Empty Ring: Learning To Fly

"Next thing he's getting us into the plane, which, with me at the helm, has just become Buddy Holly Airlines."

Yes, Comrades

What is Twitter all about? "Just picked my nose and ate it. Nutricious and delicious, taste just like chicken" Nice one? I'd buy Jack Dee's app, if it was real. The one that replies to all tweets and texts you get automatically with "So what?" If you take one look on that pisspot of useless information, those words really would work with every tweet posted. And if you're famous, you plug things and retweet plights for recruitment in finding your neighbour's missing poodle and that's it. I'm going to share this with you: I was following the hash tag - oh! That's another thing. Sergeant Dread mused..."Why do people use hash tags outside of Twitter?" Folks are on Facebook, YouTube, any of those other attention-seeking competitions, saying things like "Lost my right sock #fuckmylife" and "Anchorman 2's coming out soon! Ron Burgundy, #myarseisyourcommand" Excuse me, what the fuck are you doing? Yes, anyway. I was following the hash tag '#ThingsWomenSayThatMakeMenMad' or whatever it was, and I saw someone who went by the name of 'Chris From Coldplay'. I got curious...I clicked, expecting to see this person saying things like "Hi, it's Chris Martin, from the band Coldplay. I'm just a loser, really", "Our new single Come And Smash Me Said The Boy With The Magic Penis (Sonic Youth cover), out tomorrow! Chris Martin (from the band Coldplay)" and "'I'm just a loser, really.' says Chris Martin from the band Coldplay on Radio 1 tonight at 8!" I instead found something much more useful. In this entry's 'Nameless But Never Shameless', we look at Chris From Coldplay's Twitter, which is the prime example of your average Twitter user and the crap they say.

Their bottom tweet gets it in one

OK, now the obligatory piece of nonsense is out the way, let's get to the beef. After leaving work on Friday sweating like my mrs on Mastermind, I'm headed to a barbie. A rabbit who was called Jerry but got renamed to Thumper after Ben died was getting chased around the garden as I'm wrestling a rubber ball from a German fooking Shepherd, all the while a monster umbrella keeps falling over. What a way to go that would be, death by umbrella. Rihanna deserves that fate, for irony's sake. Regardless, we burgered and hot-dogged up and headed to the local Homebase, leaving with two of what the French call a certain...I don't know what - plants anyway, and a Venus flytrap called Sally (I killed the last ones). Then to Home Bargains, which lived up to its name - monster cans of Mountain Dew for 34p. Christ on a bicycle. Does that even cover the cost of the fuel to get the can from the States to here??? The end.

Saturday afternoon and I'm driving to town, the wind blowing in my hair, Huey Lewis And The News blaring through the aux, feeling like Evel Knievel or the Fonz or some shit. Until I actually arrived in town. See, my town is the kind of town where the locals would say something like "Whit good's the Power of Love when ye've crashed yer motor? Just you calm yerself right doon ya wee munter" if they saw you having a decent time for a second. Speaking of Huey Lewis, must share a few of my favourite conversations. I bet most of you don't even have a list of your favourite conversations, do you? Sort it out. Anyway - "Marty McFly has Parkinson's disease. He went back to the future, he never saw that coming, did he?", "Jelly. Clown. Geraniums. The Highland cow. Dara O'Brian. Plonker!" and "I thought I saw a cyclist, was actually a seagull".

Tangent over. We eventually arrived at the airspace place to do my flying lesson. A chap called Nicholas (who insisted on being called Nick) stepped out and sat us down with a solemn look on his face. There's an air of panic. "I haven't killed someone before I've even got in the fucking air, have I?" thought I. Basically it was too windy, so the flight was rescheduled for the next day. At 10:00am, no less. Off to Silverburn shopping centre. Ate at the Handmade Burger Co (if you ever get the chance to go, go. Just watch for that one Polish guy to whom everything is perfect' "Do you want chips with your meal? No? Ok perfect. Can I interest you in dandelion and burdock? Perfect!") and humiliated myself at the ice cream stand. "Cone or tub?" "Yes please"

Sunday morning arrives. Out comes Nicho - sorry, Nick - again and lets us in on a little secret: he's actually sound as a pound. Next thing he's getting us into the plane, which, with me at the helm, has just become Buddy Holly Airlines. His mouth is making jokes and my arse is making buttons. Quick as you like, we're at 20,000ft, me flying us over our houses. The hissing of the headphones gave me an excuse to ignore instructions. Dived we did, dear droogs. Not too much though, just enough to give my co-pilot and Bunny Dread a rumbly in their tumbly as Winnie The Shit might say. As fast as it happened, it's over, he's bragging about his landing and his job and we're left feeling like deities.

Next in our chain of events comes HMV. Killing time until the mrs has to go to work, I drag her in there as I always do (bought nothing, which means I must have contracted something) and on the way out comes a "Hiya. Would you like to enter a competition to win a game?" "What game?" "The new Mario game" She lets out a massive guffaw right in this poor guy's face, while myself and him stand there in stony silence, obviously missing the humour. Fuck it, in for a pound (a pound entry). Basically the idea is to wank off a Wii remote as fast as possible and try to get the fastest time over everyone else that day and you win a copy of the game. You get three gos. I take the controller and do my part. You know on Britain's Got Talent and X Factor, when the underdog sings and everyone's in complete silence due to the shock that this prick is a good singer? Something similar happened. I got the fastest time of the day, whilst they stand in total amazement at my right wrist action. I have another two gos and all's going swimmingly until he calls me a 'genetic freak' Ok, easy, you're not getting paid to insult your customers. And if you are, you can have my job for yours. "I don't mean to put pressure on you, but if you get under ten seconds in this third go...." ".......YES?!" "....Very few people get that" "...Oh fuck you, dream smasher". I've yet to get the text through telling me I won, despite having the best time of the day. To finish up though, you remember those chairs I discussed in the last entry? Assembled both of them in twenty minutes when I got back. What an ending. Good to be home to that blimmin' flytrap.