Who cares?

To the person who asked me who cares about my posts in the comments of my last post. Me, that's who. I like writing these things. If they really bore you that much, then why the hell do you read them? Are you some kind of sado-masochist who enjoys reading things that cause you physical pain from boredom? I mean... why are you reading this now if the last post irritated you that much? You weird freak o' nature who can't even be bothered to type their own name.

People like you are such an oddity... oh well. I'm going to keep writing this because I enjoy writing it. And from the looks of things a few people (even if they're not as high and mighty as you obviously are) enjoy reading it.

So in answer to your question: Me. And a few others. I think.

Bobbikk

Don't You Step On My Retard Shoes

How hard is it to buy a decent pair of shoes these days?

Apparently for me, very hard. This I found out when I attempted to buy shoes from Topman the other week. I think the comment which I sent to them to complain sums this up neatly:

Dear Topman,

The other day, I bought some shoes from your Chester store on a shopping trip with my girlfriend. (I had a great day, you'll be delighted to know.)

Now, this may seem stupid, but I thought you may wish to know this, just in case you wanted to signpost this for other customers who may have the same problem I had. I bought a pair of green shoes which on the shelf appeared to have no laces. I presumed that this was to stop people stealing them, for who would steal shoes with no laces? No-one. I tried on the shoes, again without laces presuming that the laces would be in with the shoes when I bought them, that I was only trying them on for the general fit and once again the laces were not present to stop me from running off with the shoes without paying.

Whilst paying for the shoes, I did not want to ask if the laces were in the box with the shoes, for fear of looking stupid. (Which is kind of redundant now) Therefore, imagine my shock and horror when I arrived home to find my shoes lace-less! However, this was not the end to my astonishment as I then found that there way no holes to thread laces into should I wish to! There was only ringlets for fashion purposes (which, to be honest, I think look a bit silly without the laces... but if that's the style).

So now, I am walking round with shoes that baffle me and my friends and luckily, just about fit. Other customers may not be so lucky in future, however, therefore I felt it necessary to warn you about this so you may be able to warn the other idiots, like me, out there.

Yours,

Robert Cattell

So now I am the proud owner of shoes that look like this:

They will now be forever known as my 'retard shoes' for two very 'special' reasons:

1. Whether it is the fashion at the moment or not, without laces these shoes look retarded.
2. I am the retard who bought them.

Bobbikk

Chronic Camera Disorder

I am a bit like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. During the day, I'm a mild mannered, friendly person who enjoys a good laugh and works moderately hard for his degree. However, when I was little someone must have cursed me or something, because when I leave the safety of my house, enter into those most dreaded of places called 'night-clubs' and have a camera positioned right in front of me, I mutate. My jaw refuses to be anything less than fully open. My eyes become wide with madness. My hand rigamortise into stiff thumbs up signs and will not loosen again until the insanity has passed. This will happen without fail anytime I am out and about, a bit drunk and in front of a camera. The usual count of pictures of this nature that appear after an inebriated expedition is about two, but it can be many many more, depending on the nature of the evening and the amount of alcohol consumed.

Who knows why I do this? Perhaps I think it looks sexy. Perhaps someone else has told me it looks sexy and it's a look I should go for (don't put it past some of my friends). Perhaps it is that I desperately want to be just a bit more like the Fonz? Perhaps it came from that same strange place which convinced me buying a beret would be a good idea. It's a mystery, however one thing is for certain, I look like a complete arse when I do and therefore it has to stop. For the sake of my photograph collection and my dignity, this must STOP. Therefore, I ask this of you, if you see me in a club, or anywhere where alcohol is sold/easily available and you have a camera, do me a favour, refuse to take the picture until I have taken that stupid grin off my face and lowered those bloody thumbs up. I know you won't, because c'mon, who doesn't like so see their friend look like a complete nonce? I think what I may have to do is get a restraining order for me and cameras until I can cure this disease. Extreme measures, yes, however I believe that it is best for everyone.

If you would however, like to see a fuller collection of these photos then head to facebook, which seems to have every picture of me looking like I'm out of my mind ever taken. Oh well... at least... no, there is not upside to this.

Let me just leave you by saying in true Fonz Style: "Eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Bobbikk

(By the way, last Wednesday I was twenty. Thank God no-one had a camera...)