Thursday, 31 May 2012

The Secret Smoker

I've had yet another submission for the blog! This one is from a strictly anonymous source. Normally I would insist on some form of identification, but I felt the quality, and general hilarity warranted publication.

So, have a read, maybe have a think about who it is, but keep your guesses to yourself-
The Secret Smoker

I should start by saying that if you are under the age of 16 (or is it 18 now, who gives a shit, only 30+ read this anyway…), that smoking is illegal. You probably aren’t going to prison for it, but you probably will end up snorting crack in an alley in south-east London, so DON’T START!

Now the compulsory disclaimer is out of the way (minus a picture of some withered lungs) I will give you an overview of a very secret, clandestine lifestyle, that won’t make you any friends, but will keep you on your toes every day of your life. The lifestyle of the Secret Smoker.

Some background. I started smoking at University, so managed to dodge those rebellious teenage years behind the bike shed. In fact, I dodged virtually all rebellion as I was too busy playing The New Zealand Story on my Amstrad CPC 6128. But at university, the crowd I hung around with had a mix of smokers and non-smokers, so there were always people to crash a fag off. And that is how it started. Crashing a fag here, pinching one there (while drunk) turned into buying a pack of 10 for a night out so I didn’t become a habitual fag bagger. This is not a good rep to have among smokers, as you eventually become a giant pain in the ass and they all want to put cigarettes out on your flesh.

So a pack of ten, turned into a pack of twenty, and sometimes there were one or two left over in the morning, so hey, why the hell not.


Smoking is so fucking addictive it is ridiculous. It is a sly bastard too. Those cheeky fags become a regular thing, and before you know it, the monster of addiction has you in its fiendish clutches. And once your cruel master has you wrapped within its tendrils of smoky goodness, that’s it. Game over.

You know you are addicted when the cigarettes run out. And you want one. And against all god given reason you walk at high speed to the nearest shitty corner shop and splurge your student loan on overpriced death sticks. You know it’s wrong, but hey, FUCK YOU! Too late you stupid prick, because the Fag-Fiend has you and he has you until the day you die.

So cutting to the here and now. I no longer smoke. I am not a smoker at all. I slag off smokers as idiots who want to end their days in a coughing fit of blood and mucus. As far as my wife is concerned, I have not sparked up for a long, long time.

But I am one. I will always be one. Because while smoking is disgusting and it ruins your fragile body, it is so fucking good to have a cigarette.

My friends think I am now a non-smoker. I gave up years ago and have carefully maintained this fa├žade. I am embarrassed about my smoking because if people knew about it, they would think less of me. My work colleagues are unaware for the same reason. And my wife. If my wife knew that I am a secret smoker, she would probably divorce me. She hates smoking, and is determined that I will also share her beliefs that it is so very wrong. And I do. I know it is bad, but I cannot stop. So I do it in secret, and here is how I have got away with it for so long.

1.       Smoking Smells

This is the toughest problem to deal with. Smoking does smell, and if you have had a cigarette, you need to be aware that it is acutely obvious to non-smokers. Your own senses are deadened to the foul reek, so you need to take extreme precautions to keep it hidden. There are ways around this, and it takes a will of iron to not fall foul of Smell, the number one pitfall for the secret smoker.

Do not smoke when you will be around people you want to keep it hidden from you sneaky bastard. Just don’t do it. At all. Ever. You will fail epically if you try and have one in a 15 minute window when the missus has gone to get milk. You will want one, and you will see the opportunity to have one, but for gods sake hold the line! You need at least a 45 minute clean up window. Make sure that the people you are deceiving are going to definitely, absolutely, 100% be out of the picture for at least 45 minutes. Otherwise the game is up my friend. If the 45 minute time window is secured, then go for broke! Do it quickly! Make sure you have maximum time left for your breath and clothes to shed the dirty smoky fragrance.

You may find it useful in the clean-up window to have one or more of the following products available – mouth wash, toothpaste, tooth brush, a can of Monster (the smell overpowers even smoke), chewing gum and most importantly, ventilation. All of these will help you shed the stench.

