Bloggers are ego maniacs

Christianity: Essentially a cult based around human sacrifice?

2011-11-26T09:46:00.000-08:00

Jesus died for our sins. He was beaten, ridiculed, tortured, stabbed and left to die nailed to a couple of planks of wood in the blazing sun of a middle eastern desert. All for us.

Thanks Jesus.

It was really pretty typical of the primitive cultures of the time. The Mayans were sacrificing people to their gods, the primitive Celts loved a bit of human sacrifice, or so we're led to believe. The Romans sacrificed anything and everything to their Pantheon of gods.

The only real difference is that the bible claims that Jesus was god. And also a man.

Let's think about this for a minute. Jesus is the son of God but he also is God.

God is all powerful, all knowing and all seeing. He has a plan for us all and yet still allows us free will, that's how great he is. He can do two completely opposite things at the same time. Wow.

Jesus is a man who feels pain, love, betrayal, abandonment, loneliness and probably a welter of conflicting and changing emotions. Like all of us, except Chuck Norris, who just feels well prepared, all the time. But, and here's the problem, he's also God and therefore feels no fear, pain, despair, lust, and presumably doesn't get that annoying itch from healing sunburn. A paradox? Not for God!

Think about him up on that cross, supposedly suffering. He's not really, is he? He's God; he knows he isn't going to die. He knows he can't go to hell or oblivion. He has planned this all along. He's going to come back to life in a couple of days time, put in a couple of guest star appearances and then bugger off back to his opulent retirement in heaven. Which, by definition, is the best place you can be. He not suffering he's laughing. Like the guy on the cross next to Brian in the famous Monty Python film, he was probably laughing and singing.

As far as I can see (assuming that it's not all just bullshit of course) the whole thing with the cross, the crown of thorns, the spear and the sun burn was nothing more than cheap theatricality designed to impress the primitive, unwashed, uneducated peasantry of the time.

Suffer? He's God, he can't suffer.

Last Will and Testament

2011-07-04T16:41:00.000-07:00

As some of you may know I'm off to Spain tomorrow to partake in the mildly dangerous, and Aussie backpacker infested, San Fermin Bull Run. Just in case I should be too slow, stupid, reckless or unlucky to survive, I have prepared this, probably not legally binding, document:

Dear friends and relatives. Thank you for taking the time to read this, my last will and testament. I don’t know if I’ve been gored or trampled to death, or maybe a bit of both, but hopefully it wasn’t too horrific for my Mum. I know she will be upset anyway but it’ll be probably be slightly worse if I’ve been maimed in some hideous way or lingered, suffering for several hours before my eventual demise. I think my Dad will be OK, he’s always been a rock when the really big disasters have struck over the years. I know they will be thinking I was extremely stupid and irresponsible for taking part in such a dangerous event in the first place. It is essentially a relic of medieval times. Back in those days a couple of people dying a messy, violent death was a pretty regular occurrence. It was probably just a bit of laugh. I’m not laughing now!

I don’t have much stuff to leave, certainly nothing that anyone will want. I don’t really have anything worth any money and haven’t been a big collector of antiques or anything. My flatmate Anna-Marie, who’s just said she’ll be ‘so disappointed to see me back’ can still have my laptop, despite that comment which was hopefully a joke. Any money I have can go towards the transport of my remains back to the UK. I doubt my travel insurance covers me for recklessly endangering myself. Hopefully they can just cremate me on the spot and stick my ashes in a flask or something. Then they can just post them back or Trev can carry them. Unless of course he is killed in a valiant attempt to throw himself between me and the raging bulls. This is the practical option because I don’t think EU regulations would allow my first choice of funeral. To be put on a Viking longboat style craft with a load of wood and maybe a few fireworks, being sailed out to sea and set alight. It certainly makes more sense than transporting ten stone or so of rotting meat half way across Europe. When the ashes get back to Larne I want them scattered on the Antrim plateau. Make sure you check the wind direction; you probably don’t want any Big Lebowski type accidents.

