblong ones, shiny ones and ones that glow in the dark. Rows and rows of the bloody things. The man asked, 'What do we have already?' 'Square ones.' I replied... 'On the wall. I don't know how they got there and they won't come off.'

'What size wall in square metres are we talking about?' He said... 'Bath length and width, all the way to the ceiling.' I said. The funny thing was, he knew exactly the size I was talking about.

'What sort of tile are you interested in?' He asked... 'Waterproof ones I guess.' I said, knowingly. 'Any particular design?' He sighed. 'No flowers, and don't make my bathroom look like a gents underground urinal, other than that we are good to go.'

At this point, my wife chipped in with the correct dimensions, design choice with border tiles, tile size and quantity. She then ordered something called tile adhesive and grout.

I meanwhile, pretended to be interested in a ladder that was for sale nearby while my wife and the DIY man talked flexible tile adhesive and whether we had a stud wall or solid brick and would she be needing a sponge. What the hell does she need a sponge for..? 'Oh, I see, and what exactly is a stud wall..?' I asked.

'Ignore him.' Replied my ever tolerating wife. The man nodded and gave me a look that said he deals with incapable idiots like me on an hourly basis. I fiddled with the ladder as if I was a ladder expert and that he had got me all wrong. It turned out to be a two stage extendable ladder with rubber footings for extra safety, perfect for window cleaning and gutter maintenance. I recoiled. If I had one, my wife would make me climb it and do the guttering, so I decided that we didn't need one.

My eye wandered around the showroom. Power tools, lighting, electrical goods and hardware. 'Do we need any Pozzidrive screws..?' I asked... 'No.' Came the reply. 'Wall flange support rods?' Again, no.

I found the coffee machine which I made good use of as my wife managed to get a ten percent discount on the deal for buying everything in one go. She even got DIY man to load everything onto a big trolley with wheels. I told him where my van was.

Job done. That was easier than I thought. Oh and yes, we are getting a man in to do the tiling. I will let you know how it goes, I think he's going to need my help when he discovers that my wife said we didn't need those wall flange support rods. I won't say I told her so...

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Saturday, 8 June 2013

The First Rule Of Bilderberg...

Yep, I'm going to link the all time greatest film 'fight Club' with the Bilderberg conference, which this year takes place in a hollowed out volcano somewhere in the Bahamas... Oh no, hang on... Watford.

By holding the conference in Watford, the world's elite hoped that their presence would be shielded by all the local news of binge drinking, hoodies and a world famous football club, but alas, the press found them out. Unfortunately, the first rule of Bilderberg is that you don't talk about Bilderberg, so details are somewhat sketchy.

However, my secret, inner resources at a nearby hostelry, tell me that the Bilderberg conference is in fact one big secret punch up between left and right wing leaning factions who ordinarily would not meet each other. Discussions take place of course, but the final settlements are reached by more physical means in the form of a bare fisted punch up in the bar following afternoon tea, and bouts of heavy drinking.

For those of you who may be a little skeptical, at the end of the conference, look closely at our Chancellor of the Exchequer when he returns to his duties at the House of Commons. He will have a face like a slapped arse. Then look at Ed Balls, his shadow. He will have a shit eating grin on his face for weeks knowing that he will be the next Chancellor in a few years time.

In other news, IMF Chief Christine Lagarde beat former Prime Minister Gordon Brown with a neat left hook and a kick to the groin in what was described as a grudge match.

Chairman of Shell Oil beat head of BP with a knockout blow resulting in a merger to create the worlds largest oil company.

Finally, President Obama, the official referee in such matters declared the Pakistan victory over the Taliban null and void, following heavy duty backhanders by MI6.

Tuesday, 4 June 2013

Getting On With Your Neighbours...

I have a theory. In fact I have many, many theories which could lead you to suspect I am sort sort of conspiracy theory nut job. I am not.

This particular theory is about serial killers and why, after being caught, the neighbours always say to the waiting press, "He was such a quiet man. Kept himself to himself..." It's because we don't keep an eye on our neighbours any more, that's why.

There is a reason why serial killers keep themselves to themselves and are quiet people. It's because they are quietly going about their business of slaughtering innocent people in their basements, and wearing their victims skin as a dress / underpants, whilst cooking brains with onions for their supper.

You never hear of the neighbours saying things like, "I always wondered what the blood curdling screams were about." Or, "I thought he was burying his bulbs a little deep, I never imagined he was actually burying the body parts of fifteen murdered prostitutes."

So next time you see see your neighbour with a wheelie bin, go and check the black plastics sacks inside. If you see him weeding the garden, ask if he needs any help to dig, his reaction will tell you all you need to know. Next time you are casually looking through their windows or letterbox, look out for bottles of chianti on the sideboard, it's a sure giveaway you're living next to a psychopathic cannibalistic killer.

My neighbour has, oh so politely, asked me to leave him alone, but I know what he's up to the fiendish bastard. A drop of red wine with his liver and onions? A likely bloody story. I never did like him, the freak.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Saturday, 1 June 2013

An Experiment In Destroying Cornwall...

I had a thought this afternoon. Dangerous I know, but bear with me for I believe that I can rip open a tear in the space / time continuum between Cornwall and the rest of the UK, along the route of the River Tamar. This should please the Cornish Independence Front, The Independent Front Of Cornwall and the League Of Cornish Independence no end.

Here's my plan. Next time i visit the South West, i shall collect one Cornish fisherman and one Cornish ploughman and place them in a room above a pub in Polperro. In a blind taste test, feed the ploughman a fishermans pie and the fisherman a ploughmans lunch.

Rumblings in the space / time continuum should appear after 10 or so minutes. To hurry things along, ask them to wash the food down with a Scrumpy shandy, 1 part Scrumpy to 2 parts lemonade.

The water in the River Tamar should at this point be boiling a blood red colour with sulphurous steam. Then the Coup-De-Grace for the Cornish fate should be applied.

Serve them a Cornish Pasty. Not your average meat and potato variety, but one filled with Italian Antipasti. A vortex should begin to appear somewhere over Polperro, resulting in a crack in the Earths surface along the River Tamar, breaking it away from the rest of the UK.

Job's a guddun. You're welcome Cornwall.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.