Also, do not forget your fingers. After a sly fag, you will have stinky digits, especially your index finger on your smoking hand. If you have suspicious parties present, they may decide to sniff your fingers, and if they do it’s all over. Wash your hands and wash them well with fragranced soap. You should of course do this anyway, but hey, this is a man blog and all of our hands probably contain at least some trace of sweat, MRSA and Ginsters products, because we are filthy men.

2.       Enclosed spaces

Never, ever, ever smoke in an enclosed space. This is an instant game over. The smell will linger, and you my clandestine friend are a stubbed out rollie, waiting to be swept into the filthy gutter of nicotine hell.

An honourable mention here goes to the car. Don’t smoke in your car ever, but just be wary. If you have a smoke while off out somewhere, be careful to let your breath settle before getting back in to your man machine – cars are extremely tight spaces and will stink of trace smoke for days.

3.       Disposal

This is a real challenge, because stubbed out cigarettes stink. So, throwing out that used butt directly into the kitchen bin is a no go. So where do you put it? Throw it over the garden wall? Fine, until there are 50 butts behind your house and a pesky neighbour comes around to complain. Busted.

Toilet flush is an option. This works well for rollies which normally flush first time, but be careful with normal fags. Those filters are like buoyancy aids for GI Joes’ and will pop right back up into the pan at the first opportunity. Also, be careful if the toilet you use is in an enclosed space. That lingering smell is your biggest enemy and somehow it can make an unwanted reappearance from the toilet depths at any time.

It’s a pain in the ass, but the best way is to take the stub and throw it into a bin miles from your house. You obviously cannot smoke near the bin as someone might see you (busted), so you need to finish that bad boy in secret, and head to the nearest local disposal unit once the smoke has cleared. It’s a pain in the ass, but you need to maintain rigid security detail at all times.

4.       Storage

Now this one has taken me a long time to get right. Many close shaves, and the occasional minor discovery (Rizlas, filters, lighters etc..) have helped me hone my skills.

You can’t just store your smoking stash in your underwear drawer. You cannot in fact store it anywhere that is used by you or your family. And this doesn’t leave many options. At one point I considered buying a safe, even pricing a few up on Amazon. But if my missus discovered I had a safe, that bad boy would be cracked in minutes, not because of her awesome Michael Caine style skills, but because she would demand I opened the thing and dig her heels in until I did. Or get her father around with a blow torch (for my kneecaps).

So keep it moving. Move that stash like the cops were after it. Rotate your spaces. Find hidden nooks and crannies that only you would think of. And then remember that people will think of them too, or discover them by accident. Move that stash!

I stored some Rizlas once, within my insurance documents drawer. The wife would never look there surely… A timely visit to Sheilas Wheels on her iPad and there she was digging through my insurance drawer and asking me why the fuck Rizlas were in there…. Anyway, I got away with it that time with a rather astounding story, but you can never be 100% sure your stash won’t be found. Keep moving it, and don’t forget where you left your stuff. That’s just stupid.

         5.       Safe Havens

Nowhere is 100% safe for the secret smoker. You may think it is, but it isn’t. There is always trace evidence to clean up and deal with so even if you are not caught in the act, that trace of ash on your lapel, or the burn in your car seat might just be the end of your filthy habit.

However, some places are safer than others, and this safety factor rises incrementally with distance from home/work/people you know.

At 5 miles from base, you are reasonably safe. So smoke one up, and get the clean up operation in full swing. Be wary of onlookers and keep it discreet.

20 miles – hey, this is pretty good, smoke like you were going to die from it (you are). However, people you know still live this far away, so just tread carefully. Smoke that bad boy just off the beaten track and you should be fine.

100 miles – fuck it, have two. These opportunities happen rarely so make the most of it.

