My dad is becoming a geek. It started with the simple purchase of an iPod. He couldn’t understand the invention. “Where’s the slot for your CD’s?” he would ask. When I said you put all your music on to the computer and then download them all via iTunes to your iPod using your USB adapter he looked at me with a sense of panic that I don’t think he’s felt since the war. Suddenly our roles had reversed. He used to talk to me, when I was 4 years old, like I was a complete tool. “Ah clever boy. That’s right. Fooootbal. Can you say it? Foootball”. I was 4, course I could say it. I just didn’t know how to say ‘shut up you patronising idiot’. Now it was my turn. For all those years he held the upper hand, not now. I would enjoy this. It was like I was teaching him how to walk. He was about to join the technology revolution and I couldn’t wait.

My dad doesn’t seem to be able to grasp the word ‘internet’ – instead he calls everything ‘the website’. He will talk to my mum (who is petrified of computers) and they’ll be talking about holidays and suddenly he’ll say the phrase ‘let me pull it up on the website’. He is SO smug. Searching for holidays on ‘the website’ suddenly he thinks he is THE MAN. So he brings Val into the ‘Computer Room’. The Computer Room – a very funny room in my parent’s house. Old VHS’s adorn the Desk, Malcolm praying they’ll make a comeback. They also have their special ‘Computer Room chairs’. These chairs are proof that the salesman business is still striving. My dad has invested maybe three to four hundred pounds in some ultimate swivel chair. He was clearly told by the shop assistant that he had to have this chair. Who was he to argue? He gets my mum lined up next to him and he gets out his instructions. His instructions that I have written for him. These instructions are patronising, and I love it. And I love the fact he still uses them; every single day.

1. Turn plug on.
2. Turn the power button on (big grey button in the middle of the computer).
3. Turn the monitor on (button on the big screen you see in front of you).
4. Click ‘Dad’ and type in your password (BigMalc) [why my dad has a password I will never know, but it was non negotiable].
5. You will see a set of icons appear on the screen. Double click the Internet Explorer icon (I didn’t think he was ready fro Google Chrome).
6. Google will load
7. Type in the website you want (for example, if you want holidays, type in ‘holidays’ – no need for the apostrophes in the search)
8. Press ‘ignore’ on the MacAfee warning message that appears
9. Select the website you want
10. Navigate using the ‘back’ button.

These instructions are fine as far as they go but if something unexpected happens my phone will ring. If the MacAfee warning message comes earlier it will throw him. If a website popup appears that’s as good as game over. My mum meanwhile sits there open mouthed amazed that her man has got her on to the world wide web.

So he has managed to turn on the computer, he’s gotten used to launching a website. The obvious next step for my dad is to set up ‘his Facebook’. This is superb.

We set aside some time and we create him an account. His profile picture is one of those classic ‘family shots’. His bio is brief but obviously includes his working history. His likes include ‘Neil Diamond’. I say to him he needs to add some friends for him to get anything out of Facebook. Suddenly my dad seems to have last his grasp of his English – I have to explain to him what a friend is. He is struggling to come to terms with the ‘poking’ feature of Facebook. It is also at this point my dad realises he has few friends – he adds me (Stan), Sophie (his daughter) and Pat – his neighbour. 3 friends. Not a great start. I say to him he should write a status. 25 minutes later he now understands the term Facebook status. His status is a classic Facebook, old man, virgin status. “This is my first time on here, be gentle”. Such a nothing status. I chuck him a ‘like’ to boost his self esteem. He gets a little red notification and he almost shits the bed through excitement. “What’s happening, what’s happening” he says down the phone. I talk to him about being able to ‘like’ his friends statuses and comment on them as well. Before you know it he is all over my wall. My dad is addicted. He is ‘liking’ everything and appearing in conversations I just don’t want him to appear in. He likes the photo of me licking the face of my friend Nigel. This is worrying, for so many reasons.

The time comes where I have to think about blocking my dad. It is just getting too much. I am trying to flirt with this hot girl via the book and I get my dad piping up – it’s cramping my style.

What I do next is something I am not proud of.

I report him to Facebook. I report my own dad to Facebook for inappropriate behaviour. Unbelievably Facebook shut my dad’s account down. He is devastated. “What about all my new friends” – he climbed into double figures before the closing of the account. My dad spends the next week moping before I get a call…

“I want to join Twitter”…

End of blog post.

No just kidding. Well not about not having much hair. I mean I have started puberty, in fact I think I have completed puberty. I, Stan Bennett, 30 years old, am now shaving three times a week it is all around the moustache area though. I have always wanted a beard but I just can’t seem to grow meaningful facial hair – if I try to grow it it always comes out in stands. It is like I have inverse alopecia. Rather than my hair falling out in strands, it grows in strands. Stray hairs adorn my face, I am not able to grow proper stubble and that is one my great disappointments in life.

