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The Capital Weekender With Ministry of Sound 10pm - 6am
Gillies and Emily live the showbiz lifestyle. Producer Adam doesn't.
Think your life is bad? This'll make you feel better... Here's his Tragic Diary...
There are plenty of things I miss. Being able to runaround on a beach wearing just a t-shirt, not having to make my own food, the confidence to know I will meet someone and live happily ever after.
I do not miss for one second having to sit exams. Exams scared the life out of me. And I sat loads of them. GCSEs, A Levels, 2 degrees. From the outside it looks like I couldn’t get enough of them.
What I did like was the preparation. I tended to start each revision day at 9am by planning what I was going to do. By 12 I was ready to start, having designed and coloured-in a particularly good timetable. Somehow though I was always 3 hours behind.
The weird thing about exams is that at the time they seem like the most important thing in the World, yet after about 2 weeks of getting the results, no one asks how you got on, as they’re too busy getting off with the girl you like but were to busy colouring in your 7th revision timetable to make a move. Or so I’ve heard.
I do hope one day to get pass the dream that I’m having to sit a Maths exam. I’m never going to need to pass it though. You don’t have to divide the bill when there’s only one of you eating. Again.
I’m not very manly. Sure I like the normal male pursuits sport, pubs, musicals, but when it comes to DIY and the traditional manly activities I’m just not very good at them.
My tool box contains a hammer and a screw driver and I only bought the hammer a couple of months ago, so when something goes wrong with my flat or car, mild panic breaks out.
I noticed my car tyres were struggling to contain air, in other words they kept going flat, so after about 20 trips to the petrol station to pay for air that I consume for free, I decided enough was enough and I was going to have to get them sorted.
Tyres are always ‘reasonably’ priced and not being a lottery winner I opted to just get one fixed. Of course I thought this was going to be no problem but when the bill came I had to inact my golden rule – In case of mechanic break out credit card.
I thought things had gone well. I used my best man chat – the weather, football, birds, pubs. But it just wasn’t enough.
I’m always surprised by the price of car stuff. I don’t think they’re ripping me off, I just don’t know enough about manly stuff to know they are aren’t ripping me off.
The good news is I’ve got loads of advisory’s to sort out after my MOT last year. I’m definitely not having a holiday this year. The mechanic will probably have 3.
If this is being read on the radio then I’ve survived. Or it’s being read on a tribute show to me for all the unbelievably hard work over the past few years. Or getting up as I call it.
I’ve spent the weekend with the most serious illness known to man. Man-Flu. Friday night I went all Tinie Tempah and was drinking from the bottle. However, that bottle was cough medicine. I also got to appreciate what it’s like to be a hot man. But it was in body temperature rather than the thoughts of women. As usual.
I thought about starting to get milk delivered so if I didn’t make it through the weekend there would be a tell-tale sign that something wasn’t right. Just one of the thoughts that goes through your mind when you live alone.
My cough was the sort of cough that I felt I should deposit down someone’s neck on the bus, as happened to me once.
In all the years I’ve been in work, I’ve never had a sick day. There are some people that have so may sick days I’ve forgotten they actually work here. I prefer it when there are less people around. There are fewer people to moan at me. They’d better watch out. I might go and cough on their phones.
I really love living in my little flat on the seafront with a nice view of the sea. But only for one day a year. And that day is not today. That day is in July. When I’m usually away on holiday.
I’m writing this as if I’m on a bouncy castle. The wind is so strong my flat is actually moving. Now I know how that teacher at school felt when we had a sponsored bounce and she was sick. Adults shouldn’t go on bouncy castles, unless they’re pretending to be astronauts. Then it’s obviously fine.
The wind was so loud I was sure I was going to miss all the texts from the Jamie’s Italian waitress I was bound to receive after Gillies gave my phone number out on the radio. I needn’t have worried. I didn’t get any.
What has the world come to that a love poem doesn’t work? Has romance died? Is the Shakespearean way I live my life outdated? Should I also stop throwing my rubbish out my kitchen window?
No. It’s other peoples fault. Like everything else in my life. They’d better learn to adapt to me.
Please. I’m too old to change now.
It’ll come to us all eventually. The day some of us are looking forward to like a child on Christmas Eve, unable to sleep, wide eyed with excitement at the thought of all the possibilities ahead.
Sir Alex Ferguson retired after 26 years of being in charge of Manchester United yesterday, so now he’s going to live the dream. Get up late, moan about the youth of today, eat when and where he likes. Go to bed at way past 9. I only do 2 of those things.
