When I overtake a vehicle who is proving to be an annoyance (e.g. driving slowly, driving like an absolute idiot, etc) I give them the flip off with my rear windscreen wiper.

When I am switching from dipped headlights to full beam, I exclaim "Flame On!". Similarly, when I am reverting to dipped headlights from the full beam setting, I exclaim "Flame Off!".

If an annoying little cuss comes screaming up behind me at night, I quickly switch the rear fog lamps on and off repeatedly. This gives the impression that I am braking whilst also blinding the blighter with my powerful rays.

If someone is riding right up my arse, I flash the brakes incessantly and flick the rear view mirror so that I can't see him. I make a point of doing this in full view of the driver behind me, as if to say "If I can't see you then you're not annoying me".

When a motorcyclist overtakes me closely, I inject some screenwash into his view. I can achieve this because I have turned the drivers side nozzle slightly to the side.

If I am driving at night and someone comes careening down the road in my direction with their full beam burning my retinas, I shout "Flame On!" and scorch his optic nerves with my superior spotlights.

If I am stuck behind a nasty little idiot at night I like to adjust the dipped headlights so that they are almost at full beam level. This is very effective in pissing people off.

When someone makes a point of overtaking me and I catch them at a set of traffic lights further down the road, I take the first opportunity to burn it past them. I smoke fools.

If someone is trying to force their way into a queue, I leave them a tiny little gap to give the impression that I am going to let them in, then when they start to pull in I close the gap and make them pay.

If someone is trying to overtake in a place where it is dangerous to do so, I slow down and swerve all over the place, making them think that I am a drunk driver. This is 100% successful in deterring wannabee overtakers.

If someone tries to undertake me, I slow down, let them get past and then scream into overdrive and waste them in a matter of seconds. No one is getting past me that easily.

I never let buses out. It's akin to condoning public transport.

I harass taxi drivers like it's going out of fashion.

I have no time whatsoever for van drivers, they can try to get past me all they want but they will not succeed.

I slow down considerably when Police cars are driving behind me. If they're in that much of a rush then they can put their lights on and speed past.

If I am behind someone who is going considerably slower than the speed limit then I help to point out all the speed limit signs along the route. No one has ever noticed this act unfortunately.

If I am waiting to pull into or out of a road, I get quite annoyed when people are travelling really slowly, but still do not stop. I sarcastically thank these people either with an outstretched palm or a thumbs up. This irks them up a right treat.

Here's exactly what I got up to yesterday soir. Have a look son. The growth of the picture is exponential to the power of the click. In other words, click it and it will be bigger than it was before:

Take one A4 sheet of paper, preferably an old work query or something that you have no further use for. Fold the page into a rectangular shape or similar manageable size (note: crumpled paper is much harder to ingest). Place the folded paper in your mouth and begin chewing as if you were a cow eating grass. Adopt a grinding technique. This will tear the paper up nicely, allowing for a larger roughage area with which to soak the paper nicely. After a short while chewing the paper, it will break off into smaller particles, allowing for swallowing to commence. Use water appropriately to soften the page. Swallow the remains in stages, don't ingest the pulpy mass in one go. In time you will find that you have eaten an entire A4 slice with minimum fuss and effort. Amaze your friends.

After work yesterday I retired homeward to watch "Spider-man 3". I didn't manage to watch it in one sitting, I had to get out of the house and take some photos. You see, my Dad recently purchased a Canon EOS 400D DSLR camera, and I was keen to put it to good use. I had already experimented with it a tad on Sunday evening, taking a few photos close to home. Didn't travel far mate. On Monday I bought a 3,500,000 candle power spotlight from Homebase with which to aid my night time photography. This is what I used last night and I was well pleased with the results.

First off, I went to the base of Box Hill to this place I like to call "The Stepping Stones". I call it this because there are literally stones that you can step on to cross the river. I used to go there often as a wee lad, so it was nice to return. A bit nostalgic really. I set up shop and took a fair few photos of the river and the stones and the trees. Then I got all up close and personal with my blue LED torch, swinging it around like a madman. I pretended I was Mace Windu; a white Mace Windu. This was fun.

