#0062. WEARING NOVELTY SLIPPERS WHEN NO ONE ELSE IS AROUND.

Because suddenly they don't seem quite so funny. On Christmas afternoon, in front of friends and family, you and your big comedy shoes are the funniest thing on planet earth. Two weeks later, alone in your flat, you're just a dick wearing a pair of fluffy monkey feet.

What no one takes into account when buying these is that bad things can still happen when you're wearing novelty slippers. What happens the day you get a knock at the door and the police inform you that there's been a fire, and that your parents didn't make it out it in time, and you're standing there, howling in pain while wearing a pair of giant furry shoes shaped like Tetley beer cans?

What happens then?

#0061. "I DON'T, NO."

"I don't, no" is an unfortunate verbal tic that I have. When asked a direct question, instead of just saying "No", I say "I don't, no."

The problem with "I don't, no" is that it sounds a lot like "I don't know." This has been a constant source of awkwardness throughout my adult life.

IN THE CLUB!

GIRL: "Do you smoke?"

ME: "I don't, no."

GIRL: "What do you mean, 'You don't know'?

ME: "No, I do know, and no I don't."

GIRL: "Look, have you got a lighter on not?

IN THE DOCTOR'S SURGERY!

DOCTOR: "Do you have a history of heart failure in your family?"

ME: "I don't, no."

DOCTOR: "OK well who would know?"

ME: "I know. No I don't."

DOCTOR: "So you don't know?"

ME: "No. I mean, "I don't, COMMA, no."

DOCTOR: "… Shall we just get mum in here?"

AT THE JOB INTERVIEW!

INTERVIEWER: "Do you have a job at the moment?"

ME: "I don't, no."

INTERVIEWER: "Oh, like that is it? What, are you waiting to hear back on redundancies?"

ME: "Oh for fuck's sake..."

Still, we all have our crosses to bear. OK, so it's no AIDS. But it does make phone-based questionnaires pretty awkward.

#0060. THE PERCEIVED 'SEXINESS' OF THE SAXOPHONE.

I hate the perceived sexiness of the saxophone. At some point in human history, someone somewhere decided that the saxophone would be the default instrument for all sex-music. And I really resent that.

I also resent the myth that there is anything sexy about watching a woman play the saxophone. (OK, apart from Abby from The Zutons.) The squinty face, the bulbous cheeks, the whole pursed lip thing -- yeah, really gets me going.

THE MYTH!

THE REALITY!

THE MYTH!

THE REALITY!

I think I've made my point.

#0059. THE R 'N' BEARD.

I refer specifically to those wafer thin, perfectly sculpted 'laser' beards as favoured by the modern soul singer; the R 'n' Beard. Because I'm telling you -- there isn't an honest to goodness man-beard in the whole of R 'n' B.

The subliminal message contained within the R 'n' Beard is as follows:

"A man of independent means, I am phenomenally wealthy. Unlike people with ordinary beards, I have no need to work a nine-to-five job. As a consequence, I can devote extraordinary amounts of my time to face-maintenance; specifically, the grooming and moulding of my exquisitely fancy whiskers. And ladies, if you think what I can do with a pair of electric clippers is impressive, wait until you see what I do with your tuppence."

Here's a simple rule of thumb: just say no to any beard that requires the use of a spirit level.

#0058. PEOPLE WHO LIVE NEXT DOOR TO SERIAL KILLERS.

Because they never see it coming. Just this week, serial murderer/rapist Peter Tobin was described by neighbours as a "real charmer". Then there was Fred West, a "quiet and lovely man" according to locals.

Fred West for fuck's sake. How did they miss this one? I mean, I could tell just by looking at his wedding photo. "There he is! There! The creepy-looking one with the curly hair!"

Just once I'd like to hear a serial killer's neighbour admit to not being surprised. "Oh yeah, he was always bumping people off. But that was Dave all over -- the man was a murderous psychopath."

It'll never happen of course. And I'll tell you why -- because when serial killers go house-hunting, 'moronic neighbours' is right up there with 'central heating' and 'good local schools' on their list of priorities.

ESTATE AGENT: "And that's your lot. Any questions?"

KILLER: "Just one, actually -- what are the neighbours like?"

ESTATE AGENT: "Yeah. They're pretty stupid. Both sides."

KILLER: "Right, OK. How about their powers of observation? Out of ten…"

ESTAGE AGENT: "Oh, like maybe a three."

KILLER: "Well, we've got a couple more to look at, but we'll definitely think about it."

#0057. PRISON.

I have my doubts that I'd survive the prison scenario. There are some things I'm pretty confident about. For example I've always had a feeling in my gut that, if I ever needed to, I could pilot and land a helicopter without any formal training. I'm 99% sure I could do that.

But prison, I fear prison may be my Achilles' heel.

Don't get me wrong, there's a lot to admire about the prison set-up. I like the fact that all prisoners have the same bedtime. Saves on any nonsense. Like you'd never get your cellmate rolling in at five in the morning, then waking you up by really noisily making a cheese toastie. That's on the plus side.

Then there's the fact that prison seems to be the last remaining place where it's socially acceptable to bully someone just for wearing glasses. Which I have to say I admire.

