I’ve lived my life with the saddening feeling than I’m surrounded by wankers. And that was proved to be otherwise completely accurate by PornHub earlier this month. Research by one of the world’s leading porn sites revealed that my humble home town of Ware (yes, I’ve heard all the jokes; “Where are you from?” “Ware” “Yes, where?” etc.) watched porn more than any other town in the UK, beating off the surrounding Hertfordshire towns by at least thirty seconds (double entendre fully intended).
On average, the people of Ware spent ten minutes and thirty-seven seconds on a porn site, with around seven different page visits. Champions. I think that it’s suffice to say, ladies, that men from Ware just last longer. You know where to find me. Well, probably in a rural commuter town looking at tits, apparently.
Strangely, with this news being the talk of the town, my mum was quick to point the blame at her husband, stating that “the figure would probably half he [my father] left the town”.
I think the wankers of Ware have a lot to thank Google Chrome’s “incognito” window for
That’s something that I’ll never be able to un-hear and I have to take that with me to my grave. It’s a strange title to be given to a town that isn’t known for anything. The only thing the town is known for is its Great Bed, currently residing in the V&A Museum, that could famously hold nearly ten people.
This is very ironic for a town that apparently struggles to fill its own beds with other people. Anyway, I think the wankers of Ware have a lot to thank Google Chrome’s “incognito” window for; an invention of such magnitude that can only be likened to the invention of the wheel. Meanwhile, we’ll be ignoring the fact that Ware-folk are incredibly lonely and that there is nothing else to do.
I was actually quite concerned about what else I’d put in my column this week as I hoped that my ‘alright’ start to 2014 would continue. Sadly, God (or whatever deity that decided to smite me this week) had other ideas. From the offset on Monday, I’d already managed to block the toilet. Then, after returning home from a terrible lecture, my luck began to improve as my housemate informed me that he’d managed to unblock the toilet. How he removed the blockage remains a mystery and he said that it was best for me ‘not to ask’.
Nevertheless, I went to sit in my beloved desk chair and attempt to fill this column. Two loud cracks and a hysterical housemate later, I was lying on the floor with the sudden realisation than I owed IG Property a new chair as pieces of shattered furniture and broken dignity lay around my dishevelled figure on my (rather solid) laminate floor. In fact, my head was only inches away from the corner of the nearest piece of flat pack furniture, which could have made the whole furore the most embarrassing overweight-student-Ikea-related death in history (because there are so many memorable ones of those).
It was, however, a blissful reminder that the chair couldn’t take my weight and that ‘something should probably be done about it’, which is also the laissez-faire thought that I’ve been running through my head for the past few years. However, a recent story in the Daily Mail (that well-known beacon of middle-class hope) shined a light on the situation that made me feel like the luckiest chubby student alive (just).
A former student recently admitted that the fat around her neck became so severe that it closed off her wind pipe whenever she lied down. She almost became the first person in history to have “cause of death: strangled by own fat” written on her death certificate. So maybe my little chair episode was the plastic-bending epiphany that I’ve been waiting for.
Also, if anyone wants any wheels for a desk chair, I’ve got a few lying spare…