My favourite things!!!

Hello,

OK, so for those of you who watch Oprah (I'm mainly talking to the girls here) this blog is for you! This is, My Favourite Things!

For those of you who don't watch Oprah (including me actually. I just happen to sometimes walk in when the wife is), she does these special episodes around Christmas and one of the shows is of her favourite things. Basically, she gives everyone on the show a selection of her favourite things. If you want a flavour of this, take a peek at this. The women go literally mental!

So, with Christmas just around the corner, here is, Jon's Favourite Things! (cue to go wild and act like a demented fool).


1. Square Pie, London -



Last year Kristin and I went back home to England for a few weeks and during our stay in London, we visited Square Pie in London. It's located in the food court of Selfridge's, tucked away like the best little places always are. Anyway, it was bloody delicious. I had a beautiful pie with mash, gravy and mushy peas - and you know how much I love my pies. Simply heaven in a small cardboard box. Kristin and Charlotte enjoyed it too!

visit them here: http://www.squarepie.co.uk/index


2. John's Pizzeria, New York -



Forget Famous Ray's, this is quite simply the best pizza I've ever had. Located on Bleecker Street in New York's Greenwich Village, this place is pizza heaven. No words can describe how good this is. Just bloody go there and see for yourself.


3. Peep Show -

For those of you who haven't seen Peep Show watch this. It's the funniest show on telly by a baker's mile (a baker's mile is actually a mile and a third!).


4. Grooveshark -

I used to own things called tapes. Then, one lovely day, I switched to something called a CD -what a breakthrough that was. The compact disk and how compact it was. That was fine, but still expensive.

Then, another lovely day, someone thought up the Internet and a few years later, we all started downloading music illegally. It was much cheaper, but the quality was a bit hit and miss and we were all worried that one day, the FBI would come knocking on our door and we'd end up being buggered by a big black man named Ron in a jail in Texas.

Then, last year I found this website called, Grooveshark, which solved all of my problems. Now, I can listen (for free) to all the music I like and make 'mix-tapes' of my favourite songs. I'm richer, not afraid of being arrested and buggered, and I have access to all of the music I like and more. Bloody brilliant.

Check it out here: http://listen.grooveshark.com/



5. The In-Betweeners -

This show has been on in England for a while, but I've only just started watching it over here Stateside. Again, just another bloody funny show. It's also one of those shows that you watch and then realise, that was me at that age. Bloody brilliant. Here's a sample of the hilarity.

6. Charlotte (my baby) -



This one is a bit of a cheat because you can't actually have it. But, she's definitely one of my favourite things.



7. Ricky Gervais -

A genius. There's so many things I could say about Ricky Gervais, but instead I'll just show you this.

And this.

8. How I Met Your Mother -

The best American sit-com since Friends.Funny, intelligent and it has Barney, surely one of the greatest comedy characters of all-time. Check out this clip to see what you're missing (if indeed you are missing it).

9. Kristin (my wife) -

Kristin is incredible. For a start, she married me. She puts up with my frequent memory lapses, my constant writing, making awful jokes, terrible dancing and writing about her in my blog/novel. She has the patience of a saint. I love her more than I can write about in a blog. Definitely one of my favourite things and you can't have her.


10. Google maps -

My sad, train spotter obsession. I love Google Maps. I love that you can go anywhere in the world and see what it looks like at street level. It's unbelievable to me. I spend hours just looking at places I've been and places I wouldn't mind going one day. One moment and you're in Grimsby and then the next you're in Gothenburg.You can zoom in, zoom out and see the world from every possible angle. It blows my mind every single time. Here's to you, inventor of Google Maps!



OK, so that's it, my favourite things, 2010. I realise that there is a real lack of books on that list, but it's too difficult with books. I would need to do a completely different blog just about books if I wanted to include novels. Maybe I will in the New Year. I hope you enjoyed my list of favourite things.

Have a very Merry Christmas and a brand spanking lovely New Year!!

Love you all. 2011 is going to be an exciting one. My novel, This Thirtysomething Life: A Diary will be released, which is going to be super exciting and my second child is on the way!! Plus, I will be updating the blog with even more wonderful articles and stories. As they say in France, Tout Le Monde!

Blog soon x

David Burrows Office Man. Episode Three.

