The long-sleeve T-shirt shouldn’t work, should it? Short trousers have plagued many sea-side resorts in the UK for many years—for some reason women can just about get away with them, but men simply can NOT—so by all rights, long-sleeve T-shirts are a bit strange and probably not where Mr T-shirt was going when he started the craze off all that time ago. My reasoning to back this statement up? Easy: they masquerade as jumpers, aren’t sweaters, and seem to have a severe grudge against T-shirts. It’s like they are trying to say “Look! We can be worn when it’s a bit colder! What are you good for? Summer is what! So who’s better, ey?”

I don’t have a problem with long-sleeved T-shirts, but what I have an enormous problem with is people who wear SHORT sleeve T-shirts over LONG sleeve T-shirts. It simply isn’t right! Can you imagine taking a leisurely stroll wearing shorts over jeans? No, you can’t. Why? Because it’s utter silliness. Really, what job does it do wearing this awkward get-up? It’s not as good as wearing a sweater or jumper over a T-shirt. Not only that but it looks downright silly. I blame age. Age makes people do bizarre things. I have a feeling why men old enough to collect their pension do this is to seem hip and, wait for it, ‘Funky’–well, someone has to stand up and put a stop to this NOW. It may be acceptable on the set of a legendary Australian soap, but anywhere else it is just not right. This modern scourge is everywhere. In the olden-days we had the plague. Now, in the modern age we have AIDS, Cheryl Cole, a beach bag towel, Short Trousers, predictive texting and this lunacy! Don’t do it people. Imagine the effect you can have by stopping this awful habit. It may cause a ricochet. It could change our human future!

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Since when did child-bearing turn into all-out war against the general, not-so-general, regular and altogether unknowing public? World-wide, mothers are taking to the streets in their droves, driving regular non-child-bearing people from the pavements and somebody, sometime, has to take a stand about this. This is not a vendetta, if you were wondering. I have never been rammed off the pavement by a Mother-terrorist. It is simply one man exercising his freedom of speech and providing a stark warning to everyone out there…so they don’t stumble across this problem like I did one day. So they can adjust their mental state accordingly, instead of having it adjusted for them in one harsh, terrifying episode!

I know, it seems slightly harsh; but let it be known I am definitely not mother-ist–how can I be? I came from Mother myself! And this is not aimed at every single mother (only roughly 99.2%). No, there must be at least a hundred mothers world-wide who know where I am coming from. Mothers who wouldn’t dream of going side-by-side on standard pavement. Mothers without tunnel-vision who can actually crack a smile.

The thing is, in some ways human-beings and pram technologists—for want of a better word—have created Monster-mother-syndrome. By engineering extra-wide prams to house extra-wide-bottomed children, and enabling these space-age contraptions with all kinds of features, they have grown prams to such a width that even one space-age pram practically fills the width of a pavement. And what is the answer to Monster-mother-syndrome? Here it is people. In my opinion, the next logical step would be to create Mother-only lanes on the pavement. It’s been done for buses, taxis (and probably even ducks and sheep in deepest Wales) so it does seem like the obvious solution to a growing problem. Or maybe it’s just me. It is a Monday after all.

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Scientists: they hold the keys to the kingdom. They may be prehistoric men of fashion, men who generally know more about the Moon than they do about hair-rollers—and I am willing to bet 95% of them think GHD is a chemical compound—but we’d be in dire straits without them–or would we, actually? Who knows. We were doing fine before science came along. Our biggest hassle was probably finding meat and staying warm, both things which our bodies were more than specialized in doing. Now where are we with all our technology? We’re in trouble is where. The ‘cleverer’ we get the more trouble we make, and the more trouble we make the less we are willing to concede we are the ones doing it. So for all our science and answers, it is all a bit of a mess, isn’t it? The least we can do is sort it out. Except nobody wants to, and if you believe we didn’t cause all this damage, then you’ll believe anything–

So a few solutions come to light: we could just get rid of the scientists all at once, which is extremely tempting, or we could make them all go out into the world (without their amazing instruments that allow them to monitor everything from a hundred miles away) and force them to see it FIRST-hand. Until then we all have to do our bit, and providing we know what’s up, we are all capable of doing that.

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I am sick of the mobile phone snobs! Who do they think they are? I still remember the last visit to the mobile phone shop; I believe I always will–

I had gone to talk to one of the fine suited gentleman about getting a new phone and a different tariff: that was all I wanted. But when I arrived the man—Derek, gym-fit, neat blonde hair—asked to have a look at my phone. This immediately sent a shiver down my spine. When asked what my old phone had to do with anything, Derek said, “you can tell a lot about someone by their phone–It’s like seeing someone’s soul.”