Don’t forget, no matter where you are NEVER get photographed smoking. It doesn’t matter if you are smoking a hash pipe in an opium den in Bangkok while being sucked off by a ladyboy, if that photo ends up tagged on Facebook, distance won’t matter. Your secret smoking career is fucked.
Finally, enjoy your lifestyle choice. You have actively chosen to lie to those close to you, and are constantly at risk of being found out. The punishment may be severe, but you know what…… that’s what makes the lifestyle of the secret smoker worth it. It’s a thrill. It’s fun. It’s fucking scary sometimes. If you smoke regularly you lose the headrush, but a secret smoker sometimes goes for days without a fag, and hell yeah, that headrush comes back with a vengeance…..!

Never ever break the rules above. If you start slipping, you’re gonna fall. Go out of your way to dispose of your smelly rubbish in a secure and invisible way. Keep your packet of fags hidden in ridiculous places (a tight removable brick in my garage was a favourite, but my dad loosened it – he was supposed to be mowing the lawn. Your hidey holes always get found eventually). Be prepared to take out a mortgage extension to cover your Extra Strong Mint obsession. Learn Solid Snake style moves to keep hidden from neighbours peering over your garden fence (but never smoke in a cardboard box). Accept the downers, when that 45 minute window closes with a slam as the wife can’t be bothered to go to the gym tonight… you were so close to that smoky goodness! And then enjoy a leisurely 100 miler the next day.

Live with the excitement that planning your next secret smoke will bring. It’s a hard lifestyle, but it’s worth it.

And just remember, it’s tough going but….. never give up (at least until lung cancer strikes).

Feel like writing something like this for the blog? You can do so here.


Thursday, 24 May 2012

Man Thanks

When normal thanks isn't enough, you need 'Man Thanks'.

Do you need to find a way to express your gratitude beyond the restraints of a curt 'Thank You'?

Struggling to convey the emotion of the situation, whilst avoiding any girly connations?

Look no further. Learning the four techniques below, you'll be able to not only give thanks, you'll be giving Man Thanks.

Technique 1- The High Five.

Uses- Spontaneous celebration and thanking. Used for rapid expression of gratitude.

How to perform- Maintain eye contact with arm raised. Your aim is to have your arm fully extended and elbow locked at the point of impact.

Tips- At the last moment focus your site on the target palm. This will ensure a solid connection.

Things to avoid- Miss-fives, or high threes. There's nothing more embarrassing than mis-hitting a high five. Leaving someone hanging is also criminal. It's not yet punishable, but I'm lobbying for a mandatory prison term.

Technique 2- The Fist Bump (never refer to it as 'fisting').

Uses- Lower key, subtle thanking and acknowledgement.

How to perform- A knowing smirk normally precedes the fist bump. Offer the fist at roughly shoulder height, with a crook in the arm.

Tips- You're looking for reasonable contact, without punching.

Things to avoid- Referring to it as fisting. Bringing the fist down, rather than forward.

Technique 3- The Chest Bump.

Uses- Thanking and celebrating moments of high elation, often associated with sporting achievement.

How to perform- Again eye contact is crucial. Timing is also important. This is a pure demonstration of organic, spontaneous symmetry.

Tips- Don't under cook it. The impact should force, you and your fellow bumper, backwards.

Things to avoid- Tilting your head in the wrong direction, this can lead to it looking like your going in for a kiss. Also avoid stumbling. This takes away from the majesty of the event.

Technique 4- The Man Hug

Uses- The purest form of man thanks. It's also the most emotional. This can be used in lots of situations, but overuse can dilute it's significance. Weddings, funerals, promotion of football team, relegation of football team, death of a heroic dog, farewells the wrong side of ten pints, and occassionally after a long absence are acceptable uses of the man hug.

How to perform- Brevity is essential here. This technique does not need an extensive duration, such is its power. A firm double hand slap hug, follwed by two firm slaps (hand slightly cupped) on the back is all that is required.

Tips- Avoid eye contact during. Break immediately after. Lean in at the waist, there's no need for your lower half to get involved.

Things to avoid- Maintaining the clasp too long. Over patting.

Feel like writing something like this for the blog? You can do so here.