If anyone feels compelled to have some sort of memorial service only genuine friends and family are allowed to attend. If you don’t give a shit that I’m dead please don’t come out of obligation or to represent your family. If you are just coming for the free booze and a bit of a party, that’s fine. If there must be speeches then they have to be either funny, short or heart breakingly eloquent. I’d prefer honesty but amusing lies would be acceptable. If you plan to make a reference to any sort of afterlife, you’d better be willing to present some very convincing experimental evidence to back up what you’re saying. I’m probably not looking down, or up at you, like some invisible peeping tom, analysing and, usually, if you believe the speeches, approving of your actions. What’s left of me is hopefully, if my previous instructions have been followed, drifting gently on the breeze or being digested by some unfortunate sheep. Ministers are not welcome unless they’re relatives. I don’t care what songs you play because I can’t hear them. However as it’s my memorial I’d like to think you’d play stuff I that I liked. If anyone wants to drink Jager bombs and dance to The Jackson Five, I’d really appreciate that. I mean I appreciate it in advance now as, of course, when I’m dead I won’t know anything about it. Please don’t wear suits, I never liked wearing a suit and always thought at work it was sexual discrimination. I mean, women can get away with wearing any old crap but I have to wear a shirt and sometimes even a tie. Gentlemen, loud colourful shirts please and don’t be embarrassed to wear pink. The ladies can, of course, wear whatever they want because who’d going to tell them they can’t?

I think that’s about it. Sorry again for being dumb enough to get myself killed. If I’ve made any plans with anyone, I’m going to have to cancel. I’ve sort if rushed this a bit as I only thought if it a couple of days ago and I always was a terrible procrastinator. It’s a pity I didn’t put off my trip to Spain for a couple of more years though. If you are looking for anyone to blame then have a go at Trevor Whittaker. It was all his idea. No point in blaming the poor bull, he’s burgers.

If it so happens that I make it back alive, and I hope that I do, then this still stands until I write something to replace it.

Movember Men in Mankinis

2010-11-17T07:15:00.000-08:00

Our team are stepping up to the challenge of changing their faces in the name of men's health.

Monsieur Mearns looks so much like a 1980's RUC man that he's considering changing his name to Billy. Greg's going for his trade mark wild man of the hills look and I've got my incognito, skin colour Mo. I think a wee drop of Just For Men might be in order for me.

We've raised £126 for The Prostate Cancer Charity, so far, thanks to the generosity of our friends and family. There are significant contributions in the pipeline from our respective places of work and I am quietly confident of reaching our goal of £500 by Friday next week. However we could still do with YOUR help!

Here's the most recent photographs of our burgeoning upper lip accessories. To rate us, AND DONATE TO US, go to our team page at: http://uk.movember.com/mospace/107595/

Thanks a million and remember, if we raise the £500 we will be going for a swim in the conker-crushingly cold Irish sea with only mankinis to protect our manhoods. Apologies to Mearnsy, not sure why your picture came out so small. Perhaps it's a premonition of what's going to happen to your genitals in the Irish sea?

Movember motivation

2010-11-13T01:34:00.000-08:00

It's halfway through Movember and so far I've raised a grand total of £10.

I put in the £10 myself to get the ball rolling and thanks to my serious lack of commitment, so far, the ball has stayed stubbornly stationary.

So the time has come to up the ante, to roll up the shirt sleeves, grease the elbows and put in the hard work for the cause.

For it is a great cause.

Yes, the growing of a fine moustache may be, in some measure, a selfish pursuit but don't be fooled by the glamorous side of the Movember.

The event is dedicated to fighting prostate cancer, a deadly killer and ruthless enemy of gentlemen everywhere in the world.

Your moustache may make you look more sophisticated, more atttractive to women and gain you greater status amongst your peers but I say, ask not what your moustache can do for you but what your moustache can do for humanity.

Out of respect for the charismatic American leader, whose speech I've just blatantly plagiarised, I've decided to dedicate my midway point photo to those frequently misunderestimated Americans. The red necks.

