Mysterious Don - who is Don O'Treply?

Who is this man? I have been emailed by him so many times, and I'm trying to get in touch with him to enquire about ticketing details for next year's Glastonbury Festival.

I am referring to this Irish bloke called Donald. Donald O'Treply, or simply 'Don' to his mates. Now, Don O'Treply seems like he's a clever bugger. If not clever, then certainly very, very busy. It seems that Don works for Amazon, Play.com, Glastonbury Festivals, Barclays Bank and many other internet-based companies.

Is this Don O'Treply?

I would like to know what qualifications Don has. I don't quite see how these various websites match up. I really am intrigued about Don. As he's presumably Irish, I reckon we'd get on. I like Ireland (Dublin rules) and it seems that Don likes me, otherwise why would he continue to cyber-stalk me? He hasn't once asked me what I think about my overdraught, who I'd like to see at Glastonbury (though curiously he knows my reference number) and hasn't once asked what I thought of the PS3 game he sent me.

If you know who Don is, where he's located and how he's managed to get such interesting, regular work with so many different companies, please leave a comment underneath.

And Don - if you're reading this (well, you might be - you seem to track me down when I least expect it) please can you let me know when tickets go on sale for Glastonbury 2010?

Much obliged.

How can anyone NOT like Queen?!

After discussions with people I can ONLY describe as heathens, it has come to my attention that anyone who cannot appreciate - no, LOVE Queen is either lying or totally insane.

What's NOT to like about them? They're flamboyant, they're happy, but at the same time, they're talented musicians who created anthemic classics. Like The Beatles, the names of their songs are embedded into our minds. Song titles have become common phrases. Who doesn't know the rousing guitar solos to Bohemian Rhapsody?

Go beyond the big hits - listen to their albums from the very beginning. Hear the opening bars of Sheer Heart Attack - with the noise of a fairground gradually merging into the opening riff to Brighton Rock.

Listen to the quite ridiculous drums from Roger Taylor - possibly the best British drummer since Keith Moon, with wrists that work quicker than a happy Japanese prisoner of war.

John Deacon - supposedly the 'dull one' - yet one of the most understated bass players in rock. He wrote I Want To Break Free AND Another One Bites The Dust - two of the countless everyday phrases we use thanks to Queen's influence.

And I've got this far without mentioning the main man himself - the magnificent Freddie Mercury - how we miss him. Many people have tried to emulate this great man, all have failed. And everyone will fail - he is irreplaceable. Not only did the world lose it's greatest ever front man in 1991, but also a very, very gifted musician and songwriter. This great man penned Bohemian Rhapsody - constantly voted rock's best ever song - as well as We Are The Champions, Bicycle Race, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Don't Stop Me Now and many, many more songs that even people who pretend not to care about Queen know and (probably behind closed doors) love.

When they weren't making 'the rocking world go round', Queen were serenading us with ballads that not only moved us, but made us think. A wonderful song called Is This The World We Created? found on their 1984 album The Works is still more than relevant today, 25 years later. A telling sign of Queen's lasting legacy.

And then there's Love Of My Life, a song penned by both May and Mercury. I had the pleasure of seeing Queen and Paul Rodgers last October, and whilst Freddie's absence was like a gaping hole through the hearts of both his old band and legions of loyal fans, it was like he was there with us when Brian May strummed the opening chords to this classic from 1975. He didn't need to sing a word - several thousand of us stood in for Freddie for four and a half minutes. Stirring stuff.

Who could I recommend Queen to? Well let's see - anyone with a passing interest in singing, guitar playing, drumming, song writing, performance art, or with a passion for good, honest British culture. Or indeed, anyone who simply wants to be cheered up. When you get home after a hard day at work, put your feet up, bung A Night At The Opera on the stereo, sit back and listen to 4 geniuses at work.

With that I leave you with an image that sums up these greats of modern music. The moment that they encapsulated the world - billions of viewers. Wembley - July 1985 and the famous Live Aid performance. During an event created to help many millions beat the threat of starvation, Freddie and co had all 4 corners of the world eating out of their hands.

Crazy Foreign Hairdressers

When someone has to fill out an application form when applying for a job in a hairdressers, is 'manic stare' a pre-requisite? I ask this, because it seems to be the norm in my usual hairdressers in Stourbridge. As long as the person cutting my hair is polite, chatty and does a decent job, I can forgive the stare.

But a really manic stare is something else entirely. I mean a burn-through-lead stare. No - worse. I'm talking about a stare than would have made Idi Amin turn away in fear. No-one should be able to provoke that sort of response from a fellow human being.

I hope now I've put the picture in your head of a maniac. Now please add some frothy drool to the mixture. Now think of them brandishing a pair of scissors. Make them female - we know they're deadlier than the male.

Welcome to my private hell - welcome to last Saturday. Saturday was hair cut day - usually a trouble-free experience. So, there I was, sat in the hairdressers, patiently waiting for my turn, reading the paper. I hadn't even noticed that the most evil looking woman on the planet was looking at me until I finally looked up, and she beckoned me over to the guillotine - sorry - chair.