Episode Three

Wednesday

          Oh shit. That's just fucking marvellous. I took a sickie at work in the hope that I could get some peace and bloody quiet, do The Times crossword in my pajamas, while drinking tea and eating a crumpet with some jam, but my fucking delinquent, druggy flatmate, Paul decided to spend the day at home too. Great.

          Now, instead of watching the, ‘Cash in the Attic’ marathon I'd recorded for this very reason, I'll have to listen to that annoying fuckwit, while he rambles on about masturbation, his druggy, slapper girlfriend Shaz and his fucking bad back. And no, I don't think you should be getting hand-outs from the government to support your fucking drug habit, just because your back hurts a bit. Boo fucking hoo you malingering, lazy fuckwit. Get a job.

          Shit. He's just sat down on the sofa. I might as well turn off, ‘Cash in the Attic’ right now, because he isn't going to let me listen to it. I'll give him five seconds, before he starts talking bollocks. 5,4,3,2....

          "Fucking shit, innit." There you go. As easy to read as a simple street sign. Un-fucking-believable. I should probably give work a call and tell them I'm not coming in.

          "Right, yeah." I don't know what he's going on about. He can barely read, let alone hold an actual conversation. 

          "What you doing here anyways?" Do you hear that drivel? Anyways is plural you fucking ape.

          "Sick."

          "You don't look sick."

          "Gastroenteritis." That's it, confuse the stupid half-wit. He's probably never even heard of Gastroenteritis.

          "Oh, yeah, nasty shit." Like he knows.

          Look at him, sat there in his boxer shorts and dirty t-shirt. What a disgrace. I wish I lived with someone with at least half a brain, instead of this moronic twat. It was fine when Big Norm lived here, but he had to get married and move out didn't he, leaving the fucking Landlord to move in this repellent half-bred fuckwit. This dole queue statistic, who spends all his money (given to him by good, honest, hard-working tax payers like me) on Tenants Extra Strength lager, drugs and porn. What a fucking life.

          "Beer?" says the nob-jockey. It's half-past nine the morning. Who drinks this early? Still, nothing on TV now, and it's the only way I'm going to get through this day. Plus, I practically paid for it anyway.

          "Sure, why not."

          Monkey boy returns a minute later with two cans of Tenants Extra.

          "That'll put hairs on your chest, yeah." I doubt it, I only shave once every two weeks at most.

FOUR HOURS LATER

          "I just don't get it, Paul, what does she see in him?"

          "It's hard to say, Dave, yeah. It could be any number of things."

          "The man's a thug. I don't think he has a single A-Level. It wouldn't surprise me if he didn't have a single GCSE either."

          "He could have an enormous penis though, Dave."

          "But is that all she sees in him? A giant penis with earrings."

          "It sounds like your best shot of her anyways."

          "Yeah, I can just stay here and drink Tenants Super Strength lager with my old mate, Paul."

          What was I saying? I hate Paul. God, I'm so drunk. It has been four hours since we started drinking. Fuck, I forgot to call work. Oh bugger them. They can suck on my softened by lager penis.

          "We could go to your work and throw milk and eggs at the building, yeah. That would show them," says the ape boy.

          That's a terrible idea. One of the worst ideas I've ever heard. What sort of people throw milk and eggs at an inanimate object?

ONE HOUR LATER

          "And you're sure this is OK, Paul?"

          "Dave, I do this sort of thing all the time, yeah. We throw the eggs and milk at the building, and then do a runner, yeah."

          "Gotcha.Eggs, milk, building, runner. We're not going to get arrested are we?"

          "Not if you run fast enough."

          Can I even run? I can't remember the last time I actually ran. School probably. No problem, I'm probably a lot faster than I think. OK, here goes, we're outside the office. I have two pints of milk and a dozen eggs. I'm ready. Shit, Paul's running towards reception and fuck, he just launched both milks and half of his eggs at the front-door! That's quite a mess someone has to clean up. I don't envy that job.

          Shit, I suppose I'd better throw mine, otherwise I'm going to be left behind. Then I'll get arrested and then tossed in jail with a fudge-packer, who'll probably want to bugger me senseless for the next five years.

          "Dave?" Fuck, it's Doug and he's standing right behind me.