Truck driving, god botherin', gun totin', tobacco chewin', trailer park dwellin', moustache lovin', comedy stereotype red necks.

And here it is:

Nice.

Now to the important business of raising money.

I feel there is obviously further incentive required to persuade our friends and rellies to part with their hard earned cash.

What do people like to see more than anything else? Our friends hurting themselves? Or perhaps humiliating themselves? You do, you know you do.

So, to utilize both of these elements simultaneously, the members of The Dunfast DynaMos, Northern Ireland division, have agreed, if we raise £500 before the end of November, to venture into the icy waters of the Irish sea dressed as the moustachiod hero Borat in his famous Mankini.

So if you want to see us suffer, turn blue and look like complete eejits for your amusement. Get your wallets out, go to http://uk.movember.com/mospace/107595/ and donate some money!

2010-06-12T03:42:00.000-07:00

Planning to dress something like this at Larne Tennis Club's annual Senior Men's tournament today. It's an experiment in sports psychology. Will my opponents crumble when they see how professional I look? Wish I had the hair but C'est la Vie.

Bravado and Melanoma

2010-05-19T07:55:00.000-07:00

Today my head looks like a ripe strawberry and feels like a baked tomato.

I normally avoid the sun due to my almost translucent, pale blue complexion. But yesterday there was pride involved. There was my fragile ego, a lack of preparation and a fair amount of stupidity.

I started a game of tennis with my 16-year-old cousin at approximately 1pm. Yes I know, the hottest part of the day. And it was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, birds singing, the breeze gently soughing through the leaves, old ladies dressed in white, playing lawn bowls. Idyllic.

By the time it got to 5-5 in the third set I was not only running out of energy, enthusiasm and patience but was horribly aware of the fact that my 2L bottle of water was already empty.

I could have stopped. I could have given in, let him win, suggested an honourable draw but no I continued to play and the sun continued to cook me with it's damned ultraviolet radiation.

My thoughts ran something like - you can't let your little cousin beat you, you're still fit, you can do it, you're at your peak...your peeeak.

I lost the set 12-10.

My pride and my epidermis may never fully recover.

TV

2010-03-09T08:09:00.000-08:00

Last night I vowed not to turn on the TV for at least a week.

Not a single coherent thought had crossed my mind for...maybe infinity and I hadn't moved except to press the channel up button with my thumb.

flick...boring

flick....crap

flick...dull

flick...back to boring again.

Literally, this was the sum of my brain activity for maybe an hour before I suddenly snapped out of my trance, realised what I was doing and turned off the TV in disgust.

I am not saying that all TV is crap, I have seen some great programs.

I am talking about my inability, when everything on is shit, to turn off the TV and do something else!

If Shakespeare had had TV he'd never have finished a single play.

First night of no TV tonight, will I crack?

Why are they called defence forces?

2010-02-04T05:12:00.000-08:00

There has been a lot of talk in the news about the defence budget and Gordon Brown's decisions as Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Britain is spending too much on defence and trying to punch above its weight. It needs to consider the future of its defence forces.

This got me wondering about the meaning of the term 'defence'.

If you are a football fan, you'll understand defenders to be those big guys at the back, who head the ball away and gently bump into attackers sending them into balletic back-flips across the penalty area.

Attackers are the speedy ones up front who fire shots at the enemy's goal and try to defeat them.

So why are the armed forces the defence forces?

I think they really should be re-named the attack forces. They go forward, not stay back and defend. Maybe they are like the Brazilian wing backs?

When was the last time they were actually used to defend this small group of islands? Yes, it was World War II.

Unless you count defending the Falklands in 1982 or defending Northern Ireland against the IRA.

In terms of big full on wars they are definitely camped in the other teams' penalty areas.

Maybe it's because most politicians grew up in the private school system playing Rugby rather than football.

The backs are the attacking players in Rugby. That must be what confused them.

Why support Spurs?

2010-01-23T11:17:00.000-08:00

Top four this season? No problem.