My moustache area, where hair does grow, looks bloody awful. If I let it grow too long I look like one of those weird 13 year old gypsy kids who can’t afford a razor. One of those kids who you feel desperately sorry for, who you know gets bullied and who you know started puberty when he was 9. That is me, except I am 30. So I have to try and keep on top of it. But this has its own dangers. I use an electric razor that doesn’t really like my face, nor does it shave my stray hairs. After a shave I am left looking like I have chicken pox that is just restricted to the face area. I am also left with hairs all over my face. To be honest after a shave I look ill.

Then there is my haircut itself. Whilst I have no problem growing hair on the top of my head, it has been described to me that I have a mophead. It is just heavy and shit. It just looks rubbish. I can put a tonne of gel (and yes I do use gel) in it but still it looks as flat as Kate Moss’ chest (it took an awful lot of research to make that gag).

So yesterday I decided to treat myself. I would take myself to a barbers.

I’d been recommended a barbers by a friend, which in itself is extremely strange. What friends do you know that go ‘Oh mate, you have to go to this barbers…’ I didn’t know exactly what a barbers was. I thought it was a cake shop but after much discussion with my friend he told me they shave you (I got assurances it was just the face) and they cut your hair. And they, well Roy the barber, does all this for £9. That should have been an obvious warning sign – £9. I am not going to get a classic trim for £9. And sure enough I was about to be proved right.

I’d made my booking and I parked my car. I saw a red and white sign that said ‘Roy’s Barbers. You didn’t have to be Morse to work out this was Roy’s barbers. The décor was truly horrendous. He had infused old African art with pinks, whites and pastels. What was more worrying was Roy himself.

Roy was 80, that is an incredibly generous 80. It honestly would not surprise me if Roy was 90. Roy had a zimmerframe. Now I have nothing against people with zimmers. In fact I would like a zimmerframe but should a man, who has a razor in one hand, and a pair of scissors in the other, be allowed to operate a zimmerframe whilst he has a razor in one hand a pair of scissors in the other? Little beads of sweat were dripping from my brow as Roy asked me to take a seat. I needn’t ask which seat as there was only one seat.

I am no expert but whenever I have been in my hairdressers before I get like a weird hairdresser coat thing to put over myself to protect my clothes from my own hair. They also wash my hair and give me one of those immense head massages which makes you question, for the length of the head massage, if you are in fact gay as Jason gently, but firmly, massages your scalp.

I received no protection from Roy, nor a hairwash or a head massage (I was grateful for the lack of head massage). Here I was, in my doc martins and le coq sportif t shirt having shaving foam applied to my face. Roy was not mucking around – he sprayed it (easy) all over my face. He hadn’t given me warning so it was in my mouth and my eyes. I was in such pain from the foam in my eyes but I was unable to yelp out in pain given I had a mouth full of foam at the time.

Roy then got a stick and ditched the Zimmer. It was like a big crutch thing and he began to shave me. The butcher of Basildon had begun. He was tearing great lumps out of my face. I was screaming, desperately trying to get Roy off of my face. For an 80 year old he was surprisingly strong. I tried kicking his crutch from beneath him but no luck. Roy was in full flow. The Mack 5 was shearing my beautiful face. I was in tears. Roy was trying to make small ‘barber’ talk – ‘You going on holiday this year? What do you do? Where do you live’. Give it a rest Roy. Focus. I am in tears and have blood pouring from my face but Roy wants to know if I am going to catch any rays in Tenerife. What Roy does next is totally unprecedented.

I have been going to hairdressers now for almost 25 years. Every single time they have asked me for what I want. Every single time I just say ‘Oh can you just take a little off’. They inevitably take too much off (I am always too scared to question why they are chopping fringe into nothing). But you leave the hairdressers despondent but not devastated as you know in a week’s time your hair, for the briefest of moments, will be the length you actually asked for originally.

Roy however…

Roy decides, amidst the carnage, that he is going to bic me. He takes an electric razor and goes right through the middle of my head. A number one right through the middle. I have shaving foam on one side of my face, I have blood pouring from me on the other side and now my head looks like a vagina. My instinct is to throw my arms up, to get Roy off of me. I successfully do this but I accidentally give Roy an uppercut. Dazed Roy hits the floor.

The busy Basildon streets can see in to Roy’s Barbers. They see an 80 year old man on the floor, his zimmerframe next to him and blood all over my face…

This was going to take a fair bit of explaining….

