Floor.

This is so clearly a bloke's house. A famous television character once said that men living alone are basically 'bears with furniture'. That's always stuck with me, because that's essentially what my house is like. There's an easy way to illustrate this, really -- my goddamn floor. The landlord didn't install any carpet, presumably because it's easier and cheaper to clean up blood and spunk with a squeegee. You should see the fucking thing. It's like a history of every single meal and incident that's ever occurred in our place. Get on your knees (bitch) and check out the grime that litters our once pristine floor. Toast crumbs, bits of hair and dust, miscellaneous pieces of plastic and glass, rubber bands and, inexplicably, a collection of socks underneath the sofa -- socks that don't belong to any of us. The once, probably tasteful hardwood, is now stained by our filth.

Jesus, we should fucking tidy this place.

I like it really. This is all a lie. Apart from the procrastinator bit.

I am a life long procrastinator. I'm also too fucking funny to bother putting in one of those cute jokes about procrastination, you don't tell me what to do internet audience. And even if you DID, I wouldn't fucking bother doing it anyway. Where the hell was I?

I am a life long procrastinator. I generally don't like to do a lot of stuff, despite having a lot of ambition and a modicum of talent. Heh, sorry. "Modicum". Where was I?

I am a LIFE LONG procrastinator. I hate moving. I enjoy sitting. Imagine my annoyance then at the social construct of Christmas, and the giving and receiving of gifts. Cliff Richard only had it partly right: Christmas should be about snogging and getting pissed on Tesco Value wine. Don't get me wrong, I love getting people gifts, but for most of you idiots I just can't be arsed. You don't tell me what you want, you don't update your wish lists, you say "oh, I don't want anything" knowing full fucking well that that is a completely unacceptable thing to say in this gloriously capitalistic society of ours. I can't not get you anything, idiot, even if I wanted to. And goddamnit, I'm expecting something from YOU, so shut the fuck up and accept my chocolate Scrabble (Yes, that's a real thing).

Don't even get me started on the wrapping. The world is coming to an end, aren't we supposed to be conserving shit? Why am I wrapping something you won't want in expensive dead trees I don't need to kill? Do have any idea about the gases that are released into the atmosphere in the process of making sticky tape, the annoying shit I have to wrap YOUR annoying shit in? Look, I'm choosing not to take part in Christmas this year as a goddamn green favour to Mother Earth, it's not that I'm poor and can't be arsed to read your fucking mind and get you DVDs you'll hate and chocolate you won't eat.

Where the hell was I?

Basically, I'm lazy, and wish I could buy everything pre-wrapped in environmentally-friendly paper, delivered to your homes, with cards hand-written by blind Togolese children and delivered by a stork. Is that too much to ask from one website?

PS, this Christmas, I want booze and lots of it.

A Restaurant Review I Wrote Ages Ago, Hence The Dated References ENJOY WON'T YOU???????

Food. Food is good. I don't know much about food, nor do I know much about eating out in Birmingham (no, keep reading, I have a point that I will stumble into shortly). What I do know is that there's a really great Japanese restaurant called Woktastic in our fair city. It's just outside the Paradise Forum (which is not great), opposite The Yardbird (which I'm ambivalent toward). It's undoubtedly the campiest restaurant in Birmingham, if not the country. Its bright orange walls, even more intensely orange-uniformed staff, and multicoloured sushi dishes assault your senses and taste of decency all at once. I swear, I almost had an epileptic fit just walking into the place once; the Japanese pop playing over the sound system threatened to give me aural diabetes. Oh, and the food? It's actually rather delicious, with a great all you can eat deal on sushi, and I highly recommend the chicken katsu with a glass of plum wine.

I just have one problem: the manager. Oh, he's not rude or anything; the service in Woktastic is actually second-to-none. Look, this is a bit of an odd situation, but I need to let this out to someone, so it might as well be you. The manager, he... thinks my name is Stan (my name is Hazz). Here's what happened: I once impersonated my friend Stan, as he didn't want to cancel a booking in person, so I did it for him, claiming to be Stan, and now every time I go in there, the guy thinks I'm called Stan. What do I do? Do I just... tell him? No, I can't do it. I can't tell him that I'm not Stan.

“That's not a real problem, Hazz, you goddamn nutcase, chill out.”

Oh, but it is a problem, dearest reader, for you see, I have to book a birthday party (yes, you're invited, bring a gift) there soon, which means I'll have to give him my name. My real name. Did I mention my name isn't Stan? What do I do? I can't just tell the guy I'm not Stan, that'd be hideously embarrassing, I'm too much of a social maladroit to have that conversation; the awkward, ghastly shamespeech where I have to explain I attempted to bamboozle him, I tried to play a ruse upon him. I have committed... uragiri against him and his people.. Actually, I think he's Italian, but it doesn't bloody matter, he's lovely and I've stabbed him in his very friendly back. Let me explain how lovely he is. He's charming, he's welcoming, the guy always comes over to have a chat, he brings me a fork so I can eat my currysauce-sodden rice without looking like a special needs kid, he has a lovely, shiny bald head; he engages in friendly banter, he wears nice shirts, he's generally just bloody ace.

No, I can't break his heart.

I can't correct him next time he calls me Stan. What'd that do to our relationship? He'd lose face, surely? I'd be bringing shame upon his name, his restaurant, his family. No, I can't do that, I can't reveal that I'm an identity thief.

No, I won't let that happen. I know what I must do: I must continue this charade. I must live a double life. I must become Stan. I must live as Stan. Stan's a thin Chinese dude, I'm a not-thin white guy, but that doesn't matter. I will be Stan.

…

I am Stan.

Try the chicken yakitori, it's delicious.

Santa Claus Is Coming All Over My Face

It's a blisteringly hot August day and I'm regretting wearing a black shirt right now. I'm sweating like a paedophile in Mothercare and I just want to get home. I'm walking past Old Orleans, the most overpriced shit hole to ever disgrace Broad Street with its presence and I'm confronted by something unbelievable -- the visage of St Nick; the brutal image of Kris Kringle; that fat cunt, Father Christmas. The faux-Deep South wankstains are foisting their Christmas meal-deals off on me by using this Coca Cola-drinking motherfucker. It's August, you lizards, fucking AUGUST.

Let's ignore the fact that only the perpetually shitfaced and/or mentally ill would want to spend Christmas in that hole for a second and concentrate on one important detail -- IT'S FUCKING AUGUST. I wanna be drinking cocktails, whining about the heat, enjoying the return of Premier League drivel at Villa Park. I do NOT want to be worrying about where I'm going to be having an awkward, bitter meal with my family, not that I'd take my family for fucking Gumbo, anyway, you stupid cockshafts.

Please explain why it's so acceptable to have the Christmas info-bukkake start so fucking early in the year? And why does it feel like it's getting earlier and earlier? No, horrid catalogue company, I will not be joining up to piss money away on useless (glorious) iPhones or fucking hampers full of disgusting (delicious) turkey. GET THEE BACK TO DECEMBER, BEFORE I THROTTLE YOU.

I get it, really, I know, it's all about people doing Christmas early, whilst they still have the time and money. I understand the economics of it, but please, can we not just wait until winter has officially started? Christmas is miserable, I don't like to be reminded of it in August, on an annoyingly bright day, when I'm trying to stagger to Sainsbury's with a hangover-induced headache that feels like a small Filipino child has been playing hacky-sack with my brain.

Just fucking stop it. Until September, at least.