Old fashioned, tax-evading, London gangster, manager. Silkily passing, smoothly finishing, forwards and lightning fast, creative mid-fielders.

A team capable of winning 9-1.

And a team that, in their last three games, drew with Hull, lost to Liverpool and threw away a cup tie against Leeds in the 94th minute.

It was frustrating, and pretty boring, when we always finished in the middle of the table. But this season we had genuine hope, backed up by some scintillating performances.

Hope, that is looking increasingly likely to be dashed, on the big, black, pointy rocks of reality.

Spurs are not chokers, they've just got very short attention spans.

Players, who are paid more in a week than the average fan earns in a year, sometimes just don't feel like playing.

Easy enough to understand, I mean, concentrating for 90 minutes or so, once or twice is week, is pretty taxing.

Especially when you play football all the time, you must get bored of it.

I am pretty fed up watching them at the moment that's for sure.

Sigh.

The power of advertising

2010-01-01T16:09:00.000-08:00

Has anyone seen those stroke adverts on TV?

The ones with the fire on the victim's brain burning away their life. Starting with the droopy face and the little bit of dribble at the corner of their mouth. The voice-over describing how their intelligence, their memories, their humanity is being burned away.

The slogan says the quicker they get help 'the more of the person you save'.

The adverts are supposed to scare the crap out of you and they do. I have found myself watching my older relatives like a hawk. I see them dozing off in front of the telly and wonder...are they having a stroke right now? I think, should I ask them complicated verbal reasoning questions? Or have them tell a joke? Just to make sure.

Do you ever think you are having a stroke yourself?

I am 30 years old, skinny, eat fairly healthily and am reasonably fit. Not your typical stroke candidate. But sometimes, I'll have a slight headache or a funny feeling and I'll think...I'm having one now, what do I do?

So I'll mutter under my breath a full sentence and try to recall a happy memory from my childhood just to check my brain is still, more or less, fully functional.

I never used to do this! It's those damn adverts, they are too effective. They are turning me into a hypochondriac. Or maybe I already was and they are just fuel.

Now there's a real downward spiral. Worrying that you might be a hypochondriac. There's nothing good can come of that.

Have you ever seen those anti binge drinking adverts? No neither have I. Or a least, I can't remember them.

Cracked ceilings and fractured patience

2009-12-05T02:42:00.000-08:00

It's one of those beautiful, clear, cold, winter days today.

Perfect for getting your tar stained boots on, hooking up your safety harness and climbing onto my roof and bloody well fixing the damn thing!

Yesterday was a similarly nice day. I would have liked to go for a walk or maybe meet my mum in Kensington for tea and cake. She's here for the masters tennis in the Albert Hall and to see me, of course.

I didn't meet her, not because I am a crap son, I'm not, really. I stayed in all day waiting for Andrei the builder! At least I think he's a builder, I have yet to see him do any building. At the moment I think he's more of a bullshitter than a builder.

Why do I need the dubious services of the elusive Andrei?

I came home from college on Wednesday with the intention of getting the house ready for my mum's arrival on Thursday. I didn't have much to do, it was pretty clean, the dishes were all done and the recycling, about a million empty wine bottles and beer cans, was concealed in it's special blue bin outside.

All I had to do was strip the bed covers off the bed in my flatmate's room and wash them. Luckily, she's away on holiday so I was intending to sleep on the spare mattress in her room.

But I can't sleep in her room because, as I discovered when I went up to her nice attic conversion room, the ceiling had cracked open, like a hazel nut, and water was pouring in like the world's least tranquil waterfall.

Poor Fumie's bed was directly under the flood and was soaked right through the duvet, the mattress, the base and onto the floor!

I stayed, calm, moved her bed, washed and dried the covers set the mattress and duvet near the radiator to dry, turned the heat up and phoned the landlord, who ignored my call.

And continued to ignore me until midday the next day, despite the increasingly frantic messages I was leaving on both her work and mobile phones.

I convinced her that the ceiling caving in was, in fact, an emergency and she called Andrei to the rescue.

