Oblong Scone

If there’s two lanes, and you want to go straight on at a roundabout, you should be in the left lane. Those are the rules, or rule as probably a singular one of them is called. Like with most roundabout approaches, the roundabout I'm going to talk about today( in what may very well be the first in a series of roundabout anecdotes that may later turn into a book and possibly a feature film starring Cher ) never has a queue in the right-hand lane. I don’t have the first idea as to what you'll see or experience if you take the right hand turn at the roundabout. What I do know is that it isn’t attracting the kind of crowds that straight on is. So in effect every work day, I like most others, am dismissing the ever present opportunity of turning right. Like a sheep, my only priority on my journeys to work is heading towards the office I work in. I say ‘like a sheep’, I’m of course referring to a sheep that can drive and hold down a job at an engineering firm; and to be fair I don’t...

I was left with no choice but to purchase fuel from a motorway service station on the M25 . And thus, being on a motorway, the price of fuel is considerably higher. Probably due to the difficulty of transporting petrol to places along a motorway, compared to say, obscure villages in Cornwall. I pull into BP and am rather horrified to see that Diesel is going to set me back 114.9p per litre. This is over seven pence more per litre than I have even spent on fuel. This is, without doubt, a complete fucking con. Those of you thinking that BP hadn’t predicted their customer’s annoyance to outrageously priced fuel would be wrong. One of the world’s most profitable companies are all too aware of the hardship their prices are putting on the average Lionel in the street and thus as a sign of goodwill, are willing to practically throw free money at their customers. So when I pick up the nozzle, my eyes are drawn to their big promotion, their giving back proudly plastered all over the fuel pumps...

They know when the line is to be delivered, and demand a subservient silence from the waiting throng. If there’s a raised platform nearby they will quickly scramble to it, demanding any available lighting be concentrated on their primed and dignified face; a face ready to the deliver the line they are certain will elevate their social status to someone who could call the Queen their bitch. And then it comes: ‘I don’t watch soap operas’ they announce, back straight, eyes into a distant, better horizon. Usually they’ll further punctuate this by appending words such as ‘they’re all a load of rubbish anyway.’ It isn’t the fact that someone doesn’t like soap operas that annoys/amuses me. That is a perfectly sane and valid opinion to hold. It’s the insistence of some individuals to use their dislike of this genre of television as a boast and calling card. As if on hearing this startling insight, the recipients are suddenly going to reassess their opinion of this person; realise they’re deal...

There I was sat at my desk looking in the second drawer down, trying to cope with the realisation that I had run out of apples. One of which I would normally consume for a mid-morning snack. I think it was either Jesus or Father Christmas who said, ‘Apples are great’, and who am I to argue with such pithy truth from magical people. As another hour passed, I learned to live as a man without apples. By eleven, it was fair to say I had adjusted, was making the best of things. I even felt strong enough to make a humorous and unnecessary remark about Devon. I took a walk down to the canteen to purchase a cup of tea. Standing, ready to pay, I took an unscheduled glance towards the exit and noticed a bowl of fruit by the door, a bowl which contained a number of apples. With 35p racked up on the till, I asked that the price of an apple be added on so I could pick one up on the way out. This was done bringing the total up to 75p. My walk to the canteen exit was swift and untroubled. I approache...

There's a concerned, faintly embarrassed look on the barmans face as he comes back holding a still seeled bottle of lager and a half pint glass. 'I'm aftaid we don't have a Leffe glass is that OK?' he says, holding an identical unbranded glass up to the artificial light. His customer looks momentarily disorientated by the news, struggling to understand the implications of this announcement; slowly the awful reality dawns: This brave man, who's probably been slaving all day in the office; shaking people's hands, pressing 'Page up' on his keyboard; maybe even 'Page down'; faces the prospect of sitting drinking Belgian beer from a glass that does not advertise its contents. His right shoulder drops for a second as he analyses thoughtfully the substitute glass. He looks momentarily as if he's going to start negotiating a discount. Afterall, someone might later ask what he was drinking, causing him the indignity, not to mention waste of valua...