It's just the whole 'lights out' situation that worries me. I'm a pretty big 'bed-reader', and to be honest, I wouldn't take too kindly to someone turning the lights off midway through a chapter.

Obviously this something I'd try explaining to the prison warden/governor. I'm just not 100% convinced they'd understand.

#0056. BANTER.

I loathe 'banter' in all its myriad forms:

1) Changing-room banter -- Which consists mainly of men, all in the nude, taking the piss out of each other while pretending not to notice that they are, indeed, all in the nude. (The fact that they're severely 'dick-blind' apparently makes them NOT GAY.)

2) On-stage banter -- Bands who insist on getting a bit of 'back and forth' going with their audience. Just shut up and play the single. You're an indie band, not a panellist on Have I Got News For You.

3) Work-place banter -- The very lowest form of wit. A typical exchange (where A = colleague, and B = a man wearing a woolly hat) might go something like this:

A: "Ah, god! Here comes old Hat-Face! Ah… What is it? … Er… Got a cold head, have you?"

B: "Not really, no."

So please, can we all just get back to being miserable now?

#0055. GOTHS WHO GO TO DISNEYLAND, THEN ACT ALL MISERABLE.

Look at little that goth boy. There he is, in the Magic Kingdom, standing in front of Cinderella's Golden Carousel no less, and yet still he's acting all miserable. I mean for Christ's sake, do these goths never lighten up?

In fairness, he's only a little kid. Maybe he'll grow out of it. Unlike, say, this man...

... who, judging from the whole 'check-me-the-fuck-out' nature of his pose, appears to have got Minnie Mouse confused with the bass-player from Nine-Inch Nails. Even his daughter's giving Mickey the shit-eye.

That's nothing. You haven't seen 'goths-who-go-to-Disneyland-then-act-miserable' until you've seen two dark princesses attempting to look all tormented while riding the MAD HATTER'S FUCKING TEA-CUPS!

Look at them, desperately trying not to have fun. I mean even Death has a laugh on the Tea-Cups.

If I was a parent going to Disneyland, I'd just leave my goth son/daughter in the car. Let them be moody in the Peugeot while I get my Goofy hat on and head for It's A Small World. Obviously I'd make sure to leave a window open.

Because remember folks: goths die in hot cars.

#0054. PEOPLE WHO MAKE MUSIC FROM RUBBISH.

Seriously, it's enough to put me off recycling. I'd just like some assurances from my local council that the next time I throw away an old saucepan, it's not going to turn up on Blue Peter a month later being used as a high-hat by some twat-haired Australian in a sleeveless top.

Because it's always sleeveless tops with these people.

And don't even get me started on Stomp.

#0053. THE 'I'M-NOT-YAWNING' FACE.

You're in an important meeting. You feel a yawn coming on. But you can't yawn. That would mean disgrace. So you strike on an ingenious idea: yawning while keeping your mouth closed.

Because then no one could possibly suspect that you're yawning. Never mind the fact that your entire face is stretching out like cling-film over a toilet basin, or that your eyelids are voilently flickering, or that your nostrils are flaring. You can't be yawning.

After all, your mouth is closed, so...

#0052. BREAKING WIND WHILE STANDING AT A PETROL PUMP.

Because I'm never quite sure if this is dangerous or not.

If I take the time to think about it, I'm pretty certain that my breaking wind isn't going to somehow ignite the fuel and spark some kind of chain reaction, thereby destroying everything in the immediate area. But there's always a moment of unease.

Until I know better, I'm angling mine away from the nozzle.

#0051. BUFFET ANARCHY.

The buffet is a lawless frontier. In this self-contained principality of modern dining, mired in a state of perpetual anarchy, anything goes. And that includes putting sandwiches and jelly on the same plate.

To bring peace and order to this -- the Wild West of food -- I hereby propose an EU treaty dealing specifically with the minutiae of Buffet Law, including but not limited to:

- 'Sweet and Savoury' embargo -- an immediate ban on diners placing main course and afters on the same plate. In short, no sweet item to share plate-space with any savoury item. (An exception to be made for cheese and pineapple.)

- The "Can I Just Dip In There?" principle -- an end to "just dipping in" to the buffet table to collect apparently forgotten or extraneous items -- i.e. a bread roll for nanny. If you've forgotten something -- back of the queue, arsehole.

- Satay's Law -- enforced adult-supervision on all buffet transactions of the under 16s; with particular regards to their over-consumption of chicken satay. The relative scarcity and subsequent high value of chicken satay in the buffet economy renders this seemingly draconian measure something of a necessity.

(Obviously I have more of this if anyone's interested.)

#0050. HOLLYWOOD NUNS.

"The Hot Nun" -- Hollywood's biggest, most enduring lie. If you're going to take anything away with you from today's blog (and I really don't think you should), let it be this -- there are no hot nuns. The last nun I saw was a bespectacled sixty-something with a body like a condom filled with porridge. (No offence Jesus.)

I'd go as far as to say there aren't even any remotely young nuns. (Although now I think of it, 'Young Nuns' would make a great wild western religious-based porno film. I see it as a companion piece to my other godfearing skin-flick, 'Monks in Trunks'.)

Sister Act had it about right -- the hottest nun is roughly as hot as Whoopi Goldberg.

Hollywood -- let Whoopi be your nun ceiling.