He turned up with a mate at about 5pm, swore for a couple of minutes in, I think, an eastern European language, poked at the ceiling, climbed out the window and onto the roof.

After this expert assessment he came back in and promised he would be back tomorrow, provided it wasn't raining, to start the 'big job' of fixing the roof.

He didn't come.

Eventually he promised me he would be here this morning between 8 and 9am. I called him at 10am to see where he was. My man will be there in half an hour said he.

It's now 11.15am, still no sign.

Now I am faced with the decision. Do I keep badgering him relentlessly? This is not in my nature, I am rubbish at complaining and am always unfailingly polite when I should be shouting and raving.

Or do I just accept that there is nothing I can do, go into town, meet my mum and take her to Leicester square to see the Xmas lights?

The property management company in charge of my place are called Hi-Dra, I think.

Their contact, Abi, will definitely not be working this weekend so if Andrei messes me around all day again, like he did yesterday, I can't even complain until Monday.

Not that it would do any good anyway.

We had no hot water for an entire week not so long ago and Andrei was in charge of organising someone to fix that too.

Absolutely gutted! There was, just now, a van parked outside with Slavek General Building services written on the side. Listing roofing and loft conversion as two areas of expertise. They're here!

But alas, they were only running into the corner shop next door to buy cans of coke and Mars bars to sustain them as they work, probably efficiently and speedily on someone else' house.

It's now 11.30.

I called Andrei again, just now.

I am starting to crack just a bit, my computer is in front of the window and I have been checking every couple of minutes for any signs of roofer's vans.

He claimed 'his man' had been waiting outside for 7 minutes, 7 minutes! And had buggered off!!

I lost my famous cool, my voice rose and octave or two, making me sound like an angry baboon and he has now claimed he will be here 'straight away'.

I am going to have a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit and regain my composure.

The sun sets, this time in December, at approximately 3.45pm.

Time is ticking.

2009-11-30T13:19:00.000-08:00

Shaving the Mo tonight.

I'll miss the added sex appeal but not the paranoia of always thinking there's food stuck in it.

Don't think I am really cut out for Moustache wearing. Today I was wearing my ultra-fashionable pink jeans and Mike C said I looked like Freddie Mercury.

I thanked him.

'Not a compliment' said he.

So a question?

Is it better to look like a legendary, gay, rock icon? Or like a normal, everyday bloke, albeit in a pair of pink jeans?

Maybe I will keep the Mo...oooh the agonised indecision.

Moustache update and perfidy in Paris

2009-11-20T06:56:00.000-08:00

I was trying to trim the sticky-out bits off my moustache this morning but I started thinking about football, as you do when you are naked in the bathroom, and my hands started to shake with rage.

I nearly lost a nostril.

My mind had taken a turn down the dark, sinister, alley where thoughts about FIFA, the cheating, world cup fixing, disgraceful scum-bags lurk in shadowy recesses.

First they change the rules in the middle of the tournament to help out France and Portugal. Then they let the French get away with blatantly cheating the Irish out of their place in The World Cup!

Some people are all for seeding and I am not really arguing with them. If it was clear in the rules from the beginning then fair enough. But it wasn't, the rules were altered half way through!!

Remember playing football in the park, jumpers for goalposts, teams picked to be as even as possible.

Your team would be winning, first to 10 and 7-3 up, then you'd see the kid walking across the park who can dribble the ball like Maradona.

Handbags would be drawn, accusations would start, friendships would begin to falter and the poor skilful kid just would end up being told he can't play until the next game.

He'd have to do keepy uppies at the side of the pitch until the game was finished.

Why? Because children are taught by their parents to believe in fair play. You can't just change the rules in the middle of a game.

But what do FIFA teach your children? What does football in general teach them?

The modern game's philosophy is get away with whatever you can. It doesn't matter if you cheat, just as long as you win son, that's all that matters.

For example, changing the rules of the biggest sporting event in the world to help out your mates!!