When I had finished at Box Hill I drove to Leatherhead. This is because the school I went to is right next to the M25, and there is a footbridge that goes literally over the M25 itself. I set up the tripod and camera cocktail on this bridge and did some long exposures of the traffic. This yielded a few photos of worth.

I returned home at about 10pm and uploaded the photos on to the PC and checked them out in their glory. Nice. I will put them on here later, for all to see.

Once this was done I watched the rest of "Spider-man 3". It was ok, but I expected better. I didn't like the bit where he was walking down the street with the symbiote suit on, pointing his fingers like guns at all the women. What a geek. The reason I didn't like it is because the makers of the film clearly stole that scene from my everyday life. Oi, Spidey, that's my trick. Get your own.

On the 6th October 2007, I ventured to "Gunwharf Quay" in Portsmouth with the intention of purchasing a suit. You may already know this, you may not. It's just the risk that you take when you come here. So yeah, as I was saying, I bought this suit, right? £175 reduced from £300; a steal really. Ted Baker it was. Charcoal grey it was. Fit like a dream it did. So that's why I bought it. If I'm entirely open with you, the legs were far too long. "No matter!" said the store clerk, "We have a tailor who comes in during the week, he'll take the legs up and we'll post the finished article to you, free of charge". In the industry, free of charge is known as "FOC". It's an acronym.

So I went along with this ploy, happy to have found such a remarkable suit of eptitude. This is the opposite of ineptitude, natch. I transacted my moolah into their repository and kicked back to relax. I was assured that the suit would be with me by the Thursday, this was in fact the 11th October 2007.

On the 11th October 2007, my suit did not arrive. I was most aggrieved by this. I reasoned that the postal strike had played havoc with their plans to send the suit to me. "No matter!" I told my Mother, "For the suit will be with us in good time". Of course, I needed it by 24th October 2007 for I was to be travelling to Spain to witness the coming together of the families Dulley and Serneguet-Belda. It was a wedding, see? Do you see, Bugsy? See?

This morning I received a call from home. It was Mother. "The postman has just dropped off your suit". "Lovely" I said. But there was worse to come: "The jacket isn't with it. It's just trousers". I was instantaneously annoyed. The Dulley Rage (tm) reared it's ugly head. "How could they do this? How could they treat the suit of eptitude with such ineptitude?" I was outraged. To say that I was miffed is the understatement of the world. But the key word in that previous sentence is "was". Here's the remedy.

I phoned Ted Baker. Not him, the shop. I phoned the Ted Baker shop. Sorry. "Where's my jacket, Sancho?" I asked the guy on the phone. His name was Mark, not Sancho, but I mispronounced his name to make a point. Actually, I didn't, that's lies. I was polite and inquisitive, like an 8 year old child asking how babies come out of Mummy's gash. The man assured me that there was a suit jacket matching the description I gave: "It's a jacket for a suit". Can't say fairer than that. Can you see what the problem was? I'll tell you. They thought I had taken the jacket with me and left the trousers for alteration. "No, no, no, no, no" I says. At the time I was told this: "Leave the jacket with the trousers, we'll send you the full monty when it's done". This is what happened and this contributed to my plight.

The outcome of the phone conversation was this. They would send the jacket out via special delivery. I lied and said that it needed to be with me for this weekend coming! They have no way of checking the facts, they're in the dark Nigel. This is how I conned Ted Baker himself into splashing out on special delivery. The fool.

Last night I played Tiger Woods 2008 on the Nintendo Wii. I was absolutely shite at it, but it wasn't my fault. The game itself is absolutely shite. I was merely a pawn in it's game. We also played this game where you roll marbles around. It sounds shit, but it's actually really shit. I was good at that though. I was not good at Tiger Woods.

Now that it is Sunday evening we can retrospect on the end of the week with some force. Ross Kemp might use Ultimate Force, not me. Here's a rundown of everything from A-Z of what exactly I done.

