One of the many things that women just don’t understand and that’s that us men are doomed from the birth, we have been selfishly born with a second conscience and we share our mortal bodies with another egotistical and more powerful entity… the penis! Despite us being rumored to be able to control the ugly beast from down under, in reality it’s much harder (no pun intended) than it’s commonly claimed by our women.

As soon as we awake in the morning the bloody thing stares up into our nostrils like the spear of destiny until we take him for a piss. It’s the first thing we scratch and it’s the only true friend a guy is garunteed to have by his side through thick and thin. On the flip side however it gets us into heaps of trouble, it doesn’t have complete control over us obviously, but theres definitely some scart leads linking us together somewhere.

Because of my boy I’ve woke up next to hung over walrus’s, slept with chicks that have boyfriends the size dinosaur shits, been caught wanking at work in the toilets and been rumbled by teachers sneaking around the girls dorms on school trips. He is in no better use of the term… TROUBLE! Even now at the grand old age of 33 the fucker lands me in it with the trouble and strife… romantic dinners, night time cuddles and quality time gets gate crashed by the obtuse and ignorant bastard.

He even turns sex into a game of death for the women, completely ruining the job he’s perfectly built for, it’s litterally impossible for the little minger to lose weight. I could diet for months and lose four stone every where except there, he’s like a little plug in pest that won’t fuck off until I get my mid life crisis. All I hear are screams of “it’s too tight” “it hurts my stomach” “it’s uncomfortable” and other clichés of maybe an overly tight woman. I mean for fucks sake the little tyke aint porn star big or nothing, he’s just a fat fucker that obviously far too over zealous. As soon as the women agree to sex he hacks into my mind making me take back seat, sometimes I swear I’ve heard it say “Watch and learn! Watch and fucking learn!”

Another thing about the pocket pest is the fact that he is deliberately awkward, he tries his best to really get on your nerves by trying to embarrass you as much as possible or failing to engage when you really need him to. The classic case is when your sitting on your own or just about to get in the bath and the fucker is all proud, not erect but a good solid size that makes you proud of him… I’m sure you know that feeling guys.

Now why can’t the little fucker do that when we are getting changed in a public changing room or when your date pulls him out for the first time? Oh no, he would rather pull a fat one on when I’m sitting on a bus, or when I’m at the gym or playing squash. Why don’t cock’s work when your drunk? What’s the point? The one bloody time he’s guaranteed to get action with any form of woman, no matter how rough or frightfully rank she may, the little annoyance is permanently out to lunch, if your lucky he’ll pop back for a couple of strokes but it aint long before he’s nobbed off again.

What I don’t understand is that why if they have such a pivotal role is sex, why are they created so damn ugly? They are as attractive as a shrunken pensioner’s leg, an organic foul looking roll on deodorant with attitude. How women stick them down their throat is far beyond me and despite how wonderful it actually is, I would rather have my head sewn to the underside of Alladin’s magic carpet than put a cock in my mouth.

I guess I’m doomed to suffer with my cock to the day I die, it’s one of them cases where you can’t live with them and you can’t live without them. As much as he is a bane on my life life I would certainly be lost without him and if he ever did fall off or stopped working, I would have to take the pills and end it… when the sex is taken out of life all you are left with is work… fuck that!

When it comes to women I am incredibly fussy yet at the same time I have no fucking standards what so ever, despite that mere sentence being a vast contradiction in itself it’s also as accurate as I can get it. A woman can be forty fucking stone with more beard than Noel Edmunds and I’ll still rag it if she had a perfect pair of trotters, yet at the same time I don’t worship feet or go giggedy giggedy goo at the sight of bare feet.

It’s really odd on the premise that a decent set of walkers is important to me yet at the same time bares no sexual preference or indifference to my sex life. So what the fuck is going on in my head to be so stringent on the one body part that’s most neglected and most loathed by women?

Foot fetishism, foot partialism, foot worship, or podophilia is a pronounced sexual interest in feet. It is the most common form of sexual preference for otherwise non-sexual objects or body parts. So that being said how comes I don’t fall into that category but yet if a woman has manky feet despite how well toned, sexy and gorgeous the rest of her body is, I would run a mile in just under thirty seconds.

Part of me has been thinking about this my whole life and I have kicked myself on many occasions where I have blown out top quality looking women because she has feet like a walrus with athlete’s foot. I have only come up with half a possible reason yet bizarrely I can’t say to myself yeah that’s right, spot on son… because I really don’t know.

What I came up with is that maybe if a woman looks after their feet that it means they look after the rest of their body ten times over, therefore it being a sub conscious test of female hygiene. Put simply if a woman trims back them awful razor nails and takes the time out to paint them that it means that the chances of her having a good clean asshole is pretty much a dead cert.

Another one of my pet hates is women that don’t cut their toe nails, again this aint sexual and in my mind it’s completely justifiable. There’s nothing worse than lying in bed with a girl with major talons big enough to snatch mice from a field, I absolutely find it disgusting and hurts. Being 6 foot plus most women are normally half my size so when they cuddle up and sleep, their nasty nails rip the shit out of anything below the knee and I have scars to prove it.

Now this is where it gets confusing, they can’t where socks because I find a good pair of feet sexually attractive… I know you’re confused and trust me so am I but the thing is I don’t worship feet as described by the term “foot fetishism”… I just find them attractive and at times if they look just right they can get a girl bent over and topped up. Now you know why I’m confused as to the nature of this foot curse… If I had a proper fetish I would be happy because I can categorise myself accordingly, but as it is I’m stuck within an odd limbo where I aint got a tube a glue as to what’s going on with the foot thing.