Then, in a game that was already a fix, Thierry Henry cheats a nation out of their chance to go to the world cup by handling the ball. Listen kids, I got away with it so that makes it OK, his sly smile proclaimed.

And to make it worse, Damien Duff, one of the star players on the losing side, says he doesn't blame Henry and would have done the same thing himself if he had the opportunity at the other end.

So what you are saying there Damien is that you are cheat too?

It wasn't the ref's fault, he just didn't see it, he's made a mistake. Maybe he's a bit crap but really that's irrelevant. Thierry Henry, the dishonourable, cheating, French unpublishable is the one to blame!

I love football. I love the world cup, the drama, the passion and sometimes the controversy.

I hate the footballers who bring disgrace on the game, diving, shirt pulling, deliberately getting your 'friend' sent off in a world cup quarter final and winking at your team mates.

I hate the fascist politics and underhandedness of FIFA and organisations like the premiership.

Whatever happened to sportsmanship? Was it the money that did it? Power corrupts and all that?

Whatever it was, football is a now a hive of cheating, lies and corruption.

Anything to get the win, get the money, get the fame. Fans? Who cares about them, the stupid mugs'll keep handing over their money. They are stupid enough to believe in things like loyalty and commitment.

Do you want your kids to grow up to be honourable, honest, upstanding members of the community?

Yes? Then stop them watching football immediately!

And now back to charity and moustaches. Have a look at my progress on facebook and at how much my team, of two, has raised here http://uk.movember.com/mospace/107595

Oh and if you feel like it... MAKE A DONATION it goes towards helping men with prostate cancer. THANKS!

Scientific study proves moustaches make men more attractive

2009-11-07T03:40:00.000-08:00

The moustache has been in and out of fashion since the ancient Egyptians.

The pinnacle of it's popularity was just after the 1977 release of 'Smoky and the Bandit' in which Burt Reynolds sports, what is arguably 'the best moustache of all time'.

Although other respectable studies have shown it to be Tom Selleck's in Magnum P.I.

Sadly in recent times moustaches have dropped out of fashion.

Despite the efforts of a few die-hard fans, such as David Beckham, Johnny Depp and Hulk Hogan, tache wearing is currently at an all time low.

I decided to find out once and for all if a good moustache really does make a man more attractive.

Daly Thompson certainly thinks so. He told charity Movember recently: “Who wouldn’t want to grow a Mo? Mine has been great to me over the years and I wouldn’t have achieved the success I did without it. Having a Mo does wonders for your confidence."

I held a discussion forum which may have included, men's grooming experts, woman's fashion magazine editors and evolutionary biologists.

After several gruelling hours of debate in 'The Prince of Wales' it was decided to survey the public using four, fabulously insightful, questions.

One hundred people were surveyed, mostly women but to keep it fair, as approximately 10% of the population is gay, 10% of my interviewees were men.

I used 6 photographs of cultural icons with impressive moustaches, or not so impressive in the case of Fiddy Cent. The others were David Beckham, Aussie cricket legend Merve Hughes, Chia Hui Liu as Pei Mei in Kill Bill, Burt Reynolds and Willie Chevalier.

For each mo-adorned Adonis we asked:

On a scale of 1-5 how attractive is this man?

On a scale of -3 to 3 how much does his moustache enhance his appearance? (Minus numbers mean it takes away from his natural beauty and positive for how much it improves him)

Should he shave it off?

And the most important: If your boyfriend/husband/lover were to grow this moustache for charity, would you be happy?

The results were resoundingly in favour of the moustache.

Consider the first question. Attractiveness. Beckham was the winner here with 65% of respondents giving him full marks 5/5 and the other 45% giving him 4/5.

The really interesting statistic about Beckham is that 91% said the moustache makes him look better and the same 91% were against him shaving it off! Massive victory for the Mo there I think.

One Mo enthusiast even gave 4 out of 3 for the level of improvement the Mo makes to Dave's already enviable good looks.