It starts on around the first weekend of December. The first ‘list’ gets generated. You scan the list and it instantly fills you with dread:

“Mum, Dad, Stan’s mum, Stan’s dad, Stan, Stan’s friends – Matt, Paul and Tom, crackers, tree, wrapping paper, sellotape, scissors, tags, pen, turkey, pigs in blankets, stuffing, gravy granules, nibbles, mini chedders, haribo for Stan’s nephew, turkey, candles, candle holders, seasonal table cloth, Michael Buble CD for the meal, Articulate, novelty reindeer, tinsel, dancing Santa, Christmas cards, arrange with Stan’s parents when they are to come round….”

The list unbelievably goes on.

If I quickly analyse this list a few thinks immediately jump out. She is buying my parents presents – thus meaning I have to buy her parents something. She is buying my friends presents – thus meaning I have to buy her friends something. Instantly a wave of nausea passes through me. Buying future in laws something is a task that does not sit well with me. I am so concerned I will buy something wildly inappropriate for the mum and I know literally nothing about the dad and will inevitably get him something he just doesn’t want. Emma has already told me she is not spending much on parents but I know her present will be incredibly thoughtful. I wouldn’t put it past her to even end up making something for my parents – something like a photoalbum full of ‘moments from this year’. This will then in turn put me firmly under the microscope and when I produce the ‘Duff Beer’ novelty slippers for her mum I know the icy look that will meet me from across the room.

For the second time this year I have to buy a present for my girlfriend. She doesn’t tell me what she wants, oh no, that’s far too easy. Instead she replies ‘Stan, I am so easy to buy for! I will love whatever you get me’. First, and please take note, us men have literally no idea what to buy women. Like literally no idea. Second, do not pretend you will love what ever we get you. We know, when we produce the lightsaber that we bought for you so we can have battles in the living room on Christmas morning, a little bit of you will die. We know that when we guess your size and go for a 14 that you will leave your turkey and be annoyed at us for the rest of the day. We know that when we buy Blade on DVD you secretly want to throw it at us. Help us help you.

A further scan of the list and you can see the workings of the woman’s mind.

“Crackers” now I know Emma well enough to know that she doesn’t mean ‘buy’ crackers. Oh no. Emma is one of those people, those strange strange creatures, that on December the 26th get up at 5am to hit BHS to buy her crackers at half price. This in itself is something I will never understand – as if the sheer torment of shopping for the last 3 weeks was not punishing enough – she decides to hit the shops again. However the kicker for me is that Emma will buy the crackers at 50% off and then have absolutely no idea, come Christmas time, where she has put her 50% crackers. Emma will then ask me – an innocent bystander – where they are! When I do not know where she has put the crackers Emma gets annoyed at me and then orders ME to go out and buy some more. This happens every Christmas. If I take the initiative and suggest we not buy crackers on December 26th then I am told in no uncertain terms ‘Do you know how much money I have spent on Christmas this year? I cannot spend that again next year.’ Sheer buffoonery.

“Tree” ah this is a good one. Emma wants a real one. Why do people feel the need to go the ‘extra mile’ and buy a real Christmas tree? All they do is buy a real tree and then complain for 3 weeks about pine needles. Also the tree seems to be going up earlier and earlier. I used to put it up with my folks 2 weeks before Christmas. We would just have a laugh and throw on tinsel, from long distance, and decorate it with horrendously tacky decorations. Not now though. Now I am a ‘grown up’ we have to have a designer tree. Our tinsel colours have to compliment. Tacky tree decorations are replaced with expensive ones from John Lewis. Suddenly Christmas is not about fun but outdoing Joan from number 34 and having a tree whose lights can be switched on from any room in the building. One tree is also not enough – the conservatory gets one and the dining room gets a mini one. Sure it does.

Moving on “wrapping paper, sellotape, scissors, tags and a pen”. This is beautiful for so many reasons. First, and most important, we already have selloptape, scissors and a pen. For some reason Christmas arrives and mass panic ensues and suddenly we worry the pen will run out of ink, the sellotape over the last year has lost it’s stickiness and the scissors are for some reason now unable to perform their function. What I also like about this part of the list is that Emma will 100% go to the “Everything Christmas shop”. Every high street seems to have one of these. Sometime, late November, a shop selling nothing but crap opens up. Its range includes football based calendars to budget tinsel. The shop is a total mess. The people who work in the shop look like they have stared in ‘I am Sam’. Yet incredibly the shop is rammed. You cannot move. Crazed shoppers from all over Southend are packed into this small space desperately trying to buy the last ‘Chelsea alarm clock’ or the calendar of ‘cute dogs’. This place is the pits. I was in the queue, buying scissors and tags, when a man in front of me received his receipt ‘£126’. This man had done the whole of the Christmas shop from the shop of crap. I felt for him, a fallen comrade. Someone who had clearly so little idea as to what to get the family and the wife that he thought the shop of crap could save his Christmas. For a fleeting moment he seemed genuinely proud and then he scanned his bags, studied for a second what he had bought, and saw the Justin Bieber hot water bottle – the best of his gifts – staring back at him. I wanted to offer a shoulder of condolence.

