25 is the new 80

I have the mind of a 25 year old, but the back of an 80 year old. And just such an 80 year old asked me if I was ok on the bus the other day as I retired early with silly amounts of pain. I'm like a gran without the purple rinse.

I also left my keys in the fridge last week. Maybe I have the mind of an 80 year old too. But will they let me travel for free on the buses?

To comfort myself re my premature aging, I bought some French pinot noir today on the way home from work. The label is 'Kiwi Cuvee', which had me searching the Australia and New Zealand section. As I did so I noticed Morrisons had an interesting take on geography. Apparently Italy and Spain are in Eastern Europe. I wonder where Britain really is.

Utter Balls

Ed Balls, Secretary for Children, Schools and Families, was on The Andrew Marr show this morning talking about the education budget. He didn't answer one question on substance, spending all of his time throwing mud at the Tories. I'm no Tory, but I can't stand when politicians avoid detail and the real issues. Balls by name, Balls by nature.

I do like shouting at the TV though.

Now That's What I Call Jesus

'Jesus gave his life for many', the Jehovah's Witness leaflet reads, and sagely asks 'why did he need to do this?' and 'what must you do to benefit from it?' Cynically I expected a request for money, but I was wrong.

Inside, like a cross between an American TV evangelist and a QVC salesman, the author asks 'How did Jesus, by his death, provide a ransom? Why was this necessary? For whom did Jesus lay down his life? And what can his death mean for you?' I'm not sure what they mean by ransom, maybe Jesus was in some financial trouble, too much catalogue debt perhaps, and either killed himself or faked his own death. This might be difficult for some to accept, but we must face the truth, and who better to tell that truth than a religious group?

I was impressed with the artist's impression of Jesus on the back of the leaflet. Interestingly Jesus was a white 6ft American with burly biceps. I would.

I think Jesus fans need to develop some new slogans for the modern era. 'Jesus saves...room for potato salad'. 'Jesus saves...money on his car insurance'. 'Beckham shoots, Jesus saves'. The church really should hire me as their PR man.

Personally I am quite a vigorous atheist, a Dawkins Disciple. The only religious aspects to my life are my pilgrimages to Ikea. Though I suppose I do drink a lot of blood of Christ.

Masterchef

I am a connoisseur of fine food. My speciality this week has been beans on toast. But not just any old beans on toast, this was M&S beans on toast. Actually it was Heinz, but beans are beans. I also enjoy salt and vinegar pringles and red wine, 'family size' minstrels and 'giant' buttons. Giant? I'll be the judge of that.

I'm thinking of opening my own chain of restaurants called 'Fuck it, that'll do'.

Speaking of food, that Heston Blumenthal is quite something. Half chef, half scientist: all twat. He ain't got nowt on our Delia.

Oh, bums!

Behind me at work sits a senior manager. Very smart, very knowledgeable and a nice person to boot. But what I like most about her is her random utterings. On the phone last week she suddenly declared 'oh poo!'. Today as she dropped something on the floor she exclaimed 'oh, bums!'. It had me in stitches. Then I got back to pretending to work.

My exclamations tend to be a bit more expletive. Son-of-a-bitch is especially enjoyable. I also like 'fucking fuck' and the classic 'god damn it'. A less sweary one is 'jackass', it's very phonetically satisfying and is given added oomph when preceded by 'fucking'. And apparently swearing increases your tolerance of pain and reduces stress, so I'm just looking after my fucking health, jackass.

Segwaying seamlessly from bums to breasts (I have a breast theme going on this week), I saw a woman yesterday who at first glance looked like, instead of the normal two, she had a single giant breast. A superboob, if you will. Turns out she had a baby strapped to her chest under a large overcoat. Two questions strike me. Why wear an overcoat on the first warm day of spring and, more importantly, how did that baby breathe through her massive bosom? I imagine he/she used a straw in a periscope-like fashion. Smart kid.

Bra update

Just realised that I should have said that the Edinburgh Moonwalk is on June 19th. Please donate - do it for breasts everywhere.