Friday:

Some people from work were going out for a drink after the end of work. I wasn't really in the mood to stay out all night, so I went to The Bell straight from work. After I saw how many people had made an appearance I decided that I would stay out all night. So I went home and changed and had some dinner, then I picked Paul Rodgers up from his house and we went out in Reigate. We met up with everyone in The Market and there was much rejoicing. Bruno Fountain was up to no good, playing tricks on people and making a general sweaty nuisance of himself. It was well funny. I spent most of the evening outside chatting to Steven Paul Allen, Paul Rodgers, James Gasson, Jay Joseph and a whole host of all-stars.

After some time had passed, we got some food and jumped in a cab back to Steve's. Once there we waited in the street, eating our food. Bruno threw up whole chips because he was stuffing them down his throat and then got a severe case of the hiccups. Silly man. As it transpired, Steve went back to Rob's place. So we walked up to there, via the BP Night Pay. This is probably the best invention ever.

Once at Rob's, I plonked myself down in the chair and we listened to some music. There was a heated discussion over which music should be played, with Steve often turning the stereo off and Rob jogging the discs unintentionally. Rob had a couple of guitars lying around, so I made myself useful and tuned them up. They didn't stay in tune for long. Steve requested an acoustic session from myself, and I reluctantly agreed. It had been a long time since I had played to an audience, but I did the best I could in my drunken state with a guitar that had garotte wire for strings and wouldn't hold it's tune. I think I actually impressed them. Spot on.

It got to 3:30am and I started to feel tired, so I said my goodbyes and walked home. I got in just shy of 5am. I had a shower and brushed my teeth, then I put on an episode of "House". Watching an entire episode proved to be a very speculative optimism, and I fell asleep after roughly 3 minutes. I woke up a couple of hours later to a bright morning and the warm glow of the DVD menu. I turned it off with my foot and went back to sleep.

Saturday:

Got out of bed at 11:15am, 6 and a bit hours of sleep. Not nearly enough. I showered and got dressed and drove to Redhill where I was to meet Steve, Rob and Bruno. We were going to play pool. I got to the car park at 12:28pm. I got some breakfast, had a nose round the shops and then waited. And waited. And waited some more. Eventually Chris Light came along at 1:50pm. We played a few games of pool, then everyone else turned up. We watched the football and played a bit more pool. I decided to go home for a bit before driving over to Paul Rodgers' house. You see, it was his Mum's birthday and a load of Paul's mates were going to be there. So I went.

This was 7:30pm when I arrived at Paul's. Everyone started turning up pretty soon after. Paul dressed as Superman. His brother Mark dressed as Spiderman. And their mate Jamie was dressed as Venom. It was all very nice. Lewis came dressed as a Mexican but sounded more like Borat. He like. Then their mate Ross turned up. Ross had played football earlier in the day and had been hit in the forehead, leaving a rather huge lump. "You came as The Elephant Man! Fucking John Merrick!" exclaimed Lewis. Ross had not intended this, which made me laugh even more.

I watched the Rugby at Paul's, it was very good. After this I stayed around for a while, then left at about 12:30am. I dropped off Louise and Rob at their house before driving back home. It saved them getting a taxi, so they were happy. If you're happy, I'm happy.

When I arrived home I tried to watch the same episode of "House" that I had fallen asleep during at 5am the previous morning. I didn't achieve my goal, instead I conceded defeat and turned the TV off before drifting off to the land of nod.

Sunday:

It is now Sunday. I haven't done much today, just sat around playing Xbox and watching "House". I finally watched that episode all the way through. I rule. I'm going to go to the pub in a bit, you just see that I don't.

I am currently in the vice-like grip of a coffee phase. Until recently, my feelings towards heated drinks were rather lukewarm. On further clarification, I did not care much for a high temperature beverage. This is my story.

I have never enjoyed tea much. Sometimes it's quite a nice way to warm your cockles, but all too often it gives me excess acidity which in turn travels north through my oesophagus and creates a sort of burning effect. I call this "The Acid Convergence Point", or "Acid Reflux" for short. This is a problem that I have come to terms with, and I don't let it get in the way of my day to day operations. This is what tea does to me.

