Why I no longer call myself an Atheist

It has only been in very recent times that calling yourself an atheist has become a socially acceptable norm.

Atheists are no longer hunted down, tortured and killed by the multitudes of zealous believers in whatever deity/deities is/are flavour of the century at the time of their unbelief in him/it or them.

I have been proud to call myself an atheist ever since I read enough books to learn that that is definitely what I am in relation to the divine; an unbeliever.

So I am, when the question of theism comes up, definitely atheist. Not a theist which is the opposite. See how easily a simple tap of the space bar can completely change how you define yourself?

The problem I have with calling myself an atheist is that it is reactionary and negative. By saying I am an atheist what I am essentially doing is defining myself by my non-belief in god.

Think about this. If you are an atheist then you think that no god or gods exist. That means that saying ‘I am an atheist’ is like saying I am a person who doesn't believe in something that doesn't exist or I don’t believe in nothing.

You could compare it to saying, instead of, ‘I breathe air’, you say, ‘I don’t breathe a vacuum’.

I propose that those people who currently call themselves atheists, many of whom are much smarter than I am, you may be surprised to learn, stop defining yourselves by being anti-nothing and start defining yourselves are being pro-something.

I propose when asked the religion question, instead of saying ‘I am an atheist’ and waiting for the expression of shock and horror, confusion or fear, you say something like ‘I am a realist’. Then you might get to explain what that means.

For me, I think that we can only define our existence based on the accumulation of knowledge we, as a race, have managed to acquire. Human beings have fantastic imaginations, or so we think, and that is great, however anything that only exists in the human imagination has to be defined as ‘not real’.

If you can’t measure or observe it or do repeatable experiments on it to prove it is there, then the probability is that, well, it’s not there.

Gods, fairies, Pegasus, the Kraken etc have no evidence whatsoever to support them and therefore must be defined as not real.

The point I am trying to make is that ‘we’, as far atheists can be grouped together as we, should define ourselves by something that we are as opposed to something that we are not.

Something positive rather than something negative.

I live my life based on what we as a species, and I personally, currently understand about life, the universe and everything.

I don’t believe in god but I also don’t believe in many, many other things; even some vaguely scientific things, like the existence of wormholes or the possibility of time travel.

I don’t believe in homeopathy, astrology, Brian of Nazareth or the Lord of the Rings - as much as I would like to meet Gandalf, he’s not real, sorry to burst your bubble Ringolics - but that’s not how I want to be defined; by the many things I don’t believe in.Or one specific thing that I don't believe in, GOD. 

By saying I am an atheist I feel I am giving theists far too much credit. I am not defining myself in my own way, I am defining myself as not them. It makes me sound like a reactionary. It's theists who hold the wild unsubstantiated beliefs. I feel it should be them defining themselves as not us. If it didn't already mean something else then a good term would have been naturalist and then non-believers in the real world would be unnaturalists.

I want to be defined by the things I do believe in, like being excellent to each other and partying on, dudes!

So on those, actually fairly rare occasions, when I am asked about my religion, I plan to say what I am and not what I am not.

So even though the term that I propose is already in use to mean something similar, I think it could also come to mean a person living in the real, material world, as opposed to magical fairyland. Perhaps other, smarter atheists might come up with a better term but until then, here it is. 

I am a realist.

Don't blow your whistle

My dad got himself a Bear Grylls survival knife. I think he sees himself as a sort of intrepid explorer of the wilderness.

With it came a whistle for attracting attention.

Trying the whistle at home we noticed that our little dog, a vicious little primeval throw-back, comes dashing in when it hears the sound. Even if it's at the bottom of the garden it hears it and appears as if teleported.

So when you're out in the wilds of Canada or Alaska hiking and you fall down, breaking your ankle and need to signal for help.

DO NOT USE YOUR BEAR GRYLLS WHISTLE!

Because instead of help you are more likely to attract a snarling, ravenous pack of wolves.

One day in Pattaya

Today I happened to catch the local Pattaya news in English. It's very different to the local news back home. Here's a quick summary to give you an idea. I didn't make any of this up.

In the headline story; a bullet fell from the sky, smashed through the roof a young girl’s bedroom and hit her in the leg. From the tone of the report the family of the girl were having a hard time convincing the police they should do anything about it. As if a rain of bullets is a regular nuisance in this part of the world.

Someone nearby must have been shooting a gun in the air was the casual comment attributed to the local police. Well, yes, probably someone who really struggled in physics class in school. Perhaps they thought the bullets just float off into space? Nothing to to worry about, the police have more important matters to attend to. 