Edward fucking scissor hands

When I'm getting my hair cut there are only two rules:

1. Don't talk to me
2. Don't make a fucking mess of it

It seems those are a bit hard to follow for some. I got my hair cut today and the guy tried to make conversation. I easily batted that away. But he seriously pissed all over rule no. 2. I was left with a fringe like a pair of net curtains. Had to sort it out at home with a pair of scissors. Not what I paid £20 for (would have been £30 if it wasn't for an offer). The fucking fuck.

Anyway, nothing that a good Rioja can't fix.

Double D

I've always been a bit weary of bras. Don't really understand them. I mean yes they hold the norks up, but I've never really been much of a ladies man. Despite my powerful masculinity and love of sports (tennis counts), I am of the sexual persuasion of the ancient Greeks. More give me head Beckham than on me head Beckham. He's the footballer, yes? The one with Posh Spice? Astonishing woman. Invisible to the naked eye.

So, like any red-blooded male (shutup) I'll be donning a bra. A double D no less. But it's not because I like to dress up in women's clothes, except for that one time when I wore my mum's high heels as a kid (I just liked the noise they made as they clip-clopped on the floor), it's for charity. Through the streets of Edinburgh I'll proudly march to help protect bresticles everywhere. It's at midnight, so I'll have the bra over a t-shirt so I won't have nipples you could hang your overcoat on. It's called the Edinburgh Moonwalk and it's for breast cancer. If any of you have breasts, or know people who do, and can spare a little in these times of economic apocalypse, please visit my fundraising site - there's a link on my Facebook profile.

Shit. There goes my secret identity. And I was going to use it to fight crime as well.

Bigfoot

Bigfoot stomps around the forest, hoovering and cleaning, filled with misplaced self-righteousness.

Dexter eats. Bigfoot strides in and faffs around. Strides out again. Dexter rolls his eyes and turns up Deal or No Deal with flower-power pygmy Noel Edmonds.

Dexter finds a frying pan in the dishwasher. Bigfoot has got it wrong again, silly beast.

Dexter returns to his lair, with some nice wine. Bigfoot is an endangered species. Soon the forest will be at peace again. Dexter is thankful for unexpected mercies.

Old

I have no thoughts today. Hm. Could this be early onset dementia? Or Alzheimer's? No, I put my keys in the fridge because it's getting warmer and I wanted to stay cool on the way to work.

Like a virgin

The name of this blog is a little pun on the title of a book I read not so long ago, DC Confidential by Sir Christopher Meyer. He's the former UK ambassador to Washington, hence 'DC'. But aha, those are also my initials. Hilarious.

So you would have thought that my name on this blog would be DC Confidential, makes more sense than dexter right? But like a blogger virgin, touched for the very first time I didn't realise you had to have a name at all. And it seems that some jackass already has DC Confidential as a blog address, so I used dexter since I was watching that at the time. And now here I am, unable to erase my mistake. I feel just like a pregnant teenager. Except then I wouldn't be a virgin.

In other news, I have recently been outed as a massive fag. I dressed up as a giant cigarette in my local high street to promote a stop smoking event. I'm living the dream. Despite the dizzying heights of being repeatedly asked if I had a light, I am considering alternative occupations. I like 'lottery winner'. Got to be in it to win it! That's probably where I'm going wrong.

The essay is dead. Long live the essay!

As an NHS Management Trainee I get the intense pleasure of spending most of my weekends writing essays. My latest literary jaunt involved evaluating my recent experience as a patient. Spinning 'it was a bit shit' into 4000 words took some doing. I poured my heart and soul into it, before pouring wine into my heart and soul. They say it's good for your heart.

So, I sit here drinking some wine and trying out this blogging malarky. A blogger friend of mine recently attended a seminar the basic thesis of which was that performing acts of kindness helps you live longer. Maybe, but who wants to take the risk? I'll stick to the wine thank you very much, I know that will make me live longer. Incidentally, people who give up alcohol for short periods of time are often secret alcoholics. Luckily I've never done that, so I must be fine.

I finally yield to the cat's incessant yelling and top up her dish with fresh filtered water from the fridge. I've decided it's high time she start pulling her weight around here. We'll swap lives for a week, she can get to work on my next essay and I'll lie around the flat all day licking myself inappropriately. She'll get her food when I get my 6000 words.