Shabby clothes hide dirty skin His eyes wont focus on anything. He holds the keys. Supervising nothing. Spouting advice. No one acknowledges him. He explains disapprovingly. That from the beginning of next week. A single lousy cycle. Will cost an extra thirty P. With his stained expression. He demonstrates piety. To the church of dissatisfaction. Of British society. And when we've all gone. Left him mumbling alone. He'll spring into action - lock the door. Never get home.

It’s quite quiet here. Tucked away in a little tree-lined street near the centre of the city. Two minutes away from every pub there’s ever been. Five minutes from a man who thinks he’s Jesus. He’s not Jesus, he’s not even called Jesus. Parents don’t tend to be that cruel if your mum’s not a virgin. ‘I’m Steve…I’m fucking Steve’ he’ll shout and noone has any reason to doubt his sincerity. But when they ignore him, when noone can even muster the tiniest flicker of polite interest; then he’s Jesus. When he addresses the traffic; when he wanders out into the middle of the road, arms outstretched, eyes skywards. When he talks to Vauxhall Novas, his disloyal metallic flock with alloy wheels and unrepentant beeping. When they take him away. And that’s what makes it quiet. When Steve’s gone and the streets are refilled with mortgages and semi-skimmed milk, motionless bus-stop standers and an unenthusiastic three-point-turn.

‘Snob!’ That was the accusation ejaculated at me. Me Matt, man of the people, defender of the working man. And why was this nasty remark so viciously lobbed at my fantastic face? A couple of times a week, one of the women from the office canteen will wheel around a trolley full of different snack based opportunities to purchase at your desk. I fancied a cup of tea so bought one. That’s the kind of snap decision people like me feel entirely comfortable with making. Two minutes later, a colleague who I rarely talk too, wandered past my desk with a face so incredulous, I took a picture of it and wrote the word incredulous on the back of it. ‘You paid money for that tea?’ he asked looking directly at the tea I paid money for ‘Yeah’ I said answering his question with the word ‘yeah’. ‘You can get tea free from the machine!’ ‘I don’t like the tea from the machine.’ ‘Snob!’ he said disgustedly walking off like a pocket-sized Liam Gallagher. That’s right I’m so fucking upper-class, I live in ...

"Ding-dong” The PA system comes alive, “Can Kate from the Mobile Phones department please go to the Mobile Phones department.” This is Monday night at ASDA, and Bristol is throwing lumps of everything into trolleys packed with lumps of everything . A short angry looking near-pensioner lady in a green jump-suit pushes past me quickly with her trolley, ushering her partner along with frantic head-movements. “Whatever happens I really need to get some butter!” she announces as if something's about to happen to cause this task to become an epic challenge. “Well get some butter then”, comes the disinterested but startlingly logical reply from a disinterested but startlingly logical looking husband. “You’re the one who spreads it on your toast,” she responds in a tone that indicates she believes spreading butter on toasted bread is the deviant act of a sex offender. “Not all of it I don’t!” comes an overly-hostile and rather disconcerting reply. And off they go, the trolley trusted ...

Popped to the toilet whilst in a bar on a Saturday night and it’s time to wash your hands: Got to turn the tap on…YOURSELF. Actually use energy from your own body to dispense water...the indignity! Then you have to summon the strength to push your hand against the dispenser to release that clean gooey fresh smelling soap gooey goo. If you're still able to stand you can again activate the tap, this time to swill your hands. Sounds hard work so far? Hold onto your desk, cause this next bit might just blow your bollocks off: An energy sapping four second walk to a hand-dryer!!! Yes this whole process does not cost you anything financially, but with only 190 calories in each of the four pints of lager you've had so far, this has surely been a reckless expulsion of valuable energy. At least this is what someone thought. Sometime, I don’t know when and I don’t know where, somebody saw this as a gap in a market. And that’s why, sprinkled throughout bars whose names begin with the word...