I thought, 'my god - she's the one fate (damn you, fate) has chosen to cut my hair. And I'll have to PAY for the 'privelege''.

I was fixed with the 'Mwahahahahahaaaa!!! Another victim!' smile. The insane laughter at the start of that quote was certainly silent. But behind that grim, bored, almost tortured expression of blank nothingness I assure you she was happy about nature's selection - me - as her next unwilling piece of prey.

I sat down, and had one last look in the mirror as a live human being when she asked, "What you like, meester?"

Broken English. Broken. Like my spirit. This maniacal, evil looking woman - armed with full compliment of machetes - cannot speak my language. I cannot reason with her - I cannot plead with her for my life. This is a disaster.

"Erm - just short and neat."

The red eyes flicker. Think Sauron from Lord of the Rings. Only scarier. Sauron was just one eye. Hecate here has 2, and a body to house them. She grabbed a fistful of my hair (not gently) and barked,
"This much? Huh?"
"Erm, maybe not quite that much."
She relinquished her grip. For all of 3 seconds. Then the Fist of Doom came back and grasped not quite as much as previously, but with the same force as a Nadal backhand from the baseline.
"Now?"
You have no idea how much she sounded like Mrs Goebbels in Downfall when she said that.
"Yar. Sorry, yes." I uttered weakly.

I shall continue with the movie similies here. This time, she exhaled the sort of exhale of air you associate with Ridley Scott's Alien as she moved across my line of sight, scissors in one hand, trident in the other. I am, of course, joking about the trident. She was too busy sharpening the razor with her nails to grasp such a cumbersome object.

Ah, that gentle, reassuring, soft 'snip, snip' you hear in the quintessential barber's shops. The ones Paul McCartney sang about in Penny Lane. I now know - for sure - that any reassuring noises are soothed by your brain and transmitted as 'nice' noises.

My brain couldn't recognise 'nice' noises, merely noises ob object horror. TERRIFYING horror. Thanks to my brain, I was now listening to hacking, shearing, tearing, scraping noises - all coming from the twisted piece of metal brandished by this serial killer towering above me. I was pinned down in my chair - manacled by the invisible barrier of black cloth around my neck, cascading over my shoulders. Because you NEVER lift your hands over the black cloth. It's like a burkha for the cuttee's arms.

I dared to look back in the mirror. I tried to ignore my petrified expression and looked at my head. Half of which looked neater. The other half didn't. Christ, she'd made me into an emo!

If I could see myself now, I'd probably scream, maaaan.....

I don't know how I dared to challenge her, but I did.

"Erm, please can you take a bit off my fringe?"
"Fringe? Fringe?" This was said in the same tone of voice as Mr Bumble. from Oliver Twist. Substitute 'Fringe?' for 'More?' and you're there.
"Yes please. It looks a bit long for me."
"Not long. Good. You is look good."

I really didn't. I looked like an emo. I don't want to look like an emo. I want to look like me. And I'm not an emo. If all else failed, I could always go for the trusted grade 2 all over. But then the wife wouldn't talk to me. Which would make me all depressed and - well, for want of a better word, like an emo. I suppose feeling like an emo is better than LOOKING and feeling like an emo. I'd risk it - if this didn't work, I was going for the buzz cut. Hannah would understand - I'm sure Jill Morrell didn't like John McCarthy's 5 year stubble when he was released, but we're talking survival here. We'd work it out over time.

"No, I'd like my fringe cut short please."
A 'harumph' followed. I'm not sure how to properly type that noise, but 'harumph' will do. An angry, Eastern European noise, if you like.

Five minute of grunting, scraping, shearing noises later, and I looked human again. Sort of like Theoden after Gandalf wakes him up from his trance in The Two Towers, but with shorter hair and no beard.

Usually, the black arm burkha is out of bounds for the cuttee, but I didn't care. I flung the thing off as soon as those blades were far enough away from my jugular and made for the till. I was buying my own freedom. Why didn't McCarthy and chums think of this?

Maybe such tests are put in front of us as a reminder of why some men go bald?

Online T**ts - a rant about the cretins found on Xbox Live

"Damn you, Mario!!!!! Damn you!!"

Before I start, I play quite a lot of video games in the evenings. Rich is a very priveleged individual - I speak to him over the headset. Because I know him and he's a mate. I refuse to sit there looking like I work in a call centre if I don't actually know the weirdo on the other end of the line. In short - I don't talk to random strangers who take their gaming too seriously. Why? Because there are so many morons out there, I'm partly scared of them, and partly embarrassed to be associated by them via an interest in video games. Some of these tossers you get on xbox live really do my head in. I have Christened them 'Online T**ts', or - for short - 'OT's. So, even if you aren't wearing your headset, you can still hear these 'valued' members of society through your TV. Let me go through the categories of OT:

Online T**t version 1 - The Homophobe.