The next part of the list is for the day itself. The food and the table decorations. Buying a turkey should be an Olympic event. The amount of planning that goes in to that one transaction is quite unbelievable. I am given my orders – I have to drive my mum and Auntie to Marks and Spencer (Christmas’ unofficial sponsor) Thursday morning – exactly 3 days before Christmas. I am to cancel any plans I have that day and I am also expected to book a day’s holiday from work to ensure the successful negotiation of the bird. I am told to remain in the car in case M&S do not have the bird and we have to race across town to Tesco. This day will always remain the one I dread the most. Crazed women literally running down the meat aisle with only one thing in mind. They don’t care who they knock over in the process, they will get their carcass. It is one event that sadly David Attenborough has failed to capture.

“Candles, candle holders, Michael Buble and Articulate”. This to me sums up Christmas. At what point in the year do you ever whip the candles out for Auntie Val? Why, amidst sheer carnage, do we think anyone will listen to Michael Buble? And why do we have to play truly God awful board games. Just let me watch TV. For 354 days a year we never play board games – there is a reason for that. Board games are poor peoples’ computer games. Why then on December 25th am I trying to act out “Silence of the Lambs” by gnawing on Val’s neck? Why, more importantly, is Emma’s mum LOSING it at me for not being able to guess ‘Titanic’? Relationships can completely break down over the playing of board games.

So that to me is Christmas. It is a time full of dread, full of crazy people who have suddenly become irrational and hate fuelled. We wouldn’t change it though would we?

I had been asked by a friend to go to see his friends play their ‘set’. I then proceeded to email a set of questions to allay any fears I may have.

I asked what sort of music it was, the reply ‘Indie Electric fused with new metal’ scared me. I asked for the bands name, the reply ‘Acid Junkies just got real’ made me feel uncomfortable. I emailed my friend saying TicketMaster did not appear to have them listed. He said that’s because there are not tickets and that he would invite via a Facebook ‘event’ – again this was not a great sign.

Knowing that there were problems with the Jubilee line I emailed him explaining that if we were to get to Wembley to watch the band we would have to get the Metropolitan line. He replied saying the venue was not Wembley. I replied asking where it was “The Electric Ballroom in Camden” was the response. Little beads of sweat were beginning to develop on my brow.

I asked him to make sure he booked me a seat next to him. He replied saying we would be standing as there were no seats. Seeing as he had seen them before I wondered if he could bring his programme to save me from having to buy one. He replied saying that he did not own a programme because one didn’t exist and one wouldn’t be created. I began to feel queasy. When I saw Journey South they had Andy Abraham supporting them. I enquired to see who would be supporting Acid Junkies just got real. I received no reply.

After having no sleep, and being up the whole night with stomach cramps caused by the stress of the gig, I got to work. I got out my list that I had written the night before and I immediately emailed more questions. I didn’t want to bombard him so I emailed them one at a time.

Would we meet in the foyer? He replied suggesting there wasn’t a foyer. What sort of concert hall was this? Next question, should I bring my glowstick or will there be glowsticks on sale at the venue? I have yet to receive a reply. Would my parents like them, shall I get them to come? His reply suggested that my ageing mother and partially deaf father would not enjoy the sound of Acid Junkies just got real. My dad is known to be more into modern music than me (he recently saw a band called Fleetwood Mac) and so if my friend thought he would not like it then I feared for myself. The cramps were intensifying, the trips to the toilet were becoming more frequent.

After lunch I set about asking more questions. I said I could not find their Wikipedia page so could he give me a quick bio of the band. I did not receive a reply. I asked who was going or was it just myself and my friend. He replied commenting that the ‘Shoreditch lot’ would be in attendance with us. I didn’t know what this meant, I had never met anyone from Shoreditch, nor did I want to. I asked what band would he compare Acid Junkies just got real to. His reply was extremely unhelpful – he suggested their sound was very ‘Yuck’ like. So obviously my next question was what does that mean? He replied saying their sound is like the indie band Yuck. So ‘Yuck’ were a band. Needless to say I promptly ran to the toilet with stress induced cramps.

I was to meet him and the Shoreditch lot at ‘The Worlds End’ – a very aptly named pub. My pants were brown, my stomach was empty, I was off to a gig. I wonder what it will be like? Tune in tomorrow for a full report…

Gary Speed was a rare man in football, he was universally liked. No matter who you followed there would be few who would say a bad word about Gary Speed. It is not often football is united but yesterday it was, it was united in grief. Gary Speed, 42, had taken his own life.