Coffee, on the other hand, does not cause me any grief. In fact it sits harmoniously alongside my other bodily functions, working in tandem. I experience no real side effects after consuming coffee, apart from the expected stirring within my bowels. This is what coffee does to me.

I usually just settle for water at work. It's a nice way to start the day. I will occasionally ingest an energy drink, such as Red Bull or Relentless, this is just for a quick pick me up, nothing sinister in it. It has a nice way of flushing the toxins and other nasties out of your body and into the toilet bowl. This is what water does to me.

Now. Yesterday morning I was very tired indeed. When I got into work I feared that I would somehow fall asleep at my desk. I weighed up my options and conceded that a cup of coffee would be in order. I then went to the kitchenette and prepared myself a nice steaming cup o' java. It had some milk in it. I waited for the drink to cool a bit, no one likes a burnt mouth. When the core had cooled to a manageable temperature, I set about drinking the fluid. It had an almost instantaneous effect. It was like drinking dark brown magic; magic that had somehow liquified. Dark brown liquified magic juice. It was so good that I returned for another one in quick succession.

Once the second cup had been fully gastrosised, I had attained an almost Godlike awareness. This abundance of pure caffeine energy caused me to lose all focus and motivation, and I filled this new void with incessant chatter. It was not as conducive to work as I had hoped, but I enjoyed the feeling. Needless to say, I have returned to coffee drinking now.

This morning I prepared myself a coffee that was an exact Dulux colour match to my soul. It really was blacker than black. I noticed that the lights dimmed as I supped on this coffee, I soon came to realise that the power of my drink was sucking in the waves of light like a black hole. It was then that I decided that this cup of coffee was the most destructive force in the universe. Coupled with a hearty breakfast, this coffee has begun to cause rumblings within my colon; I fear that my next trip to the facilities will be a rather messy affair. Like giving laxatives to a kid with Attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder.

I spent most of last week looking forward to the arrival of my ex-housemate Chazz. For you see, Chazz lives a fair distance away from us (with "us" being Simon and myself). Here is a picture of us three when we were residents of "The House Of Idiots", the most diversically talented group of students in the entire Falmouth area:

Chazz drove from his homeland towards the east side of Grinstead. It was here that he resided with Simon (AKA Symo) for the duration of the weekend. Using East Grinstead as a base of operations, the two thirds of "The House Of Idiots" set about making a general nuisance of themselves. Well, sort of.

I drove over to the control centre at 7:30pm on Friday evening. Arriving at Symo's, his dogs set about barking at me. I don't like it when dogs bark at me, let me be painfully truthful here. One of his dogs, Holly, barks at me every time I go to visit. This is an annoyance which I could do without. The other dog, Lucky, is fine with my being there now and proceeded to lavish me with attention. Holly finally settled down because I gave her a menacing look from my repertoire of various facial expressions. Stupid dog.

We went out to Grinstead and to a pub called "The Dorset Arms". This was quite alright, although the entire scumbag population of Grinstead seemed to congregate inside the place. Where there's a pool table, there's idiots. We let this slide and sat down with our respective drinks for a game of catch-up. After a while we went across to this pancake establishment which Symo was literally gushing about all night. You see, he really wanted a pancake.

I had a mozzarella, sun dried tomato and black olive toastie whilst the other two had pancakes. With Symo happy at being fed his delicious treat, we returned to the pub for last orders and then I bid them farewell for the evening and went home to bed.

On Saturday morning I went shopping. This required an early start and seeing as how I had only retired to bed at 2:30am, it was especially difficult to rouse myself at the projected time of 7am. Still, I managed it and we got in the car and drove to Portsmouth. We visited a place called "Gunwharf Quay", which is a retail outlet of sorts. The clothes shops are really quite good, cheap as chips. The intention was to buy a suit, and I was very pleased to find that the first one I tried on fit like a dream. Thanks, Ted Baker. I complemented the suit with a nice tie and went up to the counter to hand over my dosh. £195 in all, not too shabby. The suit was reduced from £300, so I was pleased as punch in all honesty.