The average, over all the photos, for looks enhancement was 1/3. Taking into account the scale was from -3 to 3 this is comprehensive proof that most people think Mo's improve looks.

32% gave the facial hair 3/3. But only 9% got the dreaded -3/3.

Since collating the results my self-confidence has rocketed, especially since my effort is currently not unlike Mr Beckham's. Well that's what I think anyway and anyone who says otherwise can just shut up, so there.

So, should the guys shave it off or not? The average over the 6 pictures was 70% in fouvour of keeping them! Another massive victory for moustache lovers. We asked the respondents to consider only the ascetic effects of shaving but it was difficult not to let a little emotion creep in.

Obviously the psychological effects of shaving off a much loved body decoration can be very great, traumatic even. Not to mention that some of the moustaches are integral to the wearers public image and personal success.

Scientists have proven that as a moustache grows, so does a man's emotional attachment to it.

This can be so strong that men will put their facial hair before their wife/girlfriend/boyfriend. Many a previously perfect relationship has been broken by a misguided girlfriend insisting on Mo removal.

And usually for the utterly selfish reason that it, tickles/scratches when kissing.

Consider Willie Chevalier, world champion, in the partial beard freestyle category at the World Beard and Moustache championships 5 years in a row.

What would he do without his moustaches?

In the survey 100% said not to shave it off. People even made extra comments in the margin emphasising how strongly they felt about it.

One person wrote: "He should never, never shave it off!"

And I agree. He's an ambassador for facial hair growers all over the world and a hero to his fellow Germans.

Not all mo's are as well loved as Mr Chevalier's. Fiddy cent's frankly half-hearted effort scored only 27% positively in the enhancement category and overall he scored the lowest in attractiveness.

65% of people said he should shave it off.

In a strange anomaly 81% said they would let their boyfriend/husband grow this one even though it was voted the least attractive!

The survey will, undoubtedly, be controversial but as it was conducted in a highly scientific and accurate manner it's results cannot be disputed.

Moustaches make men more attractive. It's a fact. I am just glad I do not work for the British government most of whom are cleanly shaven.

We know what happens to scientists whose studies do not agree with the government's arbitrarily held opinions.

I am of course referring to Professor David Nutt who was sacked recently for telling the truth.

I was going to put in pictures of the other two men I used in my survey but I am running out of time and waffling on a bit now.

I'm sure a quick look at google images can sort out my oversight.

Right I am off now to carefully shave around my upper lip, spray on some old spice and squeeze into some tight jeans.

Check out my progress and Movember fund raising success at http://uk.movember.com/mospace/107595

The coppers wont talk

2009-10-30T06:30:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to speak to a representative of London's Merton Borough Police today.

My efforts have been thwarted at every turn.

First, I called the main switchboard and asked for Merton Borough's press officer.

I was immediately put through to an answer phone with the helpful message:

"This is Officer Fictitious' phone, please do not leave a message on this answer machine, my new number is 00000."

I don't think it really matters, for sake of this blog, what the real names and numbers are but the message is pretty much word for word.

So I called the new number and got a message saying 'this number is no longer in use'.

Hmm...now what?

I called the switchboard back, explained, and they put me through to the same answer phone again...and again.

I tried asking for different people but, as soon as I said press or journalist, the big red button was pushed and my call was sucked into the telecommunications equivalent of the basement at the bottom of the dark stairs, where only cobwebs and skittering things abide.

Eventually someone at the national press office actually spoke to me and gave me the number of the South London press officer, who, you guessed it, was unavailable.

At least I was able to leave a message on her answer machine. What do you think the chances of her getting back to me are?

So I am going to try again, and probably again and again to get a comment from anyone in the police.

And I am not even asking about anything controversial or detrimental to the Police's reputation.

Gotta love the boys in blue, so helpful, open and approachable.

Oh well, back to the phone-calls. Wish me luck.

Movember is almost upon us

2009-10-25T12:22:00.000-07:00

26th of October 2009: Day 1.

As you can see I am already sporting some ice-cold designer stubble. I will be shaving the rest off tomorrow and just leaving the Mo.