Gary Speed’s football career may not be well known to you. However, only two players have played more Premier League games than Gary Speed. Gary Speed scored in every season he played. Gary Speed is a league winner, an international captain, and an international manager. He was these things because he was exceedingly good at what he did. The tributes that have been paid all make mention of his career as a footballer but the tributes centre around Speed as a person. No one has been more respected in football than the late Bobby Robson and Robson once remarked ‘He is one of the best of the best. He and Alan Shearer are the finest role models you will find in football’.

Gary Speed seemed ‘from the outside’ to be a happy man, a balanced man. A wonderful father and a loving husband. He appeared on football focus yesterday and gave no indication of what he was about to do some 12 hours later.

Now I don’t know if Gary Speed was depressed. But for Gary Speed to take the action that he did he must have been, at that moment, totally consumed by depressive thoughts. Depression is a disease. A disease that ravages the mind like cancer destroys the body.

There are those that will always harbour the opinion ‘just get on with it’. I would be amazed if you have not met someone with depression. Someone, who seems incredibly happy, gregarious, care free and trouble free. Someone can possess these wonderful qualities but that same person may be suffering, suffering in a way you and I could never imagine. One such person is the comic Rob Delaney ‘The first thing I did each morning was vomit. My mind played one thought over and over, which was kill yourself. It was also accompanied by a constant, thrumming pain that I felt through my whole body. I describe the physical symptoms because it helps to understand that real depression isn’t just a “mood”.’

Rob Delaney has tried to kill himself twice. Rob Delaney survived. “It can be survived. And after the stabilisation process, which can be and often is f***** terrifying, a happy productive life is possible and statistically likely. Get help. Don’t think. Get help’.

Was Gary Speed selfish? Gary Speed, for that moment at least, was riddled with depression. Gary Speed was not selfish, Gary Speed was helpless, alone and at that moment a victim of a heinous disease. A disease that is woefully misunderstood, and a disease that can leave a family without a husband, without a father.

Gary Speed’s tragic death has reopened the ‘Mental Health issue’, how we, society, deal with it. How we can help, how we can spot signs, how we can ensure people are not suffering in silence. It has taken the death of a universally respected man to raise much needed awareness. The only selfish thing I can see that has happened is that it has taken a death of a husband and a father for the public to start treating this issue with the respect it deserves.

The people that make up the cinema are very amusing. From the guys that sell you the tickets – they are that into film that they think by working at the Odeon they are actually working in film. It takes everything I have not to chuckle at the baseball style caps that they are forced to wear. I also don’t really understand the ushers’ role, certainly not the way the cinema usher operates. You rock up to the door, you show you him your ticket and with an out stretched hand he points you to the direction of the screen. Whilst I am not clairvoyant I had figured that my seat would be in the same room as the screen. Unbelievably he is getting £6 an hour for this role.

There is no doubt the staff make the cinema experience an interesting one but it is the punter, the viewer, the common man in the street that makes the cinema the experience that it is. They walk into the screen with piles and piles of popcorn. They have multiple packets of sweets and are laced with jumbo drinks. They then proceed to treat the cinema like it is their living room. They collapse into the chair, they proceed to throw popcorn all over the floor and have no intention of picking it up. They decide to literally throw their drinks over them and they also decide to make as much noise as possible when opening up their packets of sweets, they often decide to only open up their sweets when the film is just beginning thereby ensuring optimum annoyance.

The best people though, the most beautiful people, are those that feel a sense of ownership to the seats printed on their tickets. Let me set the scene, I am with a lovely young lady, I am desperately trying to impress her, so we sit in the ‘premier’ seats. Now no one in their right mind pays an extra £5 to sit in the ‘premier’ seats. It is SO obvious that you pay economy and then just move to ‘premier’ if no one is sitting there. It is worth pointing out that there are 4 rows of ‘premier’ seats, each one empty. So, there I am, with the lady and we have slouched back into the ‘premier’ seats that we have not paid for. The film is that bad that the cinema is empty. There are maybe 29 people in the whole cinema. The ‘Premier’ rows are all free with the exception of me and the girl. A party of four arrives just as the film is about to start. You know what is coming next! “Excuse me; you appear to be in our seats”. I fight laughter with every sinew of my body. I am desperate to scream ‘Just sit in the ‘Premier’ row in front you utter idiot’ but I have a very British way about me, so I politely get up, move to the row in front and then proceed to bad mouth them when they are out of earshot. I then hide behind a blog to really attack them!

