MvOHBHD

Seven Deadly Sins Part 1 – Gluttony

Sin One. I’m a glutton. Not on a daily basis but I’m not sure only being a part-time gourmand is an achievement. My gluttony record contains; eating twelve mars bars in a row, dispatching nine sausages with mash potato (multiple accounts), devouring chipsticks by the multipack, consuming numerous boxes of Magnum senses in a single sitting until I stimulated all five, snacking on whole loaves of crusty bread with heaps of butter and ingesting batches of pancakes intended for families.

I generally break streaks of healthy eating with streaks of gorging like a pig destined for slaughter. If I was observed by an alien race they’d think that these days of ceaseless chewing were needed for a reason, maybe an upcoming hibernation period or continuously growing teeth that need to be kept at bay. I don’t even do it out of enjoyment,…



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Diary of a Dad Part 1

I stand over the sink with my head bowed, working with my eyes closed. The extractor fan hums in the background, lulling me to sleep. I stop what I’m doing to glance at myself in the mirror. I’m tired; physically, mentally. I haven’t slept properly for a large chunk of time. I look like I’ve been on the run from the Terminator, unable to even rest for a second in case the door gets kicked off its hinges and bullets are expertly fired into my chest and head. I look down at my hands; Brush in one, soiled diaper in the other. The faucet is dialled up to 11 but the water doesn’t make a dent in the gluey excrement. Since he began eating actual food and not just guzzling back breast milk things have taken a turn for the worse,…



The office Phantom Pooper gets caught

OK, I think I know why I’m here. When I saw your email asking me to come immediately to your office I had a pretty good idea it wasn’t about finalising the plans for next week’s sales conference. Besides, as we know, Sue has that pretty much all wrapped up. No, from your tone, and the uncharacteristic shortness of your email, and the fact that John from HR is sitting right behind me, I’m pretty sure this has something to do with all the poop I’ve been obsessively leaving around the office.

Look, before you say anything, let me just make a few things clear right off the bat.

Yes, it was my own faeces. I know some phantom poopers like to use any old poop they find on the street, but quite frankly that isn’t my style. Call me old fashioned, but I believe that if you’re going…



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The Boys in Brazil

It’s here. The greatest tournament on Earth. The 2014 World Cup. Most Importantly, it’s the day of England’s first game. England, where football was created, where football was born. This happened sometime during the middle ages, and the sport continued to slowly grow, improve and change over time within the UK. Charles miller was responsible for the export of Football to its adopted home, Brazil, in 1894. It was the day Football left home and headed to University. To maximise its potential. To become a man. England has now become football’s parent’s house. It’s still called home but in reality football has flown the nest and flourished elsewhere a long time ago. Going back now would just be weird. (Which makes the Premier League football’s parent’s love life. A once a year event that takes longer than it should and is…



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Flight of the Living Dead

I remember my first flight. The allure. The excitement. The enthusiasm mixed with the uncontrollable fear of the unknown. I felt like an intrepid adventurer making his maiden journey to mysterious, uncharted lands. My first view of the plane from the terminal was breathtaking. Clean, crisp, powerful. It was like I was looking out at Apollo 11, primed and ready for the greatest exploratory mission ever undertaken. Once on board even the interior amazed me. Your own screen and media player to watch whatever you wanted. The hand delivered beverages. The view from the window. The glamorous air stewardesses; Only the best, most beautiful. This is the job they dreamed of. The job they competed for. The four jet engines hummed to life, driving the aircraft into an explosive takeoff. I felt special, privileged. I didn’t sleep a wink on that…



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Sung Jury

If you wear skinny jeans and those pastel shade jumpers with big triangular shapes ironed onto the front by children in China, then you will more than likely have already developed a sixth sense for any forthcoming reality TV talent contest. Your other five senses can relax however as the panel made up of bleached teeth and pumped-up tits demands little cerebral activity other than the corner of the brain that deals with ‘the judgemental.’

So strong is this segment of our most crucial organ that leading neurologists have recently published a report stating – quite conclusively – that ‘The Judge Corner’ or ‘Chamber’ as it is also referred is by far the most active section during consciousness! 

So how does this relate to The X Factor or The Got Talent franchises? Anything so unspeakably dumb…



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Pep talk

I walk in to the packed room with caution and am the only guy. Surprise. Immediately half the heads present spin in my direction, whilst the remaining heads continue sucking thumbs, fingers, breasts. I am greeted with a friendly ‘hello’ but the undertone whispers ‘enemy’. A proportion of the eyes say ‘snake, there’s a snake in the nest’. The same eyes didn’t expect me to be here. I should be out earning a living, panning for gold, drilling for oil, or at the very least drilling my secretary. What they do expect is for me to be out of my depth, unable to cope. They’re just waiting for me to drop the baby at any minute, like looking after him is a task too far. This is my first Postpartum Education for Parents (PEP) meeting, it’s a weekly gathering…



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Entry level drone – experience required

I have a Job Interview. I’m wearing a suit. Dressed ‘accordingly’. Why though? Why the suit? Why do we have to dress the same? Is it to show willing to conform? The absence of existentialism? It must be a test to identify the requisite character flaw; “He wore the suit, therefore he can be easily and swiftly indoctrinated”. And what the fuck is a tie? Just some massive, swinging phallic symbol dangling from my neck. No balls. Very appropriate. It symbolizes my mental castration and evolution into the modern day eunuch; I believe what they tell me, I’m no threat to the establishment, no threat to power. I assume it once served a purpose, the tie. Like the general election or the penny-farthing. But you don’t see people commuting on a penny-farthing out of a sense of tradition….



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Everybody Went to School with a Trevor

“I’m more British than you are, fuck-face!”

My brother first introduced me to Alan Clarke’s Made in Britain (1982) when I was sixteen. Seven years down the line I still struggle to understand my feelings towards the central character, Trevor. I like him but loathe him at the same time. He has horrible personality traits, an all out racist being one of them, however, it is not difficult to understand why he is like he is; Trevor is a victim of his circumstances and a product of his environment, that of mass unemployment, deprivation, and blame – the dark side of Thatcher’s Britain.

Trevor is a hopeless case, full of characteristics that remind me of many people I grew up with in England, mostly male. The confrontational, spit in your face, angry at teachers for no reason types who constantly…



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Physical Façade

You’ve got to be in shape these days. You’ve got to work out. Be fit. Eat well. Halve your sugar intake. Exercise five times a week. Lift weights. Go for a jog. It’s 2014 after all. Fifty years ago nobody knew what jogging was. Now everybody is a gym member. Everyone has ran a half marathon. Everyone is an expert. Everyone does Yoga.

Yoga. Sounds appealing. Sounds relaxing. It’s not. Well it’s not for men at least. It’s an exercise class hidden behind a spiritual, liberating, relaxing façade. Guys aren’t naturally as flexible, yet we muscle ourselves into these positions and stay quiet to give the illusion that we can do it with ease. Because we’re competitive. Because we’re men. We can do anything you know. We spend the whole class clock watching, whilst sneaking glances at women wearing yoga…