Wednesday, 23 May 2012

New Starters - The Unofficial Guide

I've been a new starter a few times and over this period I've picked up a few observations.

No matter what company you work for the 'official' documentation and procedure never quite matches what you actually experience.

So for all you new starters, or HR reps, here's a slightly different look at a guide for new starters-


No matter where you go or what you do your first month is quiet. For a lot of the time you'll be twiddling your thumbs desperately trying to earn your wages.

This isn't your fault. It's simply that difficult period where you try to get up to speed. All you want to do is be self reliant and fill your day, what you actually do is pester people with questions that seem trivial at best.

You have two options-

1. Deal with the guilt and catch up on your emails.
2. Dive in, go it alone when perhaps you shouldn't, and make the odd mistake.

Either approach works, and by the end of the first month you'll know enough to fill your day. You'll find yourself wishing for that first quiet month again.


You read the job description, you loved it. You had the interview, bit different to the job description, but still good. You start work and you quickly become aware that maybe things aren't quite what you expected.

This maybe a surprise, but shouldn't be. It's all part of the fun of starting at a new place. Knuckle down, wash those dishes and make good tea, and one day you'll get that desk.


Should you login? You're sure every else does, but you don't know how stringent IT check weblogs. Like most people when you start at a new place you assume they monitor your every move. Quickly it becomes apparent that they don't.

Rule of thumb is keep it to lunch times, and don't take the piss.


You've established a complex web of online relationships with people you never speak to. You consider yourself a guru, and part of your work is to touch base with this myriad of connections to make sure you're up to speed.

However, in your new job this is not allowed. You start clucking within 20 minutes. As soon as you can create that tenuous link to social networks for your work role the sooner you'll have free reign. Just be careful what you post and like.


You like tea, your colleagues like tea, the only trouble is there are so many of them. This is a bite the bullet situation. Dive in early doors and do a massive round. It'll pay dividends.

You'll set yourself out as someone who likes tea and should be included in offers. Also the memory of the massive round will keep you in credit for your first couple of days.

Don't keep this up. Quickly develope a small 'tea union' of people who sit in your vicinity. Everyone else? Fuck 'em.


Men shit at work. If you hear of a women doing so, it's the first sign of the apocalypse.

So we know we're dealing exclusive with the chaps and despite many documents describing the various work shitters, there are broadly three-

1. Loud and Proud. He doesn't care who knows and will happily describe the experience to anyone. These chaps have it easiest in the long run because they are the quickest to be ignored.

2. The safety dropper. He doesn't mind going, but likes to do it under conditions that suit. He'll go at lunch times or at other times when footfall is at it's lowest.

3. The haven seeker. He will only brown out in safe comfortable conditions. This goes to the extent where he will seek out toilets off site if necessary.


Your start time is 9.00, your finish time is 17.30. However you'll quickly note that most people actually get to work at 8.30 and leave at 17.45.

You now have a choice to make, make a stand and arrive at the designated times, or step in line. One will result in secret whispers behind your back.


You get to your desk and there's an overly friendly chap. He's giving you advice, telling you the lay of the land, and generally being a bit to clingy.

You've made friends with the 'old' new guy.

There isn't one in every office, but essential it's a chap that hasn't quit fitted in, can't get an out, and now needs a power base. Be polite, but avoid if you can. He'll quickly start every conversation with 'they're a nice bunch, but'.


There are two types of ex memebers of staff who are still talked about. The chap that leaves under a cloud and is only spoken about with 'fuck' (or a common derivative) preceding or following his name.

The second is the hero who left because he had to. Everyone still sucks his metaphorical cock, and the chances are you are his lowly replacement. Forge your own path and try not to get retroactively angry.


Office are funny places to work. All have the own nuances with what is and isn't allowed to fly. You might have joined from an all male environment where casual sexism is acceptable. This may not be the case in the new place, so bide your time before starting jokes about washing up, ironing, or rag week.

Feel like writing something like this for the blog? You can do so here.


Friday, 18 May 2012

Shakespeare with c*nts

I was bored the other day, and my mind wandered as it does. I started to think about those classical literature, zombie mash ups and realised that this idea could be developed.