So I feel I have explained my concerns about the cinema experience. So imagine how I must have felt when this week I went to the cinema to watch the film ‘Twilight Breaking Dawn’.

I was the only man in the cinema. I had been bullied into seeing it by a friend and it was when she started to scream, along with the rest of the cinema, when some sort of guy turns into a wolf, that I questioned what my life had become. For the next two hours I watched the worst film I have ever seen in my life. Now I have seen some truly horrific films – ‘The Tuxedo’ to name one. ‘The Tuxedo’ has this description – A hapless chauffer must take a comatose secret agent’s place using his special gadget-laden tuxedo. IMDB rate this film a 5.0. IMDB rate Breaking Dawn a 4.9. This gives you some insight as to the quality of Breaking Dawn.

For those who do not know whether to see the film let me help you. I had never seen any of them, so I was going in blind. From what I could understand it revolves round the most boring girl ever depicted in cinema history. Her emotion for joy, sadness, pain – is always the same. One that is entirely blank. The girl, whose name Belle – of course it is – has fallen for some guy with a square face who has just put his head in a plug socket thereby causing his hair to stand to attention. They appear to be in love. Oh and he is a vampire. A vampire that grazes on animals. He has a mate, who the girl seems to like; the mate is played by a man who is honest to God the worst actor I have ever seen in my life. Oh and his mate, yep he turns into a wolf. So the scene is set, boring girl meets vampire who likes animals and boring girl also likes wolfman. Boring girl then marries the vampire in a truly beautiful ceremony. They then jet off on honeymoon and he gets her pregnant, pregnant with a bump just 2 days after having sex for the first ever time. Oh and she is pregnant with some vampire human hybrid. This hybrid is killing her. Shocking I know. She is dying because the hybrid is growing at a rate of knots. It’s been a week and she’s put on about 9 stone.

Wolfman gets called in to save the day. He suggests that the hybrid needs some human blood. So the vampire guy pops out and comes back with some sort of bloodshake – she then drinks the blood, through a straw. She loves it. Wolfman’s family, also wolves, aren’t happy he is hanging around with the vampire gang so they decide they will kill wolfman and the vampire gang. A big fight occurs, whilst boring girl dies during labour – it seems she didn’t have enough bloodshake. Somehow the vampire, not a trained midwife to my knowledge, delivers the hybrid. The hybrid who looks like a 3 year old. Wolfman enters the room, desperate to kill the hybrid as revenge instead falls for the hybrid, this means some sort of pact has been activated and this pact can’t be broken so the wolves go away, leaving the vampires to go and feed on the sheep. Boring girl, dead for a week, suddenly wakes up and it turns out she’s only a vampire!

I am honestly not doing it a disservice – it is truly this bad. The acting is so laughable that I indeed did laugh only to be elbowed by my friend. It is fair to say my friend, and others, got into the film. Screams, swear words were all prevalent.

She can’t wait for part two. I am mentally preparing myself for part two.

The cinema is an interesting experience but Twilight Breaking Dawn at the cinema is not just an interesting experience, it is a lesson in life. A lesson in how to waste two hours of said life.

Grim Jane and I were watching Grand Designs and I am not sure if it was Kevin McCloud or the massive ‘eco’ house (Grim Jane works for Greenpeace) they were building but Grim Jane was bang up for it. In my 29 years on the job, ok maybe less given I didn’t first do the deed until I was nineteen. So let me start again, in my ten years on the job, I had learned to read the signs. I instantly knew when the ladies were bang up for some Stan Bennett loving. These signs are very subtle and are only visible for those with a very keen eye. With observation so acute that one look, one touch, is enough for you to know you can move the troops in. Not everyone has this ability, this ability to read signs. Grim Jane stood in front of me in nothing but her poundland bra and sisters (Tubby Tina) stockings – with my keen eye I knew this was a sign, no matter how subtle, I knew that Grim Jane was bang up for some action.

The passion began – we turned Grand Designs on to mute and put on Boys to Men…the Greatest hits. We managed to get ourselves to the bathroom (I only have a single bed and Grim Jane was too big for it) where Grim Jane, two ham sandwhiches in hand, began with an evocative strip show. To be honest I wished she had kept her clothes on. The only saving grace was that Boys to Men had been joined by Mariah Carey. However, as I was taking off my vest, I noticed Jane was getting very experimental with the towel rack. God knows what Jenks, the housing safety officer, would have made it.