          "Oh, alright, Doug."

          "What's going on? Why are you?" Doug starts, but then he sees Paul throw his last few eggs at the company sign. Doug looks at me. Oh, fuck, this is a disaster. Now Doug thinks that I'm an egg thrower and I'm not. I'm not an egg thrower Doug, honestly, despite the fact that I'm holding a dozen eggs and two pints of milk.

          "I can explain," I say, but the next minute and Paul is flying past me.

          "Get a fucking move on Dave and throw your eggs, yeah."

          "Oh dear," says Doug.

          "Fuck."

          "It looks that way," says Doug. "I think you'd better come with me."       

          Fucking stupid Wednesday. I was supposed to be at home watching, ‘Cash in the bloody Attic’ and now I'm an egg thrower. Actually a failed egg thrower.

Tune in again next week for the fourth and penultimate episode of David Burrows Office Man.

Blog soon x

TGIF

As reward for making it through the week, here is another quick glimpse at my novel, This Thirtysomething Life: A Diary. Enjoy!

Friday January 13th

            Today, on my way home from school, I popped into the newsagents to buy a magazine and suddenly found myself embroiled in the philosophical debate that has haunted man since the beginning of time. Intellectual stimulation or tits. Or in this case, GQ or Loaded.

            I’m in my thirties now and so I should probably be buying GQ. It has better articles, great advice on fashion, health and fitness, but on the other hand, Loaded has lots more tits. If I bought GQ I would enjoy it, but a part of me would still feel empty, while if I bought Loaded another part of me would feel neglected. So, not wanting to disappoint any part of me, I quickly decided that I needed them both. What’s life without intellectual gratification and what’s life without tits?

That's it. Very short this one, but I hope you liked it. Have a splendid weekend. Christmas is almost upon us, so look out for some lovely little festive gifts coming your way via this blog.

Toodle-pip

Blog soon x

About what I'm doing today.

Good afternoon my lovely, fluffy little Blogites,

I'm currently very busy editing my novel. I finally printed out a copy (after doing two edits on my laptop), and so I'm going through it with a fine tooth comb. I don't really know what a fine tooth comb is, I've never combed my teeth and if I did, would I need a fine tooth comb or perhaps a medium tooth comb? I have no idea.

Anyway, it's tough going, but you know what they say. Writing is 90% re-writing, or something like that and they aren't far wrong. It's a bit like wandering around a forest looking for wood. It's all around you, but you're not sure which piece of wood you need or even want. My mind is so addled, I'm not even sure that even makes sense.

So, in lieu of an actual blog, I give you this. A few words about my editing day and below the blurb I'm hoping to add to the front cover of my book. This is the blurb that will hopefully make people have a peek and say something like, "By George, that sounds like a charming yet humerous book, I must purchase a copy immediately!"

Let me know what you think.


One Thirtysomething man. One pregnant wife. A terrorist neighbour. A sexy ex-girlfriend. A randy granddad and a love-sick squirrel. Just your average Thirtysomething Life.


Blog soon x

A Royal blog number Two

So the official photographs of Wills and Kate have been released. One casual and relaxed, the other more austere and formal. They were taken by renowned photographer, Mario Testino at St James's Palace. I think they're really lovely photos, especially the casual one where they're beaming at the camera in a tender embrace. Kate looks stunning, while Wills is looking quite the dapper young fellow.

I love these photos, but this isn't what I want to talk about. No, what I want to talk about is the plethora of websites that have popped up all over the Internet with all things royal wedding.

Here are a sample of the best I've found so far:

The Royal Wedding Countdown! In their words.

"The most anticipated event is here. Put a magnificent dedicated countdown clock on your desktop and keep an eye on the wedding as it is approaching."



Brilliant and the best thing is the lovely swan motif they've gone with. Click on this link to check out the Royal Countdown.

http://www.crossgl.com/rwc_overview.htm


Royal Wedding Food: 

"This site will be home to stories and information relating to Weddings food and beverages. Whats going to be in store for the Royal Wedding in April 2010? There's also going to be some great recipes and idea’s for you to cast your hungry eyes on! Watch this space!"