I do worry where he’s going to get his money from though. Pensions aren’t what they used to be. When I retire I’ll probably have to pay for the privilege of sitting in my pants all day. At the moment I do that for nothing.
My parents retired a few years ago after working really hard educating other peoples children despite having a keen, eager, handsome youngest child of their own that needed help. They’re constantly saying they’re busier than they’ve ever been. So maybe staying in work is a better option.
They’re also saying that things that will get better for me, so perhaps they don’t know what they’re talking about after all.
An Ode To The Waitress in Jamie’s Italian…
It’s been a week since she handed me my menu,
But from that time, I think I knew,
That she could be the lady to my gentleman,
The nameless waitress in Jamie’s Italian…
As she came over to ask for my drink,
Would now be the time to try out a wink?
But that hasn’t worked for a man since the 70s,
So I went for ‘just a lime and soda for me, please’…
Ordering food caused quite a problem,
I wanted to introduce myself ‘Hi, My Names Adam’
Instead I mumbled what I’d like on my plate
When I really should have asked her out on a date…
I struggled to eat all my food,
It wasn’t because I was being rude,
But because my stomach was full of butterflies,
And I’d lost my appetite in her eyes…
As I paid via chip and pin,
All I could hear was the sound of a romantic violin,
Surrounding me were probably cartoon hearts,
And I understood why love songs get to the top of the charts…
Yet I’ll never see her again or know her name,
My tragic life will continue all the same,
But saying all this, if I wanted a relationship,
I probably shouldn’t have forgotten to leave a tip.
So now she’s serving other people’s food and drink,
Men brave enough to say exactly what they think,
Manly men named Dave, Paul, Jamie or Aaron,
All trying to get a date with the nameless waitress in Jamie’s Italian…
Let’s not forget that beneath this hard exterior is a little boy. A little boy of about 8. One that has Lego men on display in his flat. One that went to the Harry Potter Studios and loved it.
You can keep your Beyonce gigs at the 02, I would rather spend a few hours in the company of my Wizarding friends. Most of that time was spent queuing but it still counts. I also saw some sets and costumes. And then some more sets and more costumes.
Some visitors were dressed as characters from the films, and worryingly they weren’t kids. It made me regret not wearing my homemade owl costume. There were a couple of hen-dos wandering around, which made me think – why?
Hen and stag do are supposed to be debauched affairs, abroad, amongst other hen and stag dos, without the prying eyes of non party goers. Why didn’t these people do that?
Some guy is going to be really lucky to be marrying someone so obsessed with Harry Potter that they chose to spend what is supposed to be the most fun day they’ll never remember dressed as a character from a film.
Thinking about it, they sound perfect to me. I should have made a move…
For someone who moved into his flat with the bare minimum 5 and a bit years ago I’ve noticed I’ve become a bit of a hoarder.
I now have plastic bags to keep plastic bags in (and special plastic bags hidden away ‘just incase’) and so many boxes on top of my kitchen cabinets that I’m a huge fire risk. Some of the boxes are so small that when I do move, absolutely nothing will fit in them.
I’m quite glad I don’t have to move out at the moment. I nearly gave myself a hernia moving a 3-piece suite up 5 flights of stairs with only the help of my parents. Well my dad. My mum had to clean the place first, despite it being professionally cleaned the week before.
Why do mums do that? Every holiday I went on as a kid started with my mum cleaning the apartment, villa, hotel room, before she would properly relax and start avoiding the sun. She likes it warm, but everywhere was too warm.
So I now have a lot of stuff. Too much really for just me, but it’s very important that a man of my age has his Nat West Piggy banks and Buzz Lightyear toy where everyone can see them.
Not that anyone ever comes ‘round.
There are officially no new ideas in TV. Soon all the TV people will realise that and start to work in radio where no new ideas have existed for years.
Just when you think we’ve had all the fly-on-the-wall documentaries possible, they just keep on coming.
Learning to drive – Driving School. Working in an airport – Airport. Working as a Traffic Cop – Traffic Cops. Working as a Trawler man – Trawler Men. Working in an office – I forget the name.
Now add to the list working in Greggs. Brilliant. All they’ve done there is combined the nations love of food and watching rubbish on TV. There are enough of these shows to fill a channel 24 hours a day 365 days a year. I’d still probably watch on +1 as well.
Where’s the fly-on-the-wall show of a man sat at home watching DVDs and looking out the window? If I see that on Sky 1 next year, I’m suing.