I was ready, my trousers were off, my briefs were by my ankles. My new white socks were the only item of clothing I was wearing. I sensed Jane’s love of the towel rack was waning so I moved over to her. Forgetting my briefs were around my ankles, I tripped – I tried to use Grim Jane to break my fall. Grim Jane is as sterdy as they come but with a naked Stan hurtling towards her she was always going to end up in the bath. Not put off by the wound to her head or the blood on my socks we began. The bath was also not big enough for Grim Jane so I had to do a lot of carrying. We had to get the wall involved – to help support us, it was only a stud wall so I did have my concerns that Grim Jane and I would come crashing through it but fortunately it stood up to the test, bar a slight crack. Grim Jane’s weight was beginning to effect my performance – fortunately I had not cancelled my gym membership the month before so I was used to lifting huge weight.

Grim Jane, one sandwich down, was really beginning to enjoy this. I had to ensure the kissing was kept to a minimum as her first sandwich contained an awful lot of egg and egg makes me gag. Grim Jane however, overcome with passion, proceeded to kiss me. Ah the smell. The smell on her breath. I will remember that for as long as I live. Overcome with fumes, overcome with egg I gagged. I gagged in Grim Jane’s mouth. Fearing she could take this badly I apologised but Grim Jane is nothing if not a good sport so we carried on.

She was now on the floor, she was half in the bath, half out the bath. It is at this point I normally have to think of disgusting things – sick, poo, chronic acne – anything to prevent me from getting too ‘excited’. Fortunately I did not need to think of these things as in front of me was a butt naked Grim Jane. With a tattoo on her left butt cheek that said ‘Kasabian til I die’ and a hairy mole on the right cheek I felt in control. I had passed four minutes, according to my stopwatch, and I was feeling good.

Grim Jane decided to turn around – she pushed me on to the toilet. I found the lid uncomfortable so I quickly opened it up whilst she finished her second sarnie. I opened up the lid to find a floater. Grim Jane had had the curry and dropped the kids off to the pool before Grand Designs. It seemed that the deposit she made to the bank was too big for the cashier to handle. I was about to shut the lid when Grim Jane said ‘no leave it open’. Who was I to argue? After all Billericay’s first woman sumo wrestler was nothing if not persuasive. I sat on the toilet, with poo particles entering my nose. On top of me sat Grim Jane, her bits swinging from left to right.

I am not a proud man. It had been a full seven months since my last conquest. It was nice to use a condom for its intended purpose for once. That 99p purchase off of Alan a few weeks ago now seems inspired. God knows what she had but I guarantee she was riddled. That little bit of latex was literally saving my life. Over five minutes in, the pace had been picked up, I had got used to the poo smell and grew fond of her eggy breath. I felt myself weakening. I let out a ‘yipeeee’ and then promptly pushed her off me. She fell backwards and hit her head. Already sporting a cut from the earlier incident it seems Grim Jane was now going to have to put up with a headache as company for tonight. My sock, red from all the blood (remember Grim Jane cut herself earlier…you sick people) had to come off, I wasn’t comfortable having blood on my foot any more.

So let’s review the scene. I had one sock on, another was in the middle of the bathroom covered in blood. Grim Jane was lying spread eagle on the floor, totally nude, holding her head with one hand and the remnants of a ham sandwich in the other. The stud wall had a big crack running down the middle and the bathroom was suffering from a curry poo odour. It was at this point I wish I had remembered to lock the bathroom door. The reason I had wished I locked my door was that my 72 year old mother walked in. Mumma Bennett trips over Grim Jane, stumbles and falls over to the toilet. Fearing that she could land on me (I was naked) I managed to quickly shift position, as I move, mumma Bennett faceplants the toilet only to be welcomed by Grim Jane’s curry poo from earlier.

I was grounded for five months. A penalty that I believe was a little too harsh. But this was due to end next week. I have a feeling I am going to get lucky.

I am in a queue waiting to board my plane. On the left hand side is a row of vending machine containing overpriced food (chomps are 30p in these vending machine) and overpriced drinks (Panda Pops are a whopping 90p).

I am on my own and deep in analysis. Who are the people that make up my queue? I am flying Easyjet today and it is fair to say the people in my queue look like they are flying Easyjet. Some look like they have just come straight from the riots. Indeed in one family there appears to be those that carried out the riots – weasel looking maggots whose face is obscured by their hoodie. They speak their own version of English – a mashup of real words and words that they heard on some CD (that they stole). In the same family you have the parents who look like they have just been looted – no jewelry or phones in site. Crest fallen faces fresh from the realisation that they are about to go on a family holiday to the Costa  Del Sol with the modern day Nazi Youth.

Next in line is a dear old couple who are just amazed, absolutely amazed, that they have made it all the way to the gate with only a bit of paper as a boarding pass.