Good evening this is the ITN news at half-ten. Get ready for the ride. “One hundred and sixty five mile winds in Mexico” the newsreader announces. I make that five miles an hour more exciting than dull old one-sixty BBC. Now reporter Neil Connery’s reporting from Cacon, Mexico. He’s out in the storm with arms waving erratically, screaming at the camera as the water pounds down on his half-bald head. “Water falling from the sky“ he explains to all those unfamiliar with the mechanics of rain. “It’s bad, but it’s not as bad as was feared.” he concludes, the disappointment in his voice barely disguised. Bored of this now. Let’s switch to BBC 1. It’s Piers Morgan interviewing Abi Titmuss on ‘You Can’t Fire Me I’m Famous‘. She’s learnt so much through her experiences her hair’s now brunette. Venessa Feltz pops up to make a comment to the camera that doesn’t particularly make any sense and Piers tells Abi that shes makes the same excuses as a prostitute. Abi explains how all the people watc...

There’s no other shop like Debenhams. Well actually there is. And while you could now argue that the first sentence, while short and, in an almost drunken way, beautiful, has lost a great deal of its initial integrity, it sort of still says what I want it to. Debenhams has its own smell, its own wit, and a big enough selection of men’s clothing so as to make visiting any other clothes shop ever, totally unnecessary and, in actual fact, rude! What makes Debenhams different in my opinion (recently voted the seventh most important opinion ever by readers in the March 2007 edition of Opinion magazine ( a magazine for people with opinions.) ), is its ingenious staffing policy. Whilst there are the normal positions that every department store offers, Debenhams has a couple of tricks up their sleeves to ensure you purchase: Take trying on clothes for example. You’ve just tried out an item. You’ve done the five minutes of staring in the mirror arching your body around like an inebriated aerobi...

I’m going to Hell apparently, so I’ve been told. Told directly, not by someone shouting or screaming at me, but by someone who actually doesn’t want me to go there. So I’m headed there, not because I’m a bad person, but because I don’t believe. I don’t believe that Jesus is the son of God, and also part of God, along with the Holy-spirit, who is also part of God, as of course is the Father. Three of them, all distinct and at the same time all one God. You can see how difficult it’s going to be for me qualify for Heaven. And I know I sound like I’m taking the piss, but I really don’t know how to start believing, which I sort of want to do if it means I have the opportunity to avoid being thrown into an eternal fire. I do try, and I think I sort of did believe a bit until I bothered to look a little closer at the whole religion thing. Then I found that I really couldn’t, which is sort of the opposite of what’s supposed to happen isn’t it? God created the universe and the planet Earth, I ...

I open the door and take a quick glance behind. Now this glance is only to check that there is no one directly behind me. It’s not some grand commitment to hold the door open for whoever might next come along. But whatever the intention of the glance, it can bring with it clumsy etiquette baggage. The problem occurs when there is someone walking towards the door behind you at what is called middle-distance. That is they are stuck between two categories, these being, A) close enough so that it’s clear that I should hold the door open until they get there and B) being far enough away that I can move on and let the door close behind me without having committed any kind of social spunk. Trouble is, it’s not always immediately obvious as to which category the person may be in. Often the second taken to ascertain this may have moved them from category B to the dirty cusp of category A. Uncertainty means I often just have to stand there and bare it. Now you may be asking ‘Why is it a problem...

Forrest Gump said "Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you gonna get." Why do I mention this now? Don't expect me to answer that, I have no idea. I can barely remember my name or what my name is. Anyway, I've never understood what it meant. I'd never really spent any amount of time pondering it, although I'd always meant to set a side a week for intensive contemplation on the subject. And that week has just come and gone. I’m pretty sure that Gump was wrong. Things were different in 1994, but the way people handle boxes of chocolates remains unchanged. With a variety box, people are all too aware of what they're "gonna get". Hours of staring at the chocolate key sheet ensures the only surprise they experience while chewing on the selection they arrived at after hours of careful deliberation, is that an "Almond Surprise" delivers no specific 'Surprise'. Maybe the surprise was intended to be the presence of the...