Being the childish and coarse individual that I am I thought what could brighten up some of the dreary texts I read under duress at school. Thus "Shakespeare with c*nts" was born. I'm surprised no one in the adult entertainment industry has thought of it.

So before we get into it, a few important points.

-Ladies, and the easily offended: I apologise this is a post that glamourises and overuses one of the harshest profanities in the English language. Unfortunately for you most men find this term amusing. As a token of acknowledgement I'll be using a complex code system.

-Code key: "*" = "u"

-Pronounciation: After some study I have found that the two most effective and satisfying ways of sating c*nt is as follows (phonetic pronounciation in brackets);

Thick Yorkshire accent. For some reason those that hail from this region can really express the hate required to use this term correctly. Not only that but the varied and frequent use means it rolls of the tongue quite naturally.

c*nt (kern-tuh)

East London villain accent. Said in the right way it cuts like a knife. Commonly heard during road rage incidents and at football games (and the odd Guy Ritchie film).

c*nt (can-tuh)

So now you know how to say it lets look at just how good Shakespeare gets with c*nts-


The famous scene where Hamlet checks out a skull-

Let me see, you c*nt.

Takes the skull

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, the c*nt, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell
me one thing.

What's that, my lord, you c*nt?

Hamlet throws a fit at Ophelia-

I was the more deceived.

Get thee to a nunnery, c*nt: why wouldst thou be a
breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest;
but yet I could accuse me of such things that it
were better my mother had not borne me: I am very
proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at
my beck than I have thoughts to put them in,
imagination to give them shape, or time to act them
in. What should such fellows as I do crawling
between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves,
all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.
Where's your father, the c*nt?

At home, my lord, you c*nt.

Julius Caesar-

A soothsayer warns Caesar-

Beware the ides of March, you c*nt.

What c*nt is that?

A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Set him before me; let me see the c*nt's face.

Caesar is slain-

Et tu, Brute, you c*nt! Then fall, Caesar.


Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets, you c*nts.

Anthony addresses the crowd-

Friends, Romans, c*nts, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, the c*nt, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The c*nt Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest--
For Brutus is a c*nt;
So are they all, all c*nts--
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.

I could go on, but you get the point. Plus it would get boring. Also, you know what, this isn't as funny as I thought it would be. Still you live and learn.

What do you think? Could the word 'c*nt' jazz up any other form of entertainment? Or another profanity for that matter? Feel free to comment on this drawn out rubbish below.

Also, do you think you could do better (let's face it, it won't be difficult)? If so you can submit your effort here.

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Amsterdam – A Survival Guide for the Modern English Male Tourist

This is a first for the Man Blog, our first female contributor! Some of you maybe scared by this, but don't be, listening to women can pay dividends.

So to paraphrase Kuato from Total Recall (the good one, not this new shite): 'Open you mind'-

"Despite being in full possession of a uterus (and related female paraphernalia) I would still like to contribute to the man blog and vent my spleen on the topic of male English tourists in my fine city of Amsterdam. These men need guidance....urgently.

Amsterdam – A Survival Guide for the Modern English Male Tourist



Woo hoo. You and your mates have arrived in Amsterdam. You’ve pulled up at Centraal Station complete with tattered adidas holdall, hilarious personalized T-Shirt (eg Guildford Alcohol Disposal Squad...ahahahaaaaaaaa), half-finished can of beer and the overwhelming desire to repeatedly bray out the name of whichever member of your group is lucky enough to be getting married/one year older. STOP. You’ve done well to get this far, don’t drop the ball so early in the game. You can see a coffeeshop from the station but that doesn’t mean you should immediately rush in, order 6 joints with a manly name like ‘AK47’ and then proceed to quickly inhale them. There is an invisible wall in Amsterdam. It exists about 40ft from that coffeeshop. Once you reach it all 6 joints will hit you and you won’t know who you are, where your hotel is, or why your hand seems to be moving so very very very slowly. I’ve known english tourists to spend their entire weekend curled up in a fetal position next to that wall. Sobbing.