OK so they got the year wrong (it's 2011 people, come on!), but they have a Royal Wedding Party Store where you can buy this -



The perfect dress for the Royal Wedding! Patriotic and classy! Buy it here:

http://www.royalweddingfood.co.uk/



Royal Wedding Mania! They have a whole section just on hats. I don't think I need to say anything else.

http://www.royalweddingmania.co.uk/



Look at this beauty!

So that's it for the moment. I'm sure over the next six months I will find a down pouring of similar sites and before I hear you say that I'm being a curmudgeonly old geezer about this, you have me wrong, I love this shit. This is what a good Royal wedding is about - all the tacky, crappy knick-knacks you can get. From January every market vendor in London will be peddling Royal wedding souvenirs to the gullible tourists and everyone is a winner. I just hope that someone comes up with something really fucking tacky this time. We're British, lets make the tackiest crap imaginable and sell it to the foreigners! Bring it on I say!

Blog soon x

David Burrows Office Man. Episode 2

(Warning: Contains strong language and scenes of urination)

Episode Two

Tuesday

I’m literally pissing everywhere. I’m pissing up and down, round and round and I’m getting paid for it. Company time and I’m having a big old piss at their expense. I just hope no-one comes in while I’m pissing. I hate that because then they start talking, like it’s OK to talk at the urinal. I don’t care that we’re at work, why are you talking to me, here, while we’re both holding our penises and having a piss? God, I bet someone’s going to come in right now, just because I’m thinking about it.            

Fuck, I knew it. Someone’s coming in. I hope they go in the toilet. No, shit they’re standing next to me. I don’t want to look across and see who it is though because they’ll think that I’m trying to get a look at their nob. Next thing and everyone at work will be calling me gay boy Burrows or the toilet flasher or the penis watcher. Shit, they’re undoing their belt and, yep, they’ve started to piss and I’m still pissing. This is the longest piss ever. I just hope they don’t start talking to me.

“Alright, Dave.”

Fuck, it’s Tom sideburns talks while we piss Delaney. What the fuck's he doing in here talking to me. We never talk in the real world and now he wants to have a good old chin wag. No thanks wanker. Back-off.

“Oh, alright Tom,” I venture back. I can’t believe that I’m still pissing.

“How’s things?"
I’m pissing Tom and you’re talking to me so not great fuckwit.

“Fine, yeah. Great, actually, really fucking great.” I don’t know why I said that.

“Great. You know my bands playing tonight.” Oh shit, here we go. Tom’s fucking band. I don’t care about your band Tom or your sideburns. “At the Tavern. You should come along.”

I’d rather stand here pissing and talk to the entire fucking company than go and see your turgid excuse for a band, you stupid moronic, nob. Tom just finished pissing and I’m still going at it.

“Oh, right, yeah, maybe, I’ll have to check.” I have nothing to check you fool. I’m just not going to turn up.

“Everyone’s coming, so.”

“Everyone?”

“Yeah,” says Tom arsewipe Delaney, buckling up. I’m still pissing. It’s more of a dribble now.

“Even the new girl?”

“Sue, yeah, said she was.”

“Right, well.”

If Sue was going maybe I should go. It would almost be like a date. Fuck, I’ve started pissing again. I thought I was done, but it was a false stop.

“See you around,” says Tom fuckwit Delaney. Will do you big twat.
If Sue was going to see his band, then so was I. Still pissing. I can’t believe it. It's like Victoria Falls down there.

I'm listening to Tom fuckwit Delaney's band and they're fucking awful. What a massive surprise. He's up on stage jumping around like he's someone special. You're not George Michael Tom, you're not even Paul fucking Young. What an absolute twat.

Sue's standing next to me bobbing up and down, but it's just for show. She looks as bored as me. She probably wishes she was somewhere quiet with a cup of tea so we could talk about ducks again. God, she's gorgeous. Look at her. Pert breasts tucked inside that tight top. Hair the colour of caramel. You're talking absolite bollocks Dave and I don't even care.

"Aren't they great," says Sue. Oh fuck, seriously.

"Yeah, really shit." Luckily she can't hear me. "Really fucking awful. A big bag of turgid shit. A large vacuous mass of pukey twat juice."

"Yeah, so good."

"A cracked anus of a band. A veritable cacophony of shit. My ears are fucking..." the music stops and it's deafeningly quiet. "Fucking bleeding!"