There has been the odd occasion where my bizarre foot craziness has done me good, take Sarah for example. When I first met her she was shy at first but turned into a proper trappy bastard, she literally would kill any woman that so much as spat in my direction and she was bossy from day one and she really was not my type at all… but she has an absolute cracking pair of cute feet and I started seeing her purely based on that and within a very short space of time I was in love with her and now I cant imagine my life without her… so that said if I didn’t have a weird foot thingy I would never have found love.

I guess I will never know what the hell is going on as far as women and their feet go, but despite all the people I have turned down for manky trotter syndrome I can actually thank my affliction for securing me the little cute gobby bastard that I love dearly.

Every month us guys have to suffer the indignity of having our hair cut, this little chore is pure boredom in a can. It doesn’t matter how early you go you’re guaranteed to have at least a queue of six in front of you.

I once stood outside the barbers waiting for it to open and I was blatantly the only one outside, opposite there is a newsagents, literally three steps in front of me. So I looked at my watch and with a full ten minutes to spare I decided to go into the newsagents to buy a paper. Buying my own paper is part of the ritual of getting your hair cut for sole reason of sanity. Once I forgot and I had to read the magazines they had and I was shocked to realize that recently the Titanic sunk, so from that moment on I decided to buy my own boredom cure.

So I went in and bought the Daily Sport, good paper that… full of good factual stories and plenty of nipples. So literally thirty seconds later I step out of the shop with my eyes rolling in tits and I look up, the fucking barbers opened a full seven minutes early with a poxy queue of ten hairy wombles waiting in front of me. This was not a good start, now I had the complete asshole and to make matters worse the only person cutting hair was the happy emo.

Now there’s a very valid and scientific reason I buy the sport, it’s not for the tits I promise you. The happy emo despite being a right royal conversational pest always comments on the fact that I buy the Sport, to which I always answer

“it’s the best paper in the world, do you want me to leave it here when I’m done?”

Now the trick is you have to read it so all the old farts can see, but not read… it works every time and it’s a trade secret to jumping the queue when it comes to the barbers. What you do is lightly scan all the boob filled pages so all the farts can see them, and believe me they will be looking. Just as the barber finishes dicing up the bored sod in the mastermind chair, close the paper and roll it up and put it beside you. This is the important bit; if you let it go someone will take it so keep it rolled up and by your side until the barber calls for the next victim. Now watch as all the farts within your immediate area let you go before them, now normally I would leave the paper behind but it’s entirely up to you, there are no rules that say you have to so it’s entirely up to you.

Now I don’t know whether it’s just fate or maybe an act of God or something, but I always end up with having my hair felt up by the happy emo. Now this guy aint a bad kid, I don’t dislike him or anything like that, I just don’t want to indulge in idol chitchat with someone that I rarely see from one month to the next. He asks me the same questions every single bloody time and it’s almost clockwork…

Not working today? Where do you work? Is it good? Is the pay good? Blah blah

Now I make a game out of it simply by changing my job every time I get my hair cut, and he responds with a full conversation every time and his gullibility is fascinating to me to say the least. This last year I have been a training Astronaught, dustman, front bench spokesman for industry, model scout and MP for Billington upon sea (which don’t exist) now either his memory has the attention span of a Goldfish with avian flu or he’s a secret android hair cutting alien from bettlejuice… I’m yet undecided.

Life would be a lot less annoying if I could be a hippy or even a skinhead… but I love my hair and it’s a necessary evil I have to suffer twelve times a year. Dammit!

Okay so you know my name and all the rest of the nonsense, but if your still lost you can view my profile here. I have an odd habit for seeing all those little niggles that come from being a human on this rather torturous existence we all claw our way through. Some say I'm over pessimistic and others say I'm a right miserable old git, but what people fail to realise is that it takes an extreme sense of humour to spot these bizarre things in the first place.

Me and the missus have this thing, we sit in a car park in a car obviously and make a game out of what we call "wrongun watching". Basically what we look for are people that act naturally, you see they don't know we are watching and they are misguided into thinking they are alone. It may sound like a totally odd version of train spotting, but trust me... it's as funny as hell.

We've seen it all, people scratching their asses then sniffing their finger, picking their noses and eating it, dancing to their iPods crazily and shit loads more. You see people when they are alone are literally the people they really are, and that's what I like... I like people unmasked and unashamed of what they are.

That's why my rather bizarre outlook on life is the way it is, we are constantly hiding behind manners, tidiness and an appearance that's chosen for us by what we are told looks handsome and beautiful by the media.

Take Victoria Beckham for example, we are told she's fit and gorgeous because she wears snazzy clothes, designer labels and hand bags made out of orphaned babies; yet we assume that she is sexy because of where she is in life and that she's on TV and in the media. But in all honesty she looks like a blow dried corpse.

I'm beginning to wonder if she even exists, maybe she's some bizarre wax model that her daft coloring book eating husband, created to accompany him to photo shoots and shit. He dresses it up, sprays her make up on with a water pistol and says to the press "hey guys, take pics of me and me bird!".

I've never seen her in real life, and to be honest I will die happy knowing that I've never shared the same slab of pavement as her. But the reason I think she doesn't exist is the photo evidence that's shoved in our faces every time we open a news paper... every fucking photo of Hound dog Thicktoria Beckham is exactly the same as the thousands before it. What more evidence do you need?!

That my friends is what this blog is about, it's a tool to stop me winging and raving at my missus... an outlet of rage and frustration at that fact that there's far less deserving people out there with more money and better lives... I'm pretty happy with what I got... my woman especially... but she deserves her own post that I will write another time... so until I can be arsed to write another post... I bid you farewell... and as Frasier says "I wish you good mental health"

Scott