#0100. BEING STUCK FOR ANOTHER EIGHT YEARS WITH A PASSPORT PHOTO IN WHICH I APPEAR TO BE WEARING A WHITE BOWTIE.

I'm serious -- if one more passport control official makes a comment along the lines of, "It's so nice to see young people who still get all dressed up for their passport photo," I'm going to punch them in the face.

Not literally, obviously.

#0099. GOING INTO A POUND SHOP AND BEING UNABLE TO MAKE A PURCHASE WITHOUT AT LEAST ONCE ASKING THE QUESTION: "HOW ABOUT THIS -- IS THIS A POUND?"

It's like the whole 'you're just as likely to win the lottery with the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6' thing -- no matter how many times you tell me that everything in the shop is a pound, I never quite believe it.

ME: "Excuse me. These batteries -- are they a pound?"

POUNDCITY EMPLOYEE: "Yes they are."

ME: "Great, thanks. (BEAT) How about the soap? Is that a pound?"

POUNDCITY EMPLOYEE: "Everything's a pound."

ME: "OK, brilliant. (BEAT) Including the shaving foam?"

POUNDCITY EMPLOYEE: "Yes! Including the shaving foam."

ME: "That's what I thought. (BEAT) Quick yes or no: blank DVDs..."

#0098. THE ONE PERSON WHO DIDN'T COME IN FANCY DRESS.

I wouldn't mind if that one person was me. In fact, I'd love it if it was me. But it never is. Ever.

No, I'm the person who didn't really want to go in the first place, but gets emotionally blackmailed into it, and is then promised that "everyone else is dressing up," and so reluctantly goes dressed as a giant baby, and then looks even more of a dick than he already did in contrast to the bloke he spends the whole night talking to who's just wearing a really nice pair of jeans and one of those cool tops with the little penguin logo on it.

The fucker.

#0097. MY COMMUTER FRIENDS.

Of all my friends I don't like, my commuter friends would have to be my least favourite. The entire basis of my relationship with these people basically boils down to this: we both use trains.

Recent topics of conversation have included:

- Trains: Expensive Or What?

- Trains: Unreliable Or What?

- Trains: Ah god, what was it... bloody... ah... yeah... trains though!

But I can still remember the day my friendship with Commuter Friend #01 reached its lowest ebb; that would be the day he talked me through his keys!

"Back door... front door... stationary cupboard... crook-lock... no, wait..."

I just sat there, staring straight ahead, praying for some kind of terrorist intervention.

#0096. SITTING IN A TRAFFIC JAM ON THE MOTORWAY, WHINING ABOUT HOW, THANKS TO SOME IDIOT, YOU'RE PROBABLY GOING TO MISS "ROSS KEMP ON GANGS"...

... then getting to the front of the jam and seeing the mangled wreckage of two family cars, and some people on the hard-shoulder crying, and a child's shoe on the road, and some blood with sand on it, then feeling a bit guilty and having to do the whole 'well that really puts everything into perspective/at least I'm still alive' thing, followed by a long, contemplative pause.

(Even though all you're actually thinking about is how you're probably going to miss "Ross Kemp On Gangs".)

(It was the one on the Yardies.)

#0095. "WOGGING."

A car park. You think you've locked your car, but you're not quite sure, so you go back to check. Now, you don't want to break into a full-on jog and yet walking just seems too slow. So you do this...

"Wogging" -- half walking, half jogging.

You'll note the seemingly casual exterior is tinged with the merest whiff of urgency, as though you're being chased by a four-year-old child whose play-fighting you find just a little too rough.

#0094. THE TROJAN SOUP.

You're in a Thai restaurant. You make your selection -- Kitsune Udon. It sounds nice. Some kind of noodle-based dish, apparently.

And then it arrives.

And -- somehow, someway -- it's a bowl of fucking soup.

See, nowhere on the menu did it mention the whole 'bowl of soup' thing. And I'll tell you why -- because if they told you it was a bowl of soup, no one would order it.

Hence 'the Trojan Soup' -- you only find out it's soup when it's too late. And obviously then you have to spend the rest of the evening pretending to whoever you're with that you knew it was soup all along.

"Mmm. Soup. Soup as a main course. Cannot be beaten."

Trojan Soup. What a bitch.

#0093. SAMURAI.

I fear I would've made a terrible samurai. And I'll tell you why -- to be a samurai warrior means to live by a simple code: death before dishonour.

And the thing is, I'm very much a 'dishonour before death' kind of person. I would honestly disgrace myself -- and my family -- in any number of ways before I'd allow myself to be physically harmed.

"You want me to sell out my own mother? OK, now that's not a problem or anything, but only if promise to stop shouting at me."

And that's why I would've made a terrible samurai.

#0092. MR. T AND THE HYPERINFLATION OF THE 'I PITY THE FOOL' CONCEPT.

On behalf of various corporations worldwide, Mr. T is currently pitying the fools who aren't:

* Playing World of Warcraft online.

* Regularly eating Snickers.

* Buying high-end Hitachi Data Systems service-oriented storage solutions.

* Wearing Hanes Double Tough socks.

* Downloading Blue Frog ringtones.

* Using Medeco keys. (I don't even think they sell these over here.)

It all just seems so arbitrary. There was a time when you really had to go out of your way to be pitied as a fool.

Nowadays you just roll out of bed, turn on your non-Hitachi Data Systems service-oriented storage solution, and you're already fucked.

Which just seems unfair.

#0091. PUTTING ON THE ADULT CHANNEL FOR A BIT, "JUST FOR A LAUGH."

Because here's what happens when one of your mates puts on some TV-based grot, just for a laugh -- no one actually laughs.

There's maybe a couple of nervous chuckles to begin with, possibly the odd, "Hello! Don't get many of them to the pound."

But then it all goes quiet.

And suddenly, you become aware that you're surrounded by your friends, and they've all got erections. And you then it hits you. This isn't ironic any more: you're just watching pornography with other men.

And that way, dear reader, lies the Circle Jerk.

#0090. GRAVESTONES WITH THE PHOTOS ON.

Wow. That's pretty creepy. It's as though the dead person is somehow trapped inside the headstone. Like your sweet old grandma got exiled to the Phantom Zone from Superman I.

I wouldn't trust my family to choose the right photo either. This isn't your average, everyday passport photo bullshit. They only last ten years. Gravestone photos last until the end of the world.

And however you want to look at it, that's quite a long time to be lying underneath a photo of yourself taken at Christmas in 1990 during your 'Chubby Goth' years.

#0089. THE FANTASY DINNER PARTY.

Which five historical figures -- living or dead -- would you invite to a fantasy dinner party?

Well, I'll tell you, since everyone's answer is the same anyway: Jesus, Elvis, Oscar Wilde, JFK, Einstein.

Brilliant. Five of the biggest show-offs in human history. I thought this was supposed to be my dinner party. I'm the one who's supposed to be showing off, not John F. fucking Kennedy. Oh, "Bay of Pigs" this, "Marilyn Monroe" that. Why don't you just sit down, shut the fuck up and listen to what happened to me when I was playing Call of Duty 4 online the other night?

And guess who's going to end up clearing the plates away? I'll give you a clue: it won't be Jesus.