"Sorry?" says Sue.

"Drink?"

"Please," says Sue. What shall I get her? Sex on the beach? Perhaps a deep screw? "Just a diet coke please." Diet fucking Coke isn't going to get her pissed.

"Right." Obviously she wants a vodka in that. Off to the bar.

Excuse me people I'm on a mission. Yes you fatso and you skanky girl with the tattoo on your neck. Move out of the way, horny, young and single man coming through. Fuck it's Doug Williams. Shit why did he have to be at the bar. Maybe I can stand over there out of the way and he won't see me.

"Dave," Doug shouts at me. He's wearing his work clothes to the pub. How fucking embarrassing is that?

"Doug," I say standing next to the fat twat.

"Look at the norks on that barmaid," says Doug. No I won't Doug because no-one says norks anymore you brainless, inept wanker. And no, I'm not going to stand here with you and objectify a women because I need a drink for Sue, who I intend to get pissed and get off with. "I'd give anything for five minutes alone with them." And I'm sure that's likely you ugly as sin bastard.

A vodka and diet Coke for the lady and a pint of bitter for Dave. Yes, just like a date. This is it. Tonight's the night. The big one. Just keep it together Dave. Steady hands. Don't say anything stupid. Don't stare at her breasts again otherwise she'll think I'm only after one thing. Keep it rock-steady Dave. Rock-steady. Out of my way people. I'm a man with two drinks and only ones for me. The other is for that girl over there...talking to Tom sideburns, in a band and wears an earring Delaney. Fuck. What an absolute bastard.

I'm pissing at the urinal. It's a sad piss. I just had to get out of there. Why does she keep talking to him? What do they have to talk about? He's probably going to get off with her now. Plus, I have a vodka and diet coke to drink now as well as my beer. That's four quid down the fucking drain. Fuck, someone's coming in. Don't look Dave, they could be a bender. You don't want to encourage them.

"Alright, Dave."

Fuck, it's Tom the bastard, girlfriend stealer Delaney.

"Alright."

"I think I'm in with Sue. We're going on for a drink afterwards." Fucking priceless. "She's a cracking girl." And brain dead apparently. I'm still pissing, while Tom pisses like the wind Delaney is already buckling up.

"See you later, Dave." Not if I can help it period stain

"Yeah, right."
And then he disappears outside.

That's it then. The Sue dream is over and I have a spare diet Coke and vodka. I think something’s wrong with me. It isn't right to be pissing so much. I'm probably fucking dying. That would teach Sue, if I just fucking died right now at the urinal. I hate Tuesdays. And guess what? I'm still pissing!

Check back next week for the third installment of David Burrows Office Man. A Blog-Com.

Blog soon x

People like me?

I had an idea today. Well, not really an idea, but more of a general wondering. Are there other Jonathan Rance's out there and if so, what do they look like. This is what I found (on Google).

Jonathan Rance #1



A contender? No, we J.Rance's don't ski. Tut-tut.

Jonathan Rance #2



I don't know what's up with this name-a-like, but he clearly isn't a Jonathan Rance. Bald and what's he holding? Very small crutches?

Jonathan Rance #3



For some reason this image came up on Google. Best one so far.

Jonathan Rance #4



An Asian Jonathan Rance?

Jonathan Rance #5



You have to love this fella. Just look at that chin.

That was it. Here's the best and worst of the rest. None are actually called Jonathan Rance, but they're good photos regardless.



Jonathan Zwart. M.D. (Man at C&A)



Jonathan (look into my eyes) Harris.




I love this fella too. Look at those chubby little cheeks.



That's it. So, what have we learned from this little experiment?

1. There aren't any really succesful people called Jonathan Rance.

2. We aren't generally that good looking.

3. I have much too much free time.


Blog soon x

A Little Tickle from my novel, This Thirtysomething Life: A Diary

Tuesday January 10th, 8:00pm

           

In shed. Eating a scotch egg. Emily watching TV. Pain in side excruciating (must make appointment to see Dr Prakish tomorrow).

I had one of my "attacks" today. I don't know the official term, but Emily calls it my, "man-tention span". I was reading an article in the newspaper about tri-sexuals and Emily started asking me something. I should have told her that I was reading or put down the newspaper and listened, but instead I attempted to do both (big mistake). I was trying to find out what tri-sexuals were and then the next moment Emily was stood next to me.