A documentary about a radio studio would be really boring. How many times can you show someone looking at the newspaper, spilling tea and going on Facebook to see if other radio presenters are doing better stuff than you, then stealing it?
Enough for a 6 episode series I’m hoping…
Really shocking and sad day. One of those days that makes you question your faith in humanity. A dark, dark day.
I was the victim of fraud. Serious fraud. The type you just don’t see coming. I’m still in shock.
My Facebook page was the scene of a follow spree that I had nothing to do with and one for which the perpetrator or perpetrators have yet to have been found.
My Facebook page is very important to me. I operate a strict one in one out system, like every nightclub I’ve ever tried to get in operates, or so they tell me as they let every hot girl in the club and leave me in my duffel coat in the queue.
My notifications added up through the day. Some friend request acceptances were from people I didn’t know. Most were from people I kind of knew. Friends of friends, wives of friends of friends. The type that will be an awkward conversation when I see them next.
One was an ex boss who didn’t particularly like me, so it was just lovely to see that acceptance pop up. It was equally nice to un-friend.
Lesson learned. Shut Facebook when I walk away from it. Or add loads of people to Gillies and Emily’s accounts…
Revenge is a dish best served Tragic…
Comedy has changed many times over the years. Tastes change. There was a time when being hit on the thumb was hilarious but things have moved on and now what’s seen as funny is witty word play and imagery.
One thing that’s never been funny, apart from Miranda, is dropping glasses in a bar, yet whenever it happens a huge cheer goes up, similar to that of a cup final winning goal.
It’s certainly not funny. The person that dropped the glass didn’t do it for comedic effect. They’re probably really embarrassed and now have to clean up a load of glass. So why do people cheer?
Are they so bored with their company that any distraction is welcome? Do they actually think it’s as funny as a well scripted joke? Are they so sad that they want to make the person feel bad and hope the rest of the pub notices them making a mistake.
If so the person that dropped the glass should go to the cheerers place of work and celebrate every time they lose a contract or don’t quite lay a brick right.
I always cheer.
I spend quite a bit of time on the Motorway each day, so that means at the moment I live in fear of vultures, like a desert rat, and not one of the cool army ones but the ratty deserty kind.
The speed camera vultures have taken over my life. I’m not entirely sure how they work but I know I’m scared of them. I see people ignoring them and speeding through. I really hope they get caught.
I’m so afraid of them that I’ve stopped doing my new favourite thing to do which is guess who is driving the car I’m about to overtake and then have a good look as I do just to see if I’m right. I have noticed that I was staring perhaps a little too long if they were female, on the off chance they would instantly hold up a sign with their number on for me to call. That hasn’t actually happened yet.
Driving slower has made me notice The South Coast has a new attraction. The black slip on shoe that’s in the middle of the M275 where it splits to join the M27.
‘How did it get there?’ is a question I spend far too much time pondering. Is it there by accident or was it put there on purpose? It is the shoe version of me. Lost, without it’s other half, scuffed, beyond repair.
Stupid loner shoe.
I’m writing this on pay-day eve so that means I’ve been playing my usual monthly game of Ready Steady Cook with the rubbish ingredients I have in my freezer and cupboard.
I managed to scrape something together, by scrape I mean I found a can of sauce at the back of the cupboard and whacked it over some chicken. I’m quite the Gordon Ramsey.
I eat early. If I miss my window of opportunity, I’m not hungry. I’m looking forward to retiring so I can get the early bird specials in restaurants. Of course, I’ll still be on my own. I’ll be the elderly gent, immaculately dressed in suit and tie who looks on the verge of tears. No one will come and say hello to me though. Being retired sounds a lot like my life now
Back I went in to the kitchen to serve up my ‘chicken with some sauce delight’ when I noticed I hadn’t actually put it in the oven.
I was a lot more like Gordon Ramsey when I noticed that.
So for tea tonight I’ve had a packet of bourbon biscuits. I think dieticians are considering adding them to your 5-a-day.
It must have been asleep for the past month but Spring turned up. That meant the South Coast’s students decided it was time to get the shorts on. Hey, they deserve a break. Term started on Monday.
Worryingly, the fashion trend this year appears to be short shorts and vests. Like an adult P.E kit. I can’t wear vests. I’m not wide enough for them. It would end up ‘round my ankles.
When I was a student and the sun came out I was always stuck in the library, grafting away trying to get a decent grade on an essay so I could get a great job. That didn’t work.