This OT gets very angry for very little reason. And I mean very little reason. If I'm easily thrashing this sort of OT as Ken on Street Fighter IV, I have no qualms about some sort of critical analysis of my performance. For example: 'Good use of ranged fireball moves there, Ian - but sometimes your willingness to launch into a jumping headkick leaves you vunerable to attack, such as your reluctance to block my attacks.' Fair do's - I'd take that on board. But OT 1 uses this critical analysis:

"You f**king faggot."

How interesting. For a start, I live in the Black Country - faggots are a local speciality, especially when served with peas. I am deducing that they don't mean a gravy-based meat dish, and are in fact referring to the derogatory name for a homosexual male. So, the fact I managed to win a fighting game via an internet connection makes me homosexual does it? And this person obviously has some sort of problem with the homosexual community. I daresay that plenty of gay men are excellent at Street Fighter IV. In fact, I'm sure that in past I have had to play against people who are a different sexual orientation than myself. When such an individual defeats me (as I'm sure they often have) I never feel the need to bring their sexual orientation into discussion.

It's only ever Americans who use this term. I really can't quite understand why. If I defeat an OT 1 by simply being superior at Street Fighter IV, or maybe sniping an OT 1 through the head from several miles away on Call Of Duty or through a superb footballing display, triumph 5-0 at Pro Evolution Soccer 2009, I really can't understand that collaging these skilled gaming performances together brings this OT to the conclusion that I am homosexual. Or eat a gravy-based meat dish, with or without peas.

Online T**t version 2 - The Tactician.

This is exclusive to team-based games, such as Call Of Duty. This OT likes to win. At ALL costs. Failure is simply not an option. Basically, your typical OT 2 barks orders down his headset to random people such as yourself, displaying his 'vast knowledge' of tactical warfare. A really hardcore OT 2 will also shout orders using directions as well as the phonetic alphabet (example - "You there - Bravo Kilo Uniform - Sou-South East - move.") I usually side step the barrage of bullets so he gets hit and 'takes one for the team'. But most OT 2's are totally useless - mainly because they're probably failed cadets who didn't make it into the forces due to not knowing the difference between arse and elbow, and thinking a AK47 was a type of car.

I like winding OT 2's up best, because it's so unbelievably easy to do. Simply ignore them or - better still - do the opposite of what they 'command'. When ordered to 'hold your ground', running headlong into a group of baddies might get you a 'what the f**k are you doing soldier?! I told you to hold your ground goddammit!!', it might also succeed. If I hit a decent run of form, I can be pretty good at Call Of Duty, so I occasionally attempt that. If you do, the reaction is usually priceless as well. Example - "Don't take risks with your life like that again soldier."

OT 2's can also come in the guise of 'The Gallant', which I will Christen as an OT 2 and a half. OT 2 1/2's realise a GIRL is playing, and will offer advice and PROTECTION to aforementioned female members throughout the game. Hilarious to witness, flirting online is one thing, but in the heat of battle - quite the spectacle. I would love to know if any of these techniques have been successful, and would wager that any potential marital union would take place in World of Warcraft. Any potential offspring of OT 2 + token female gamer (shudders at the thought of any such relationship) has the possibility to become an OT 3 (see below).

Some OT 2's can easily morph into OT 1's during the heat and intense pressure of battle. The rest of us can just turn the console off and return to our normal, mundane REAL lives, and hence avoid post traumatic stress syndrome.

Online T**t version 3 - The Annoying Child

The most annoying of all OTs, the OT 3 unfortunately crops up in EVERY type of game and are usually the offspring of bad parents who could possibly have been brother and sister.

Your average OT 3's age is between 6 and 16, except those who have yet to enter puberty, mainly from lack of vitamin D due to not seeing daylight since 9/11 'because the muslims will kill us if we step outside'. They are identifiable through squeaky pre-pubescent voices, that tend to make one's skin crawl.

Typical behaviour of an OT 3:

* Fuzzy static down headset
* SINGING down headset
* WHISTLING down headset
* Turning up volume of static/singing/whilsting after OT 1 calls them a 'f**king faggot' to stop them
* Continued use of the phrase 'you're shit' after they shoot you
* Called away midgame to have dinner

Start 'em young...

And there we have it. Rather irritating on a Sunday night when all you want is a quiet game. Enjoy your gaming time, folks - but whatever you do, look out for these t**ts. If you see one, wind them up. You might lose your game but let's be honest, it IS only a game, and isn't even real. Remember - we have lives. These people are yet to kiss a girl without giving out their credit card number.

We all have to start somewhere!

So - finally - I have succumbed to the 'craze' of blogging. I haven't much to say at the moment (unusual in itself) but I'll add a few things over the next few days or so.

Oh by the way - I refuse to succumb to Twitter. Why people can't make a bit more of an effort to write full, concise sentences I don't know. So in the meantime, I'll stick to here thanks very much.

Anyway, that's all for now. But there WILL be more. I have much to say, none of it remotely relevant, but hey ho.

Until later.

EDIT - I've found how to pre-date stuff, so that's what I'll do to old rubbish I posted in Facebook.