That was perhaps the craziest story of the day but this being Pattaya it had competition for the title.

On the same bulletin:

A notorious drug dealer was arrested but not until after he managed to grab the under-cover policeman who was following him, probably disguised in a mac, large glasses and false moustache, and hold him hostage. He then proceeded to dispose of the majority of his stash, presumably by flushing it down the toilet. Eventually he handed himself in without a struggle.  They have him for a few pills in his car. Oh, and for kidnapping.

A South African man shot himself in the head at the local firing range. Apparently the instructor handed him the loaded gun and he just put it to his head and pulled the trigger. That’s the story the gun club are telling anyway, it’s yet to be investigated.

Two young boys were shot, but not killed, in gang related violence.

A man was stabbed outside a restaurant after drunkenly hitting on a woman who was having dinner with her, evidently knife wielding, male friends. Seven of them grabbed him, took him outside, gave him a severe beating and stabbed him. He’s in hospital but looks likely to survive.  He’s probably trying out his lines on the nurses.

A drunk driver crashed her car and proceeded to resist all attempts to help her, verbally abusing anyone who tried.

Watching the local news here makes me think I’m wandering through life oblivious to all around me. I did meet a man in a pub with a manic look in his eye that, within the space of one game of pool, described in detail the three times he’d been stabbed and pulled up his shirt to proudly display the evidence. Needless to say I paid my tab and left. Not my kind of drinking partner.

I don’t believe in jinxes, or cursing myself, so I’m not afraid to say that I've lived here for five months without witnessing a single incident of violent or dangerously insane behaviour; except on the roads that is. I have always felt safe and unconcerned even late at night. Maybe my peripheral vision’s just really bad?  

To my friends who may be reading this. Don’t let this put you of visiting. It’s really not all that bad.

Why it's better to have some crime in your country

Three innocent Korean tourists were conned today in Pattaya by a magician allegedly from Dubai.

He approached the three handsome, fashionably dressed, young gentlemen in the street and invited them to participate in one of his magic tricks.

The wily con artist asked them to hand over their Ipad, some cash and other stuff claiming he would make it disappear.

Hands up who knows what's coming?

He waved his hands a couple of times, made the cash and Ipad disappear and while the impressed young men were still clapping, legged it down the street and disappeared himself.

I can just imagine them standing there, looking confused, for several minutes waiting for him to reappear!

They were featured on the Thai news explaining this in the police station to three police officers who were chuckling and nudging each other like schoolboys.

"So tell us again what happened? And you just handed him all your stuff? How much cash? Oh yes! We'll catch him, don't you worry son. Now about that description. Are you sure he wasn't wearing a top hat and cape?"

I can't speak Thai and I'm sure neither can those unfortunate Korean lads but we all know that's what those cops were saying.

And that's why, if you live somewhere like Seoul or Tokyo, with almost no street crime at all, you should probably take some sort of awareness lessons before you attempt any adventure abroad.

In case anyone is interested the perpetrator got away with about £1000 worth of cash and expensive toys.

You smell like fish

Lin: I'm going for a shower
Me: Yeah, you smell like fish.
Lin: How long ago fish die?
Me: About a week ago!
Lin: Well that's not so bad then.

Lin 1 : Me 0

What the Thai motorcycle test should consist of

As I mentioned in my previous post the Thai practical motorcycle test consists of driving around a short course with a slalom, a few corners and two stop signs. This does not, in any way, test your ability to survive on Thailand's roads!

This blog will prepare you much better; or put you off entirely which is probably the safest option anyway.

The test I would make prospective drivers take is as follows:

Practical Test 1 - Driving down the wrong side of the road. Simply drive a little bit slower than normal and keep to the far side of the wrong side, if you know what I mean. Beware of other people coming towards you at night time on your side of the road with no lights on. Stealth mode as it's known in Thailand is perfectly acceptable if you are too poor or lazy to get your lights fixed.

Practical Test 2 - Motorway driving

This test will involve the examiner riding on the back of your bike while you weave in and out between cement trucks, lorries and other traffic without slowing down. You will be required to drive in the left hand lane to demonstrate your ability to avoid the cars and other bikes pulling out of side streets without looking and veering wildly across several lanes. Or sometimes pulling out in front of fast moving traffic and driving really slowly.

You will be required to demonstrate your ability not to swear and make rude hand gestures at the people who cut you off or nearly run you off the road. Keep a calm head at all times as road rage attacks are common here and have been known to result in shootings and stabbings.


Written Test - Sample questions from the section on signalling. Three questions to answer.