I know I am a massive cheater. The rules say you are supposed to start growing the mo at the start of November.

The organisers, I think, failed take into account those of us who have the pathetically sparse facial hair of a 13-year-old choir boy. A month is nowhere near long enough for us.

Those hairless patches on my face are not, as you might have thought, the result of careful grooming. They are, and always will be, follicularly challenged.

If my face was a hair-growing field it would be about as fertile as the Gobi Desert. So I am cheating just a tiny bit and it's for charity and the end justifies the means, so there.

I am going to have to buy myself a pair of those little Mo trimming scissors so I can sculpt it into a dashing design.

If left to grow wild my facial hair goes sort of frizzy and curly and looks a lot like the hair from another part of my body, not my head.

This is what foiled my attempt, last year, to grow a pirate beard while travelling around south-east Asia. Oh, how my girlfriend hated the pirate beard!

I, however, was gutted when I was forced to shave it off on my return home. I had to get a job and who'd hire me looking like a deranged hermit who'd stumbled accidentally back into civilisation?

I do have a nice memento of it. I had to renew my driving licence and it makes me smile every time I'm asked for I.D.

We'll see how my moustache growing goes but if it's as spectacularly bad as my pirate beard I'm going to look pretty silly very soon.

All I have to do now is get some people to sponsor me or maybe even join me in the good fight. It would be awesome if I had a team of moustachiod men marching alongside me.

There are full details on my Movember page which will hopefully get a bit more interesting as I add things to it. And of course you can make a donation too if you feel like it.

http://uk.movember.com/mospace/107595/

Who wants to hear what I have to say anyway?

2009-10-23T14:25:00.000-07:00

Today I join the world of blogging and I'm worried I may have waited too long.

I might not get to write too many of these before I'm bound, gagged and shipped off back to where I came from, Northern Ireland in my case. The days when a free Briton could stand up and say whatever he likes are under threat.

Where does this threat come from, the BNP? Terrorists? Margaret Thatcher? No it comes from do gooder, interfering, tree hugging, self-righteous, liberals.

Yesterday's guest on BBC's question time, Nick Griffin. The man they tried to silence. The man so many people wanted to keep out of the public eye is now centre stage and representing the rights of the oppressed.

He has become a symbol for the right of freedom of expression.

Perhaps I don't have much of a sense of irony but I think there may be a little bit lurking in this situation somewhere.

Ask the same people who are trying to silence Griffin if they believe in free speech and after some self-justification, spluttering and contradicting themselves they might admit that they are all for it.

So how do advocates of equality, diversity and freedom of thought justify the attempted censorship of a British citizen, an elected representative of the country?

Well, because he disagrees with them of course. I will not pretend to understand exactly what his beliefs are but I think it's fair to say they probably do not include a belief in the same free society that his potential censors are trying to protect.

If they had managed to stop Griffin appearing on Question Time then what next? Ban his party entirely? Move on to it's supporters? Have them rounded up and their tongues cut out?

Maybe we should extend our gagging powers to everyone who doesn't think the same way we do? Let's go tape up Prince Philip's mouth, no wait, that might not be such a bad idea.

If you have taken the time to read on this far you may have noticed that I can string a fairly coherent sentence together without mentioning Islam is evil or death to all non-whites. This might lead you to the conclusion that I am not a member of the BNP.

Good deduction on your part, well done.

So why have I written a blog not so subtly defending Nick Griffin's right to speak?

I think for the same, fairly obvious, reason that the BBC invited him on the controversial programme in the first place.

To deny anyone the right the speak is to deny the right of free speech.

The people who, so passionately, supported the Guardian when they were muzzled by the super-injunction are the very same people who now want to take away the BNP's rights.

If a BNP member incites a riot, harasses an immigrant shop owner or beats up a gay person we have laws that will deal with that.

If all they are doing is talking then they have a fundamental human right to do so. Just like the Guardian, the anti-fascists and the bloggers of the world including, as of today, me.