"Well, what do you think?" I obviously hadn't heard her question, but I didn't want her to know that so I replied.

"Whatever you think is best, baby." This was my second mistake.

"And what did I just ask you?"

I looked up from my paper, but what could I say. I hadn’t heard a word she’d said and I was no nearer to finding out what tri-sexuals were. I was firmly in a lose, lose situation.

"Sorry," I whimpered. Emily was fuming.

            "You never bloody listen to me."

            "I do."

            "No, you don't. You hear, but you don't listen. I'm so sick of being ignored."

            "But, baby, I love you." This was my third mistake.

            "If you loved me, Harry, you would listen to me," she said and stormed out.

She, of course, had a point. I still had to find out what tri-sexuals were and I was in the dog house with Emily (again). A truly unsuccessful evening.


Blog soon x

David Burrows Office Man. A Blog-Com.

This is the first part of a five part mini-series. It’s a Blog-Com, which is similar to a sit-com or a rom-com, but it’s on my blog and therefore a Blog-Com. I will be writing one episode each week. This is the first. Enjoy.

Episode One

Monday

She's at the bloody coffee machine with him again. Tom smooth as a tub of fromage frais Delaney. I hate him. I wish he were a fly so I could squash him beneath my finger. He thinks he's so cool with his sideburns, like it's difficult to grow sideburns. I could grow sideburns if I wanted to. I just choose not to. So what, he's in a band. Has she seen them? They're rubbish. That's a problem with girls. They're impressed with things like sideburns and bands. You never hear a girls saying things like, see that bloke over there, yes the slightly short one with the side-parting, he got three A-Levels at grade B or above. If you did, I'd been inundated with girls. As it is, I'm forced to sit at my desk doing IPP reports, while the gorgeous and infinitely shaggable new girl, Susan (probably goes by Sue), is being chatted-up by Tom fucking arsehole Delaney, office stud, office wanker and my office nemesis.

"Done the IPP reports yet?" says Doug Williams. He's my manager and a big old nob. I don't want to end up like him. It's my biggest fear. That and never having sex again. I don't know why I'm so worried about it though. It's going to happen. It's statistically very likely.

"Not yet, Doug. Still working on it."

"Well, get a move on, Dave, it's due at four. That's four and it's almost three."

"Right, Doug, I can tell the time." You big, balding parasite fuckwit. Go home to your ugly wife and stupid kids and leave me alone. Doug pulls his trousers up as a show of strength and then walks away.

I can't believe she's still talking to him. What could they possibly have to talk about for this long? He's an idiot. He has the IQ of a five year old. I bet he didn't even take his A levels. She looks smart enough. I haven't had the chance to talk to her yet, but when I do I'll say something really witty and smooth and then she'll know that I'm the man for her. We'll be shagging by Wednesday at this rate. God, she's laughing and he just put his grubby little hand on her lovely little shoulder. The man's got an earring for heaven's sake. Is she blind? Who wears an earring nowadays?

Shit! Fuck! She's walking this way. What am I going to say. Say something brilliant David. Think Oscar Wilde. Think Stephen Fry. She's just spent ten minutes talking to Tom fuckarsewit Delaney, she's probably gagging for some intellectual stimulation. Here goes. Lordy, lordy.

"Great blouse."

"What?"

"That blouse, great," I say giving her two thumbs up.

"Umm....thanks."

"The way the light shines on it creating a shimmering lake effect is quite superb."

"Right."

"I'm David," I say extending my hand for a shake. "But you can call me Dave."

"Sue."

"I know, great name." We shake hands and I can definitely feel something sexual happening.

"Thanks."

Here goes David, time to dazzle her. If Tom sideburns Delaney can make her laugh, you should be able to have her in stitches. Just stop staring at her breasts. Shit she saw me. I'm blushing. Fuck, my face is going red and I'm still staring at her breasts. She does have great breasts though. Just look at them. You can tell. Firm, but wobbly, pert but not too pert. Then again, can breasts be too pert? I don't think they are. They look about the right level of pertness.

"Well, see you around, Dave." Time to bring out the big guns.

"Before you go, an interesting fact about ducks."