I also visited HMV and bought a couple of items for my own use. I picked up the Guillermo Del Toro boxset incorporating "Cronos", "The Devil's Backbone" and "Pan's Labyrinth". I already had "Pan's Labyrinth", but it's so good I bought it twice. "It's so good, I put my name on it!" I also picked up the new Oceansize album. This was my shopping trip well and truly done.

In the afternoon I lost me voice. I lost me voice because the rugby was on and we beat Australia fair and square. I was literally shouting with glee. This is how me voice went lost. Once I had calmed sufficiently, I went to Crawley cinema to meet Chazz and Symo. We watched a film called "Control" which is a biopic about Ian Curtis of Joy Division fame. Here's the crack: I am a big fan of Joy Division, and of Ian Curtis especially. This is why I went to see the film. It was very good, but very depressing. It was never going to have a happy ending, was it? For you see, Ian Curtis hanged himself in his kitchen. Terrible way to go.

Post film, we went to Symo's hockey club to see his friend's band play. There were actually quite alright, very good if I'm not telling porkies. The lead singer was a very talented and attractive lady, so I was happy. And as always the night drew to a close and I left the boys to their own devices. On my way home I dropped in to see Steven Paul Allen and Jay, who were decidedly sozzled and playing chess. I turned up with some food for my own means and was instantly assaulted by Bertie the dog. I had not anticipated this, for I had forgotten that Steve and his girlfriend were baby-sitting young Bertie. Bertie is this right little jumped up shit who thinks he owns the place. I gave him my menacing look and he backed down a fair bit. Every now and then he would just bark for no apparent reason. What a fool. He was watching me like a hawk whilst I ate my dinner, but I didn't give him anything. I don't believe in feeding animals, they all have that hunting instinct. In my opinion, Bertie should have been out hunting for his food, not singing for his supper. He's such a cunt.

We played a bit of Wii and listened to some David Bowie classics, and then I had to go home. It was 2:30am when I got in. Sucker.

On Sunday morning I awoke at 8:15am and got ready. My reasoning here was that I was going into London to meet Chazz, Symo and Rebecca (Symo's girlfriend). I did my morning thing of having a shower and getting dressed, just the basics here guv'nor. Then I drove to Redhill and parked up. When I got to the platform, the train to Victoria was just leaving. I cursed my misfortune and attributed it to both the slow bastards who were driving in front of me between my house and Redhill station, and also the mentally retarded man trying to buy a ticket from the self serve machine. Fuck you, blooper.

So I sat down at the platform and awaited the next train. I had 20 minutes to wait, which was not ideal. I wanted to get to Victoria early and have some breakfast before I reconvened with my friends, but my bad luck had not afforded me this luxury. I watched as the next Victoria train became more and more delayed. Firstly it was 4 minutes late, then 12, then 20, then it simply said "Delayed". Fuck. An announcement came on over the loudspeaker: "Ladies and gentlemen, all trains through East Croydon will be delayed due to a fatality on the line at Purley Oaks". Oh, fucking terrific, some selfish cunt had thrown themselves in front of a train. Thanks for delaying my service, you inconsiderate little shit. Jumpers, they're the worst.

I drove to Sutton and got the train from there, what an inconvenience! The train went to London Bridge, so I had to catapult myself back across town to Victoria. Calamity of calamities. Thankfully I was there before Symo and Chazz, who were having a real nightmare of it. I met Rebecca and we went for a drink. Once the four of us were together, we went to the design museum to see an architecture exhibition. There was also a graphic design show there, which was very enjoyable for myself. Afterwards we went to "Wahaca", which is a Mexican restaurant with market tendencies. I'm not sure what the market tendencies were all about, but the food was good. I nicked a load of seeds so that I can grow my own chilies, these have been distributed amongst my work colleagues accordingly.

When we had eaten we went for a drink in the infamous "Tom Cribb". I like this pub, it's never too busy so you can always get a seat. I was feeling very tired from my late nights and early starts, so I made an exit and got the train home. I arrived back home at 8:30pm, had some dinner and then went to bed quite early because I was shattered. It didn't help.