1 - The car in front of you is signalling left and slowing down. Do they intend to
a) Turn left.
b) Continue driving slowly and signalling left indefinitely
c) Pull out back into traffic and speed up
d) I don't know


2 - The car in front is driving in two lanes and signalling right. Do they intend to
a) Move into the right hand lane
b) Move into the left hand lane
c) Continue driving in two lanes indefinitely
d) I don't know


3 - The car in front has their hazard lights on but are still driving in the middle of three lanes. Are they
a) Experiencing a mechanical fault and signalling their intention to pull over and stop.
b) Carrying a heavy load and mistakenly think having their hazard lights on is the right thing to do
c) Drunk and have hit the hazard light button while hunting for their lighter
d) I don't know

The correct answer to all three questions is I don't know. Never ever trust signals in Thailand. People here think they're just pretty flashing lights used for decoration.

I'd also introduce a psychological, Catch 22 style test. You will have to prove you are sane before you are allowed to drive on Thailand's roads. The catch is that by wanting to drive here you are automatically pronounced insane and therefore unfit to drive. Everyone goes back to riding bicycles and we all get fitter, and die from heat exposure/skin cancer instead of high speed impact. Shut up about the economy, bicycles save the planet man.

How to get your Thai motorcycle licence in Pattaya

Finally, after three days of messing about, I got my Thai motorcycle licence. It was a close run thing. I failed the written test the first time. Didn't help that the same question came up five times and I got it wrong four times. I started to doubt myself after seeing it four times and changed my answer.  Luckily, this being Thailand, the girl let me try again and I passed. Did you know it’s legal to drive a tank used for warfare (their terminology) on Thai roads but not a vehicle without a windscreen? Neither did I.

So here's your step by faltering step guide. 

Step one is to get a medical cert from a clinic to prove you are healthy enough to cope with the extreme stress of driving on Thai roads. This is given on payment of approximately 100Baht without any sort of medical checks at all.

Step two is to go to immigration in Jomtien Soi 5 with two photos, your tenancy agreement and two copies of your passport. They’re quite quick and efficient, to be fair to them, but if you don’t go early enough in the day you have to come back the next day to collect the paperwork; which is, of course, what I had to do.

Step three: Drive for several miles out of town to the driver and vehicle registration office, near the regent's school on 36, without yet having a legal licence. Make sure you get there before 9 am as if you arrive later you’ll be told to come back the next day. And yes, that’s what I had to do. 

There’s an eye test and more forms to fill out. They’ll help you but in a much more surly and world weary way than the immigration people. It is a very busy office and I can understand that us non Thai speakers are an extra irritation in an already hectic working day. Don’t worry about the eye test, the Thai man in front of me was blatantly colour blind and was just guessing when it came to green/red. In fact he just said red for both until the expression of the official warned him and he went for green a couple of times after that. I knew the word for red had forgotten the word for green. Luckily they let foreigners do it in English. I could probably have said bread, fellow and spleen and would still have got the nod.

Be prepared to be there until around two O’clock. Why? Because you have to watch some vaguely driving related soap operas in a little room packed with other foreigners, most of whom are asleep. I had a little nap myself. I never did find out if the boy injured in the accident recovered or not.

After the videos there’s a short break for lunch before taking the practical test. This involves driving around a very short course. It starts with a slalom followed by driving along a raised ramp about a foot wide, not sure why, but I nearly fell off. You have to stop a couple of times; only putting one foot down and then you're done. Next its into the office for the aforementioned computer based, multiple choice, written text. 

There’s not much advice I can give you about the test except that common sense won’t really help you. When the question asks you which picture illustrates correct parking don’t be fooled by the cars parked neatly in car-park parking spaces. It’s some sort of trick. This question came up three times and I got it wrong three times.

It’s different if you already have a motorcycle licence from the EU or the USA. You’ll only have to do the eye test and they’ll give you the Thai licence. Just fill out the forms. There might be some other countries that are OK too. Australia and NZ probably but you can do your own research my fine antipodean friends. Anyone know why antipodean gets a red line on Word’s spell checker? Me neither.

The day after receiving my new licence I pulled out of Central Festival shopping centre straight into the sweaty arms of a lurking gang of police officers. I flashed my shiny new licence and they told me to be on my way. I have to say, that felt pretty good. I drove straight to the nearest bar spent the 400Baht it had saved me on a few celebratory drinks before driving home. Only kidding, but it felt good. I drove along beach road in the late evening sunshine with a happy smile of victory on my face and all the hassle of getting the licence was worth it.

Christianity: Essentially a cult based around human sacrifice?

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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?

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?

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

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

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.

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

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!