"Sorry?"

"Ducks. Interesting fact. Ducks have three eyelids."

"Oh. Really."

"Yes. True. Also, when ducks quack, it doesn't create an echo."

"I didn't know that. Do you have any more duck facts?" Here we go. I think I'm in.

"Ducks never get cold feet. They don't have nerves or blood vessels in their feet, hence they never get cold."

"Fascinating stuff," Susan says before she smiles and walks away. Smile = Bring it on Dave and show we what else you've got because I like what I've seen so far.

I think that went quite well. She certainly seemed impressed with the duck facts. Look out Delaney, this one's mine. Who's laughing now? He tried to impress her with his sideburns, earrings and stupid band stories, while all she needed was a few facts about ducks. The woman's obviously an intellectual giant.

Tomorrow I'll win her over with some more facts (Geese?) and then Wednesday a drink after work at Yates's - the wine lodge - and then it's time to close the deal. Final score. Tom arsewipe Delaney 0 - David Burrows Game Set and Match. And it’s only Monday.

Check back next week for the second installment of David Burrows Office Man. A Blog-Com.

Blog soon x

About Pies

As some of you may know, I'm partial to the occasional pie. But where did this partiality come from you may wonder? Well, for the answer to that, we have to go back to May 2003.

I was a young backpacker, off in search of adventure, fun and frolics and just off the plane at the lovely Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney, Australia. I had just checked into my youth hostel in the rather dubious district of Sydney known as Kings Cross, and then feeling quite ravenous, off I went in search of food.

Fast forward a few wrong turns, dead ends and a rather longer walk than it should have been, and you'll find me standing outside Harry's Cafe de Wheels in the rather fun to say suburb of Sydney called, Woolloomooloo. For those who haven't been to Sydney, Harry's is an institution. I didn't know it then of course, I was fresh meat just arrived from Fiji with all the other backpackers, but I would soon find out why.

Imagine the perfect meat pie. Flaky, crusty pastry. Deep, dense meaty filling. Then add to that some lovely mash, some tangy mushy peas and a dollop of beautiful gravy and you have the tiger pie (see picture above). I ordered my tiger pie, sat down by the water in Woolloomooloo (try saying that after a couple of pints) and my life was changed forever. I'd tasted heaven. This was now my all-time favourite meal. If I was on death row tomorrow and I had to choose my last meal, it would be that.

Fast forward a few months and I'm living in Glebe (a much nicer suburb of Sydney) and coincidently, not that far from Ultimo where Hannah's Pies was located (a litttle factoid: Hannah's Pies makes the pies for Harry's Cafe de Wheels). So, for the next six months, I enjoyed pie after tiger pie at Hannah's. I actually worked in Ultimo and every Friday, Aaron (fellow backpacker and also lover of the tiger pie), and I would walk the 20 minute walk to Hannah's Pies and order pies for the entire office. It would take us about 45 minutes in total to go there and get pies for everyone and we did that on company time. We were being paid to go and get pies and then eat them. You have to love the Aussies.

I left Australia after twelve months with my then girlfriend Kristin (now wife) and I left with a deep love for the country and its people. They call fruit machines pokies (how could you not love that). They only serve beer absolutely freezing cold. They say things like, ‘arvo, chook and dag and call McDonalds, Maccers. Men proudly wear wife beaters and aren't afraid of the mullet. However, the one thing I will always remember about Australia is that first pie.

Kristin and I will definitely take our kids there one day and I can guarantee that the first place we'll take them when we get there is, Harry’s Cafe de Wheels. They might not love it as much as me. They might think it's disgusting, but it doesn't matter because it will always be the place I fell in love with pies.



If you want to check out the website go here: http://www.harryscafedewheels.com.au/Home.aspx?element=1&category=1


Blog soon x

Blog-Lit: A love story in less than 500 words

As soon as I saw her across the room I knew she was, The One. I had to get her number, ask her out, anything. She was gorgeous, captivating and there was just something about her that screamed, the rest of your life without me just isn’t worth contemplating.

            “What’s your poison?” I said.

            “Being approached by men with bad opening lines.”

            “Touché. Can I buy you a drink.”

            “I don’t think so.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’m engaged.”

            “Lucky man.”

            “Not really. I don’t think I’m going to go through with it.”