The fact that it was still blimmin’ freezing didn’t stop the mass invasion of the common. Well, the bit I could see under the blinds I had to shut because of the glare on the TV.
The common invasion caused a problem, as unbelievably some people decided to have BBQs. They must have had their hats and scarves on while they turned the sausages.
The gentle summer breeze that was actually an arctic blast, forced the BBQ smell into my flat so I had to close the windows because my flat stank, and not of my Man fug.
I remember Spring now, it’s a flipping nightmare.
Quite a depressing day really today.
I’m usually quite happy when I hear other people’s good news. I smile outwardly, offer congratulations, maybe a firm handshake for the man, a poorly executed kiss on the cheek for the lady.
I didn’t feel like doing that today. Mainly because the person that caused me such great sadness, I’ve never met.
The news that Dawn French got married again came out today. Now, I don’t fancy Dawn French but I can see the attraction. She’s got a few quid, is a mate of the Churchill Dog and is quite funny for a girl.
The reason I was so upset is that she’s now been married. Twice.
What’s wrong with me? I can’t even get someone to look at me twice in the street when I deliberately stop mid walk to fake tie up my shoelace when I think there’s a hot girl behind me. The aim is that she’ll walk into me, apologise, we’ll fall in love and be married before the end of the year. So far the success rate has been low.
So well done Dawn on your 2 marriages, but it’s getting to the point that if she becomes available again, I may be forced to take a crack at it.
It was the London Marathon yesterday.
I enjoy going for a bit of a run, but at no point do I think, I know, I’ll go for a run dressed as a rhino or a shoe. I think it’s quite lucky that the bloke who owns the Chinese Dragon costume has 4 mates to run with him. Dragging that around 26 miles would be annoying
It makes me think how good their time would be if they weren’t ridiculously dressed. They could probably win it.
I admire anyone that has the dedication and ability to run a marathon. It takes loads of time to train for it, but not only that it also takes confidence to be seen out in public in a vest. Marathon runners are reclaiming the vest from 1Direction and the cast of Hollyoaks.
I’ve run the Great South Run a couple of times. The first year I trained but not particularly hard and did it in 1hour 22. The second year I spent ages training for it. Running up and down the seafront, monitoring what I ate, getting the right trainers, researching the right tactics. I did it in 1hour22. Exactly the same time. Why did I bother?
If you aren’t going to win, why enter? Unless you’ve got a sweaty rhino costume taking up valuable space in the wardrobe.
I’ve got carrots in my fridge. They’ve gone off.
I’ve got lettuce in my fridge. It’s gone off.
I’ve got a lemon in my fridge. It’s gone off.
I may as well come home from shopping and just put all fruit and veg straight in the bin. I only buy them so the woman at the checkout doesn’t give me that ‘poor boy’ look again as my microwave food goes down the conveyor belt.
I waste so much money on food I’m never going to eat. I threw out a jar of unopened beetroot at the weekend that went out of date in 2009. It practically walked to the bin. There was a bottle of balsamic vinegar that you would now have to carve.
I blame the shops. They must see me coming. Why don’t they put the veg at the back of the store away from the customer services and tills. I’ve found there are no more judging eyes than those of the supermarket worker. I fall for the pressure every time.
It’s like they are working for my mum, making sure I eat properly. Well I’m not. I’m eating doughnuts in bed writing this. Have some of that.
Contrary to how it may appear in this diary I was brought up properly and told to respect people and their opinions and help where necessary. I obviously didn’t agree with this.
I was never a scout as I never felt the need to go camping and try and get off with the Guides. So when an opportunity arose at the weekend to do a good deed I leapt at the opportunity, but only so I could see if it would change my own luck.
Only I could make a good deed about myself. Well, me and Jessie J.
I was walking to meet up with some friends in a bar when I noticed an old lady was struggling to cross the road. This actually happens in real life and not just in Enid Blyton books. So over I trotted and helped her gently across the street.
I felt very good about myself and had a spring in my step as I walked to meet my friends. Then I received a text telling me they’d gone home and not to bother.
Normal service had quickly resumed.
It seems to be school exchange season on the South Coast at the moment and what a beautiful part of the world to visit. An area rich in history, with iconic landmarks and great shopping. So I’ve heard.
Those things all sound better than my exchange experience.
