When pirates walk the plank.

In the last 10 years, I have witnessed the growth and en masse documentation of many crimes, fraud, drug trafficking, paedophilia and of course, knife and gun crime. Late last year however, saw the rise of one of the most hideous criminal acts, piracy. I am not talking about file-sharing, neither am I talking about buying bootleg copies of the latest Hollywood drivel from a questionably dressed individual in a Tesco car park, no, what I am referring to is real piracy, bands of merry men sailing the seven seas in search of treasure and adventure, wreaking havoc on unexpected sea-folk.

Over the last year, I developed quite the affinity with said pirates. I admired these collectives of young men from impoverished and war-torn countries, trying to earn a crust in a way yet to be depicted by rappers. In an age where CCTV and GPS monitor the movements of the masses, these diehards took to the ‘blue Madame’ to chase success. Voluminous bodies of water, over which man has no real jurisdiction - genius! Today, however my love for these men was sullied.

Late last year, they kidnapped a British couple who were minding their own business, perusing the aquatic terrain and held them hostage, demanding £7million from the UK. The British government, in response to this act of Jack Sparrow proportions, decided that with their policy to never negotiate with terrorists, coupled with the financially lean climate, they would refute the pirates’ demands. This story soon trickled into obscurity, that was until today, when I learned that the pirates have now lowered their demands, from £7million to £2million, asking for just enough booty to cover their expenses.

Expenses? Really? This was not a lunchtime run to Greggs to pick up some iced buns for co-workers, this was piracy, kidnapping! These villains, whose’ criminal activities date back 18th century, had resorted to begging. My heart genuinely sank and my image of a pirate, altered.

No longer do I see them as randy young men, with untrimmed beards, eye patches, the proverbial parrot and conjurers of fine phrases such as ‘argh’ and ‘ahoy’, ready to swash-buckle sea urchins in the pursuit of fair maidens and fine rum No, after this feckless retreat, my mind now, gives them a Frank Butcher-esque demeanour. Thanks this to this spineless backtracking, I now see pirates who don flat-caps, tan sheepskin jackets and who jabber on in a timid attempt to salvage a deal with an uninterested customer, all the while slurping milky tea from a polystyrene cup.

Thanks guys. Now I believe in nothing.

The secret diary of _________ (part 1)

Friday 14^th January 10:37pm

So this is what it’s come to. 10:30pm on a Friday night and I am tucked up in bed. Disgraceful. Of course I am not alone, I have the comedy styling’s of BBC 2’ finest to wince away the hours, but still, I can’t help but feel slightly dissatisfied, that there are much greater adventures beyond these four walls. Surely a man in his early 30’s can muster up more than a takeaway and excess remote fondling on a Friday night. Maybe.

But for tonight, I guess routine shall prevail and Paul Merton and co will ease my social pangs. Still, Friday spells the start of the weekend, two whole days away from work and all its shiny monotony. Yeah, I will make the most of this weekend, in fact, let me cement my ideas in ink and make a list of the things I’d like to do this weekend:

1)      Finish my new Grisham novel

2)      Ride the London Eye

3)      Take in the Ian Fleming exhibition

Yeah, 3 is enough, large enough to constitute a list and small enough as to not overwhelm me.

Oh and another:

4)      Thank Heidi for the diary

Sunday 16^th January 2005 12:57pm

Well it’s Sunday and I have completed a total of zero activities on my list. Shit! In my defence, there was a Scrubs marathon on Saturday afternoon and while I would have loved to endure the greatness that is public transport and the greyness that is a British January, it felt much more appropriate to stay in the flat, armed with Pringles (buy one get one free, thank you generic supermarket offers) and fruit juice and catch up with Turk and the gang.

As I write this, I can hear strange moans coming from Stefan’s room, so I’m assuming he got lucky last night...again. Still, all that carrying on at this hour, during The Politics Show I might add is just plain discourteous.

Ok, enough ranting, time to resume the normal Sunday routine which consists of:

1)      Cooking a roast

2)      Shouting advice to the misguided residents of Albert Square

3)      Ironing a weeks’ worth of shirts for work

4)      Trying not to be appalled by Stefan’s taste in women.

Monday 17^th January – 10:02pm

Mondays’ are by far the MOST depressing day of the week in the office. Everyone sits down, tea in one hand, Malted Milk in the other, and trades stories of parties, pills and pulling, while I hide behind my screen, eavesdropping, hoping they don’t ask me, for fear of having nothing to contribute other than a bite-size review of the weekends’ TV and the sexual exploits of my South African flatmate and his easily pleased one night stands. Fucking great! Still, it’s over, and this is the furthest moment away from another Monday, so thank the Lord for that.

Time for some Grisham and a milky tea before bed methinks.

Tuesday 18^th January - 6: 49pm

Why the fuck doesn't he do housework? I encounter morons all day at work; must I really live with one too? Is it too much to ask that he washes his own dishes – really? Must I honestly come home and CLEAN before I COOK and then CLEAN AGAIN!!

Fuck you Stefan!!

Thursday 19^th January 7:21pm (just getting home now!)

I’ve decided that the commute to work is much worse than work itself. I’ve found that there are 3 types of person I end up standing within close proximity to on the tube:

1)      The gazer. He/she never reads the free paper and they never read, or at least pretend to read the advertisements on the walls, instead, they choose to gaze at me, for their entire journey, adrift in my pupils, as if the answer to historys' greatest questions are somewhere between my retina and my iris.

2)      The inexperienced. He/she cannot find their footing or even enough space or gravity to stand still, so they end up wobbling their way through the journey. One day, I may just stop the train and conduct a tutorial on the importance of handrails and their ability to minimize how much damage a person can cause to a fellow traveller if you just HOLD ON!

3)      The reader. He/she will insist on reading their paper – tabloid or broadsheet – or their shitty Amazon approved book of the month - (I actually checked the website and this months’ book is The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho, 100 + pages about Santiago the shepherd, who has a severe case of ADHD and the inability to hold down a job. If he were British, he would probably have an ASBO and find it charming to finish every sentence with 'man') - without regard for others, which means I spend the journey dodging elbows and rubbing my nose against the smudge-able fine print.

And to top it off, none of these people are ever women I find slightly attractive – sod’s law.