This troubled me; I am very picky about who I let see my soul. But Derek assured me not to be nervous. He had seen every phone there ever had been and would not be surprised by mine–

Derek almost collapsed when he saw my phone. He started to sweat profusely and looked very ill. Then a smile swept across his face. “Oh my god–” He said, one hand frantically calling up a contact on his Blackberry. “…Which museum did that come from? It looks fossilized!”

I waited for Derek to finish with his mobile phone, then said, “It’s just a Nokia, my friend.”

He asked when I purchased it. I said “Seven years ago.”

Derek looked crippled by some demonic force, then he burst out laughing. I sat there for half an hour while he called everyone he knew to tell them about the relic he had just stumbled over–

What is it with mobile phone sellers? I don’t get it. Are mobile phones life? No, they are not! And my phone is as fit and worthy as anyone elses!

Suffice to say I came out of the shop with a phone that is just about as useful to me as a Botox Manchester clinic, and that cost five times more than I intended to spend–

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Sometimes I feel like being a vegetarian is like being a pregnant woman. You know how strangers seem to like rushing up to a pregnant woman to stroke her belly and tell her how outlandishly ‘big’ she is? Well, being a vegetarian is a similar experience (although thankfully we don’t have to go through childbirth at the end of it).

Admitting that you’re a vegetarian somehow invites every person in the world, whether they’re a family member, close friend, passing acquaintance, or a busker on a street corner, to give you all sorts of advice about your diet, and to profess great concern about your iron and protein levels, and whether it’s possible to get the right nutrients eating that tofu and gloopy bean stuff.

Sometimes it’s enough to make me want to fake a swoon to get them away from me, but that would only support their point. I have no idea what the history behind it is, but admitting that you’re vegetarian (especially if you’ve done it in a proud manner), is somehow an affront to the meat eaters around us. As they sit there chowing down on BigMac and fries, complaining about our dietary choices, they begin to extol the virtues of meat. Which is all very well and good. For them. Personally, I have no problem at all with other people eating meat.

Like someone’s personal hygiene habits, it is, quite frankly, none of my business. If you want to eat meat, that’s perfectly fine with me, and I won’t call you on it. However, the same should go both ways—if I choose not to eat meat, and to take the vegetarian path instead, that’s my business, and quite frankly, has nothing to do with you at all. So, the next time you see me eating tofu (which is high in both protein and iron, I might add), there’s no need to worry about my health or sanity. I’m perfectly fine with the choice of made, so there’s no need to butt into my life and try to make me change my mind.

One more quick thing, I have just had a look at the site design for this human resource software website and I feel like computers are taking away real peoples jobs…I mean what have we become, hopefully they never create a program that does convincing copywriting!

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In other news, something else that really really bothers me is when people put down a good businesses name to a) get money out of them, or b) because they had one sort of bad experience with them. I think this is possibley the worst thing that the internet has let us do! My friend has found a couple of companies that have both received bad reviews and has written a WHOLE PAGE in her blog about it. You can check it out on the Enigin page!

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I know it sounds utterly petty, but one of my biggest pet hates is people who walk incredibly slowly down major streets in the middle of the city. These particular people seem to love to do this the most when it’s, oh, about two minutes to 9, which is when I, like many other poor office workers, am dashing madly from the train station in order to get to work on time. Now, while I’m all very happy for these people who don’t have to go to work—I’m sure they’ll have a lovely leisurely morning, and get to sip away at their lattes over discussions of all sorts of interesting things, chained to my desk, certainly won’t have the opportunity to talk about—the fact the remains that majority of us have somewhere to be at 9am, and frankly, it’s rather selfish to block up an entire street with a slow, ambling walk. Of course, it would be fine if there were only a few of these individuals—I’ve become quite good at ducking and weaving through pedestrian traffic over the years. But, of course, this isn’t the case. There’s always a whole horde of slow-moving people. Often traveling together, arm-in-arm, as though they’re deliberately trying to keep us from getting through. While, you know, I would endeavor to duck beneath their arms, slow-moving people also have a backup plan to prevent this: ridiculously large bags. As nimble as I might be, it is impossible to move past a ten-strong collective of dawdlers who are all sporting handbags or those ’green’ recyclable bags that seem to contain the entire contents of their house. So, slow-moving people of the world, please hear my plea. If you must walk slowly whilst the rest of us dash past on our way to work, please keep to one side of the footpath, and keep your bags somewhere where they won’t inadvertently knock us unconscious. And please, please, go for your morning stroll at a slightly less frantic time of the morning!

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