bad idea

Different rules, different game. In the UK the beer is about 4%. You can merrily down pints and play beer games without angering the vomit gods. In Amsterdam the beer is between 8% and 20%. You drink it like you’re in the UK and a mere 4 hours into your trip that lovely personalized T-shirt will be covered in vomit. And you don’t have a spare T-shirt do you. And you want to be part of the pack don’t you. So you’ll keep the vomit stained T-shirt on, effectively creating and maintaining a 10 foot anti-girl cordon that your friends won’t thank you for. If you’re very unlucky you’ll become the one who gets left behind. …the one sitting on the steps of a random dutch church at 2 a.m, looking lost and trying to chant the name of his football team for no discernible reason.



For many people a holiday isn’t a holiday until they have sampled the local cuisine. Those people haven’t been to Amsterdam and if they did I would absolutely piss myself watching them eat bitterballen and lukewarm sausage baps out of a vending machine. There are great curry houses in Amsterdam, and some all-you-can-eat Sushi bars that will make a man of you. Be wise, do your homework.


floppy hair

Let’s be honest. You will be getting drunk, stoned, and will probably end up covered in vomit (which may or may not be your own). At a fairly early stage of the evening your conversational ability will be reduced to shouting and producing complex hand gestures to indicate that you would like another beer. Dutch women do not want to talk to you. You see, Dutch men take care of themselves. They have long floppy highlighted hair. They iron their clothes and smell like sandelwood. They make you look like some scary Neanderthal who has invaded Amsterdam with the sole intention of being sick on everything. There is only one type of woman in Amsterdam who has any time for you. And that time costs money.



You have three choices for transportation. You can walk, cycle or use the trams. Using the trams is fairly straightforward although there are four doors, only one of which can be used to get on. If you pick the wrong door every Dutch person on the tram will mock you and the conductor will shout at you to get off and try again. I’m not sure what the English equivalent of this is, but suffice to say the Dutch never tire of the hilarious ‘he used the wrong door’ routine and being on the receiving end may make you feel a teeny weeny bit punchy. If you choose to rent a bike (or buy one for ten euros from a junkie) you will experience what it is truly like to be king of the road. Bikes rule in Amsterdam. They can do no wrong. You can (and will) cycle anywhere and anyhow. It will be sweet bliss up until the point when your bike is stolen or you end up wobbling into a canal. If you choose to walk, good luck. If a cyclist doesn’t hit you a tram will.



Woo hoo again. You have found the Red Light District. You’ve been really excited about this bit of the trip but now you’re here you are slightly concerned by how busy it is. In fact it is crammed with tourists, many of whom look a lot like your parents. Your only possible reaction to this embarrassing situation is to increase the amount of braying and backslapping within your group to near seismic levels in the hope that all this inflated camaraderie will somehow hide the fact that you simply can’t stop staring at all the boobs. You now have three choices ahead of you. Choice one is to keep contact with the ladies down to some cheerful banter, sexual innuendo and frantic window tapping. Well done, you’ve managed to look like a manly man without catching something with a long name and an even longer list of symptoms. Choice two is to get a bit carried away and conduct a full transaction. Henceforth your mates will call you ‘dirty shagger’ and this story will be retold on your wedding day. Your mum will never look at you the same way again. Choice three is to attempt to creep back to the RLD unaccompanied at some crazy hour in the morning to conduct said transaction in full privacy. You will suddenly realize that without the tourists the place is scary as hell and one or more pimps are already planning to rob you.



I’ll be honest; nobody really likes you being in Amsterdam. You’re loud, drunk and you smell of vomit. Eventually this sense of being unwanted may permeate through the drug and drink addled haze and you may want to head somewhere where you are always welcome. That place is the Bulldog bar, a mecca for English tourists who only want to socialize with other English tourists while listening to English music in an English bar. It’s like walking into a really rough Yates Wine Lodge, albeit one with a surprising relaxed attitude towards the smoking of marijuana.