I know when I need to buy a new toothbrush: When bristles are a distant memory and the minster for Pearly-Whites drops around because "he’s concerned about me". People have always told me I don’t talk about toothbrushes enough. I do find it a deeply personal area, but I shall somewhat attempt to redress the balance now. I can’t help but be baffled by toothbrushes. I do actively try to avoid bafflement, but bafflement comes so naturally to me, I always seem to be swimming against its tide. Drown. I’m not even talking about electric toothbrushes, I’m talking about the calorie-burning manual variety. I shiver at the thought of getting involved with the electric ones. All that shaking and holding thick handles, it‘s not right. We should fear them. And there I stand in Tesco Extra, a rack full teeth cleaning technology towering above me, asking me to give them a new home. I can only be confused, in fact sad, that things aren’t just a little bit simpler. Do I want to ’cross -stroke...

Lionel Blair's appearence on the 1980's best gameshow Bullseye. A legendary piece of footage by any standards. Obviously this is an early television outing for Lionel and he's a little unsure of exactly how the whole thing works. He has seemingly seen Jim before the start of the show and asked where the audience will be sitting, to which Jim has replied, "Don't worry I'll point them out to you as soon as you get on stage." As Lionel enters his fears immediately dissapate as he easily locates the audience and acknowledges them. Just as well, as Jim nearly, but doesn't, forget his promise. Audience located, it's time for business. The business of comedy: Lionel Blair is determined to crack Bowen. And a lesser man than Bowen would have cracked under the barrage of sharp wit from Britain's favourite celebrity dancer. Jim has held out though, and there's only twelve seconds of the clip left. Blair knows he still has one comedy gem hidden inside...

Sometimes I feel tired. Really knackered, not because I’ve done anything particularly strenuous or stressful just because because. And on these days I have no thoughts. I mean I can walk (lethargically) and mumble “Hello”. I can even just about scrape together a bit of what is called work. But there are no thoughts, the lights are not on and the bulbs have been removed. It’s a curious feeling. I can see things happening, but can make no judgement on what they mean. Often I’ll wander into shops and buy things like toothpaste, get home and realise that I can’t push my flat door open as it’s already over-packed with Aquafresh 3. I’ll be unable to follow the plot of an episode of Neighbours, I’ll get confused by celery. But I can lie back and enjoy it, as the actor might say to the…stare at the ceiling, feel all these little start-thoughts being born, bursting within a thousandth of a second in a hostile, sand-stormed brain. Simply nothing there, just a small crack in the ceiling…then it’s...

I’ve decided to become a tabloid entertainment reporter. That is the decision I have made. My finger is on the celebrity pulse more than anyone I know. I'm always hanging out with Hawkes and Thornton. I am so damn perfect for this job. So here’s my first column. I call it BLING BLING, cause the kids get it right? GIRLS ALOUD ARGUE OVER BUOY The five members of pop sensation Girls Aloud have been arguing over a buoy located just off the Blackpool coast. “I saw it first”, mentioned the dirty looking ginger one, “There it was bobbin on top of them little wave things. I wanted one straight away.” Girls Aloud are not the only ones to have been seduced by the latest celebrity craze; Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes have a buoy just off Southsea and Carol Vorderman was seen cosying up to one in Poole harbour. POSH SPICE IS THIN Posh Spice is most definitely thin my sources have been telling me. She’s not fat. SPOTTED Kate Bush stroking a dead cat in Leicester Woolworths. SPOTTED Michael Parkin...

Bank Holiday and Weymouth: There’s can be only one outcome. A whole town wading through a fermented Saturday. Every person, all ages and circumstances, joined together as a community bladdered, and it’s only just gone six. This is wasted Weymouth. We’re all at it, they’re all at it, and the dirty sun casts shadows through the windows of the fat grockles walking past. “This is my table “, says Ted pointing to a sign on the table saying ‘Reserved for Ted'. “They reserve it for me…for the football. Love the football...it's God's sport aint it? Some people reckon it's cricket, but I know, I can feel it. It's football I love....One hundred and twenty grand a week he gets paid…” Ted shakes his head, his bending yellow finger pointing accusingly at Sky Sports, “…for kicking a football around. I didn’t get that in my day” “Did you used to play football?” “Worked on the Shop-floor mate, all my life…never any good at football. ” And then the voice of the short bloke lost amon...