            “Ouch.” Still, another’s man’s broken heart was my good fortune. She was special and we could have something special. “So, I have a chance?”

            “That depends. What do you do?”

            “I’m a doctor.”

I lied, but all girls love a doctor. It’s the perfect mix of financial security and  social freedom. For girls like this with her flawless good-looks, obvious penchant for expensive shoes and talking to strange men at bars while engaged, it was the only choice. If I’d told her that I was actually a car salesman, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. She smiled seductively.

            “I like doctors.”

            “Then, a drink?”

            “Sure.” 

            How do you get someone like that from the bar to the bedroom in fifteen minutes? I didn’t know exactly, but that’s what happened. One martini, two mouthfuls of beer, a cigarette and a brief conversation about where she grew up (Cheltenham, I think), and we were in a taxi. Four and a half minutes later we were back at mine. The advantages of drinking where you live.

            “This is crazy,” I said half-naked, while she ripped my belt off. “We barely know each other.”

            “What do you want to know?” she said tugging at my jeans.

            “I don’t know. Favourite TV show.”

            “Mistresses.” Really. That told me everything I needed to know. “Anything else?”

            “No, I think we’re good.”

            We were naked and going at it like there was no tomorrow. It was passionate, raw, hungry and I couldn’t imagine my life without her. She had me. Of course, she was engaged, but she’d said herself that it wasn’t going to work out. I didn’t get girls like this and I certainly didn’t sleep with them inside thirty minutes. This was something special.

            “I love you,” I screamed as we climaxed together (that never happens). She stopped and looked at me. Her hair was wild and her face red with lust. She kissed me square on the mouth and said.

            “You stupid prick. You don’t know anything about me.”

            “I know enough.”

            “We’ll see,” she said and we fell down exhausted onto the bed.

            I took her back to the bar and we exchanged numbers and then she left. Five minutes later and I rang her phone. I just had to see. It rang and rang and then eventually someone picked up. “Wood Green Chinese, how may I help you?”

Another sneak peak at my novel

Because you've all been such well behaved little blogites recently, here is a treat. Another sneak peak at my novel, This Thirtysomething Life: A Diary.

Sunday January 15th, 1:00pm

           

In kitchen. Waiting for Yorkshire puddings to cook. Emily watching TV. Pain in side still there. Squirrel in the garden eating an olive (it seems we have Wimbledon’s only bourgeois squirrel).

I had a very high-brow dream last night that I was giving a lecture on the correct pronunciation of Russian words. Very odd. Emily had morning sickness for the first time today. She looks miserable, poor thing.

            I went to see Granddad at the old people’s home yesterday and the first thing he said when I walked in was.

"It's so hard not to be a racist these days, Harry." I asked him what he meant and he said. "I was talking to this darky fella. From Africa he was. I mentioned that I thought Sammy the Paki had stolen my apple. Next thing the darky fella said I shouldn't use the word Paki because it's derogatory. I told him that Sammy was from Pakistan and a thief. I tell you, Harry, things aren't what they used to be. It's not like the good ol' days."

            Granddad’s always going on about ‘the good ol' days', like there was a magical period of time when people would stand on street corners and just give out money and magicians wandered the streets, producing doves for our amusement. When you could buy a new house for a shiny penny, a car with a cheeky smile and every night there was a good old knees-up at the pub. Sort of like Eastenders but without the drama and violence. The only problem with ‘the good ol’ days' is that no-one actually knows when it was, where it was and if it even existed.

            "How's everything going apart from the racism and the theft, Granddad?"

            "I need to have sex, Harry. I need to feel the pleasure of a woman's touch before I die.”

            "Emily and I are having a baby."

            "Sex, sex, sex!" Granddad said before Sammy (the Pakistani fella) walked past eating an apple and all hell broke loose. Granddad had to be restrained by two staff members. "I didn't fight in two world wars to have my apple stolen by a bloody Pakistani!" Granddad shouted across the lounge as he was escorted away. For the record, he didn't fight in either war.

As I was leaving the home, I heard someone shout. “Spirit of the dam busters!” And I’m sure it was Granddad.


This Thirtysomething Life: A Diary will be available to buy at http://ma2books.webplus.net/ next May.


Blog soon x