The 2 weeks I spent in Germany wasn’t exactly a brilliant time in my life. Having to get up at 5 then getting 2 buses and still being late for school everyday wasn’t great. But getting in trouble for ditching my ‘pen friend’ and going swimming and then losing their dog to top it off didn’t exactly help the relationship.
During my time there, the family I stayed with decided to speak in English the entire time so I didn’t learn anything either. Apart from how good a German mothers English can be when she’s telling a 14 year old off for losing the family pet. It came back eventually. If I was him I wouldn’t have.
If I had kids, which is doubtful, I would absolutely send them on a school exchange so they’ll suffer hardship and loneliness at an early age, like I did.
I just never snapped out of it.
I’m beginning to hate you. I spent a bit of time reading you and have decided that my life might actually be a bit rubbish. As much as I hate to admit it, other people could be right. That would be a first.
No wonder I’m single. I moan about everything. Shopping, driving, booking holidays, adverts, not doing anything, doing things… uni-cyclists. Is that not normal?
Am I in a rut? If looking out the window for about 10 minutes trying to work out who the favourite musician is of people in the street is a rut, then possibly. It turns out there’s a lot of Ronan Keating fans near my house.
Can I be bothered to change? Is being miserable my super power? Can I take the risk that I won’t like who I become if I smile a little more?
Nah, What’s the point? I’m not tragic, I’m a realist. It’s everyone else’s fault that I’m like this, and they need telling. In my diary. That they’ll never read, because they’re too busy doing stupid things, with their stupid friends with their stupid faces. Morons.
Living on my own in a top floor flat can cause difficulties in performing the simplest tasks. Taking the bin out can be an expedition, washing the car a miracle.
That’s why I was quite happy it was raining when I woke up. Several months of driving in rubbish weather on salty roads had already made my car fairly filthy but the gritting my car got on the way to work the other morning topped it off.
It had to have been done deliberately. That’s just my luck. The motorway was temporarily down to one lane and me and the gritter were the only vehicles on the road. I pulled up behind it and as I did so, the lorry’s lights started flashing and it started gritting the road. It wasn’t even that cold. See, deliberate.
Why do people do things deliberately to annoy people? It’s the same as white van drivers stopping on motorway bridges so that despite you knowing you’re going under the speed limit, you still have the fear of being caught until you see it’s a carpet van.
The only thing I can do deliberately to annoy people at work is moan about the dishwasher. All the other things I do to annoy people I do by accident.
I spent most of the day getting angry in my head with people I’ve never met.
“Why should people pay to message celebrities on Facebook?” was a question I couldn’t let go, when it should be “why do people message celebrities at all?”
You see it all the time on Twitter. “Why won’t Jessie J reply?” “It would make my life if Harry followed me” “Follow me for a direct message to Ed Sheeran with your username”
Why? Would it make your life better in anyway to get a message back? No.
If someone mentioned to me that a celebrity had contacted them, I would think the celebrity wasn’t particularly busy and was desperate for anyone to notice them.
Musicians should be busy making music, actors should be acting, footballers reading up on super-injunctions. If they aren’t doing any of those things then they aren’t musicians, actors or footballers.
Social media has taken being a fan off the charts. It has made it easier to show your obsession to the point that no one sends stamped addressed envelopes anymore. I sent one to the Dennis the Menace Fan Club. I wasn’t a fan I just wanted a furry Gnasher badge. Won’t anyone think of the small struggling envelope companies?
I would say contacting celebs on Social Media should be banned, as I wrote on my blog, that I tweeted out and posted on my Facebook. I’m waiting to hear what Justin Bieber thinks of it.
Had a big day planned on Saturday. I had been invited on an afternoon out in Southampton to watch the Grand National with friends.
A rare day out for me. Doing things isn’t on my weekend schedule. I usually just sit on the sofa eating Doughnuts and Monster Munch. The weather this weekend was even perfect for sitting in a pub garden.
I knew it was perfect sitting outside weather as I got stuck in a traffic jam for so long I got out of my car and sat on the curb.
This traffic jam was so annoying. It wasn’t even really a traffic jam. I was stuck in a one way street unable to move because of something. Something is the best word for it, as I have no idea what delayed me by 40 minutes.
I wanted to watch the Grand National as I’ve done so much for the Horse industry recently, what with all the supermarket lasagna I’ve eaten, that horses owed me.
I was stuck for so long that I missed the race, which wasn’t too bad as the horse I would have backed only came 3rd. Loser.
So I learned something from the whole disaster. Don’t do anything fun at the weekends. If past weekends are anything to go by, that should be easy to stick to.