After them come Patrick and Joan, a middle aged couple that love a row. Joan is adamant that she gave Patrick the money that they transferred yesterday. Patrick claims she never gave him said money. A stand off ensues with Joan eventually giving Patrick a slap after he calls her ‘An old hag’ –to be fair she looked so old, no amount of fake tan and false lashes can save Joan from mother nature. Joan runs off crying, Patrick fumbles around his bag, feeling very embarrassed and suddenly pulls out a clear Thomas Cook see through envelope stuffed with Euro’s. Patrick looks at me, I look at Patrick. He puts his finger to his mouth, it is clear he doesn’t want this to get back to Joan. I nod at Joan’s handbag, sitting there on the floor proudly – Patrick winks and stuffs the envelope in to the handbag. I feel closer to Patrick than I have to ever man I have met before. I think about asking him for his number but an incident diverts my attention before I can ask him for his digits.

A rake thin, bum bag loving, glasses wearing, high white sock fashionista approaches the vending machine. I am fascinated. Thin Tim, as I have named him, is staring at the Vendo. His eyes are scanning the products. I am certain that this his first furor into the vending machine world. What will he choose? Does he go drink and chocolate bar? Maybe a nice combination of a calypso straw drink with a sherbet dip. Or, judging by his stance and his bum bag will he play it with a straight bat and just go for a Twix. Nothing fancy. Just two slabs of chocolate with a caramel centre. Not adventurous but why take risks if this is your first time at the Vend? I am amazed by what he does next.

He puts in his pound and he selects ‘71’ on the panel. My eyes scan the products, 71. 71 surely not? Thin Tim, who is at the Vend for the first ever time has just chosen a Lipton Iced Tea. I am stunned. Absolutely stunned. Such a statement from the young fella. I was convinced he would go water, maybe a sprite but a Lipton Iced Tea – no way. I look at thin Tim and I can tell he is excited, I am excited for him. The vending machine is quite a futuristic one, thin Tim is going to love what happens next. The bucket comes up, goes right, the Lipton Iced tea is released and begins to move towards the bucket which will then be passed back to thin Tim. Thin Tim’s eyes are darting back and forth, oh no…surely not.

The Lipton Iced Tea has got stuck. The bucket comes back down, empty handed. Thin Tim looks at the queue, they secretly share his disappointment. It was his first ever trip to the Vend and it has ended in bitter disappointment, embarrassment even. Thin Tim, visibly upset, begins frantically tapping the coin release button. Nothing. Thin Tim, clearly at his wit’s end, starts shaking the vend. I want to help him, I want to say ‘No, no thin Tim, it’s not worth it. Let it go man’. But I don’t. Instead  I look on in sheer horror as to what thin Tim does next.

Thin Tim gets out his phone and dials a number…

“Hi, yes I am at Stansted airport and your vending machine has just swallowed my pound and it has not given me the Liptons Iced Tea I ordered nor has it given me the pound back”.

Immediately I have lost all respect for thin Tim. I know this his first time on the vending machine but who actually follows the instruction ‘Please ring this number if there is a problem with this vending machine’? It’s a pound thin Tim, one measly pound. Let it go man. Before this sorry incident I had admired thin Tim’s voyage into the unknown but now I felt nothing but anger towards him. What a complete tool. Sometimes thin Tim vending machines do not give you a product or change. A vending machine is a gamble. You know that going in. Thin Tim has displayed a massive amount of naivety in his pursuit of a Lipton’s Iced Tea but what was concerning me most about this whole sorry affair was that someone’s job was work for a vending machine complaints call centre.

I have worked in call centre’s in my time and they are horrendously dull, but to work for a vending machine complaints call centre is just a whole new level. I mean how many calls can they get? How does the call centre operator not laugh at the sad man on the other end of the phone who has just lost a pound? Why does he continue to work there? The only job that can possibly be more boring is the toll booth money collector. If I was at the other end of this phone and this call came through to me I would give serious consideration to ending it all. There’s no coming back from this, you must look at yourself and ask ‘where did it all go wrong?”.

The conversation has continued, by now the riot family, Patrick (not Joan) and Mr and Mrs New Age are all on the edge of the seats (despite not actually being seated).

“Yes my address is number 42, Fairfax Drive, Southend-on-Sea, Essex, SS9 5SE” I knew this idiot would be a Southend boy. Thin Tim literally looks like he has not eaten a meal in his life, ironically it looks like supermarkets, as well as vending machines, refuse to give him food as well. Why has he just given his address?

Thin Tim gets off the phone and speaks to what I presume his wife, although she reminds me of a bad nightmare. She asks him “So?” and thin Tim responds, responds with one of the most shameful admissions I have heard in my short life…

“Yep, they are sending the pound back to us in the post, it should be with us Tuesday”. As I boarded that Easyjet plane I have never felt more ashamed of the human race…