And that is what I did this weekend, thanks for your patience.

I have just returned from the facilities here at work. It was a rather long-winded affair, and one that I don't care to repeat. You see, this was my first poo of the day. In fact it was my first poo since this time yesterday. This worried me somewhat, the fact that I had all this concentrated evil backed up inside me. It was time for a banging shit.

So I got there, to my destination, and I wiped the seat as per usual. A shit baffle was formed once more. This is effectively a few squares of toilet paper folded over and placed over the water of the loo. This muffles the sound created by droppings and also eliminates any splashback that may occur. I'm sure you will agree that this is a win-win situation.

Once I had done these things, I set about my task. It was made all the more difficult by the adjacent evacuees in the water closet. Not one, but two fellow pooers had joined me for the occasion. This meant that I had to be stealthy. Luckily I was able to dump undetected, but it was not an enjoyable experience. It still feels like there is more of the evil to come, but I can't shake this feeling. My only hope is that normality will return in the coming hours.

Well then, the reason that I have a large food baby inside me is probably down to the game of football we played last night. I forgot to provide myself with any water for the match and so was rather dehydrated come full time. I did have a can of Red Bull, as provided by Bruno Fountain, but it made me feel dizzy and evil. I attribute the water loss through sweating to the fact that my faeces is as dry as a granny's snatch. Must dose up on more fluids...

But when all is said and done, it was a rather enjoyable evening. And one that I wish to repeat next week.

Yours sincerely,

Ian Dulley

Christopher Light was born Ronseal Aloysius Digweed at some point in the 80's. This was truly the decade that fashion forgot, evidenced by the fact that Ronseal's parents used to dress him up in a green shell suit with zips all over the place. This would continue until his 21st birthday when he broke the shackles of his strict parents and flew freely of his own accord. This is not the time, nor the place, to divulge the adulthood of the ex-Ronseal Aloysius Digweed, Chris Light.

Ronseal was the by-product of a drunken fumble in the back of a veterinary practice. His mother, Beatrice Chamberlock, had taken her sick iguana, Meryl, to the vets. The vet was a man by the name of Terrapin Jones. After an entire morning of smoking athlete's foot powder, Terrapin launched himself on the unsuspecting Miss Chamberlock. This is how Ronseal was conceived, on an operating table that was just big enough to fit a medium sized domestic cat on it's surface. They were forced to marry soon afterwards, but it was quite a nice thing to do actually, seeing as they both enjoyed getting wasted on Scholl foot products, either by smoking them or melting them down into a semi-viscous liquid and injecting them.

Ronseal was born in Gimli Green Psychiatric Hospital just after "Neighbours" had finished. He weighed a paltry 2lbs 3oz, but he soon beefed up on a diet of soft cheese and Anchor Spreadable.

A very apt pupil at school, was Ronseal, despite being the butt of many jokes. He was bullied severely for the entirety of his school life, but this was mainly due to the green shell suit debacle. He graduated from school with an unprecedented "Not Bad, Ronseal" on his school report. He didn't have any qualifications to speak of. He was rather good at fitting his entire body into washing machines.

He continued his studies at Metric College in London. He specialised in "Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em", he was the only student on campus who could recite the entire run of episodes from start to finish. He could often be found sitting alone in the refectory, speaking in tongues with the occasional "Oooh, Betty!" thrown in for good measure. This ensured that he kept up appearances as a "weird loner who will end up climbing the bell tower and taking pot shots at traffic with a 12-gauge shotgun" (quote needs citing, unsourced).

As always, graduation came around. The education system was very kind to young Ronseal, awarding him a first class honours degree in sex offending. Ronseal was no different to the thousands of graduates entering the world of work. The question on everyone's lips was this: "How on Earth will Ronseal Digweed find stable work as a sex offender?". Well let me tell you, right here and right now, that he's doing better than anyone ever expected. This is only since he changed his name to Christopher Martin Light.

Coincidence? You decide.