I hope that this guide has enlightened and informed. I think it should be required reading on any easyjet flight between England and Amsterdam. I’d ask them to print it on the back of the safety instructions but I think we all know the target audience has no intention of ever reading those." 

Big thanks to Sarah (who is a resident of the fair city) for that. Handy information for those looking to impress in Amsterdam.

If you feel the need to rant, you can submit one here.


Thursday, 3 May 2012

Sunglasses- accessory, or mark of a twat?

Unbelievably someone has actually decided to submit something to the man blog. To paraphrase football pundit and professional sexist Andy Gray- "Take a bow Jim Green"

Jim, or James, Green is a regular follower of the man blog and a blogger in his own right. You can read his blog here.

"Firstly, what an honour it is to be given the chance to write on the Man blog, many a work hour have been whittled away by reading the glorious content and I see this as a place to let off a little steam, have a little rant and join my fellow men in wondering why the world just isn’t a more simpler place where everyone (women) enjoyed the pleasures of a day spent in your boxers playing Call of Duty.

But anyway, I digress. My chosen topic is sunglasses.

Yes, they’re a handy little item. Good when during that one day in Britain when the sun decides to pay us a visit and we can don them to stop our eyes from burning. Or when holiday in a nice tropical destination that has stolen its quota of sun from Britain where you can wear them all day and end up looking like something from Kung Fu Panda.

Aside from those odd occasions when they can be worn though, the proportion and frequency of people where sunglasses has increased. There are times when they are simply not needed, at all. And it’s at those times that I want to shout at people, snap the object from the bridge of their nose, throw them on the floor, jump up and down on them shouting “no need, no need”.

Here are a couple of occasions that particularly annoy me:

Sunglasses indoors

No need. You’re indoors – there’s a roof and there are walls about that the sun cannot perpetrate through. This means that there’s little to no direct sun light meaning that your eyes can cope with the light that has occasionally been let in via some sort of window device. If your eyes are unable to cope with the light coming in then you probably need to see someone.

Sunglasses on the tube

Whoa. This one is particularly annoying. Different to being indoors as you are sort of out – in a way. However, what with (on the whole) being under the ground there is no way that sunlight can get on to the train or platform. If anything the areas of the underground in the UK suffer from being too dim in the first place. There’s also a health and safety issue here – after walking in to the underground from a bright sunny day (which is presumably why you have sunglasses on in the first place) then it may take your eyes time to adjust and render you sightless – made worse by the sunglasses – and you (if you’re a tourist and not sure where you are or where you’re going) will stop, undoubtedly in the middle of the busiest walkway at the station and cause me to pile into you unknowingly as I make the dash home away from the dirty city.

I have found that this particular offence tends to be committed by European tourists – notably Italians. Maybe their excessive use of sunglasses explains their crazy driving habits.

Sunglasses at night

It gets worse doesn’t it. Sunglasses. The word is a bit of a give away. Sun-glasses. Sun. Yes, that’s right, glasses to wear when the sun is out. If the sun is out at night then we’ve got a massive problem. Take them off, pillock.

Again this poses a health and safety risk due to not being able to actually see where you’re going. I’m told in trendy nightclubs (I’m too old and have one too many children to go to those sort of places) that it’s fashionable to wear them here. Trust me, if I ever go to one of these places and you bump in to me and knock my drink over someone because you can’t see where you’re going then there’s going to be trouble

Sunglasses when it’s not sunny

Similar to the occurrence of them appearing at night, if it’s not sunny then there’s no real need for them. Living in Britain we should be well used to this occasion but no, recently during the unending period of rain we’ve recently had I saw a man with sunglasses on – holding an umbrella. Somehow, I managed to withhold myself.

Again, this does seem to be mainly a ‘European’ thing though I have noticed it creeping in to our own British population.

So that’s it. There are many things that annoy me regarding what people wear but sunglasses is my particular pet hate. Thanks for listening!"

By James Green

Good stuff there from James. If you fancy having a rant you can submit it here.

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