EPIC DEXTER

Viva Vas Vegas: Part I

My latest hiatus from tumblr could be attributed to a number of factors: boredom, work, Turn of the century Simon Pegg sitcoms, The Elder Scrolls series, tumble drier implosion, the usual kind of thing.

Therefore it is extremely coincidental that my latest break up has coincided with a little trip I may have took across the pond, to a little known town in Nevada known as Las Vegas…you know Las Vegas, the Cultural hotspot of the planet, home to the world’s finest cuisine, enlightening art galleries, wonderful beach walks, natural wonders, and the largest collection of pornography out side of Berlin…I’ve heard they do something else as well…

At this point I could turn around and admit that my absence from the Internet was due to the fact that Vegas robbed me of everything including the shirt on my back, and that for the past 2 months I’ve been working my way slowly up from the basement of the food chain, paying off my losses by dressing in drag and performing all sorts of dreadful favours for the kind of gentlemen who dress only in the finest suits, made from the wool of South America’s most endangered Camels, and drive around in Carbon Fibre Automobiles, which cost more than I’ll ever earn in a lifetime…or my children’s lifetime.

But disappointingly I had to play a very responsible role in the Vegas team, and only wasted a moderately acceptable amount of cash during the gambling side of things, but still enough to leave me with a bitter cheese grilled taste in my mouth…it’s still there now.

To cut to the core of this story, I was Spell bound by Las Vegas from the moment I saw its gleaming haze from the window of seat 42A. I find it very difficult to summarise Vegas to people who haven’t been there before, but I usually describe it as thus: imagine the most backwards, ridiculous place on earth, then smother it in liquid gold and BBQ sauce.

Vegas makes no sense what so ever, I felt as though my IQ dropped to that of a heavily sedated chameleon from the moment I stagered through US customs (which deserves blog post of it’s own). As soon as you step out of McCarren airport, this 5 mile strip grandiose neon beacon takes hold of all of your senses to the extent that you begin to lose track of modern principles of human living. As soon as I took in that Nevada air I was genuinely the most excited I had been, since my dad let me drive the dodgems at Southport Pleasure beach for the first time at the age of 2 months (he was probably drunk then…and probably still is until this very day).

This is Vegas’s purpose; to serve as a mammoth playground for adults. As my friend Nic put it “Vegas is like Butlins, but better.”

I believe that given a long enough time in the sin city, one could be consumed by its offerings of fortunes and debauchery; I can’t think of a time in my life where I’ve felt more free to do what I want, when I wanted it. Normal human considerations have no bearing in this moral-less bubble of the world, whether it be time, money, social skills, or masturbation schedules. This was probably most epitomised by my last night in Vegas, where it dawned on me that I was sat at a roulette table at half 5 in the morning (and had been there for several hours), lost a cool few million dollars on red, before screaming at the complimentary drinks waitress for getting my order wrong and masturbating over her shoes… I may have got those last key points wrong.

So Vegas certainly has its dark side, but there is a hell of a lot more to attract someone to this eccentric Hub of the south west. For instance it is a little known fact that Americans enjoy their food portions large and vast. Whereas in England you may be served a slither of salmon accompanied by a thimbles worth of sauce as an appetiser, The U S of A assume that the average human being has the appetite of a pot smoking killer whale with the serious case if the munchies, and as thus serve not bowls of soup, but troughs of meat.

Now I’m not the largest gent in the world, but I wouldn’t wish our Yankee cousins to feel dismayed at our lack of food eating prowess. So combined with the fact that the food in Vegas is of exceptional quality, I happily munched down their mounds of protein. Regardless of where I may be dining, each bite was a little like receiving a big fat snog from Marilyn Monroe…until I got to bite 8 or 9 where it became more akin to having your face licked off by Susan Boyle.

And then there’s the shopping as well, which blows anything the Queens country has to offer out of the water. Imagine yourself in The Harlequin shopping centre in Watford, now picture yourself in the polar opposite of said dream so you are left with only the most exclusive and extravagant shops, walkways free of McDonald’s and Starbucks cups, and shop assistants who actually look like they want to help you today as apposed to a “Feck off” when you ask for a size 4 shoe ( they weren’t for me…they were for a friend…honest.)

Thanks to my penny pinching mother, i have inherited the astounding ability where any materiliast goods become instantly invisible to me if they have a three figure sum attached to them, that is unless it’s made of leather, Able to run Mass Effect 2, or excretes sushi into my face. But despite usually feeling awkward when surrounded by clothing that I could only afford if I remortgaged my house, I rather enjoyed just walking around the marvellous utopian shopping hubs, each one had its own friendly atmosphere and personality to it, which make a big change from the now generic “out of the box IKEA” shopping fortresses that Westfield have been plaguing our London landscape with for the past couple of years.

I think to summarise I was pleasantly surprised to find that Vegas wasn’t just about the G word and There’s a lot more charm about the place if you look past all the drunken hobos dressed as Disney characters, and flyer distributors who litter the street with their offers of hot shemale strippers. Don’t get me wrong, the casinos do encourage you to gamble, but not it a “BET IT ALL ON RED NOW SO WE CAN OWN YOU, YA LIMEY FAGGOT!” manner, more of a ” hey want to see a cool magic trick? Awesome come on in, we’ve got some great food too. Oh by the way, if you stick a nickel in the flashing machine over there, our waitress will bring you a complimentary drink.” way.

So I’d love to say that this is where the story ends, but I don’t feel I have scratched the surface of my 6 night endurance-fest in Vegas, so like all shitty movie endings go, this adventure is to be continued…

(…until then I’m going to find a picture of a very hard hit Winnie the Pooh, post his Hundred Acre wood years with Christopher Robin.)

END TRANSMISSION.

Loocation Loocation Loocation…

…It was a cold cold night in Central London. With the remaining work party sat in a small pub on Carnaby Street, sipping their Sambuccas at half 11, Dexter and his long time compatriot Chris decided to make a trip home in time to watch the Sky at night.

The two gents went their separate ways: Dexter going north and Chris going south. With Dexter fast approaching his home destination of Gordon Hill – he decided that this was the perfect time for an evening nap.

Thirty minutes later, Dexter awoke in the small Hertfordshire town of Stevenage – about 25 miles away from his home in Enfield. With the hands of fate pointing at 1:01 am, Dexter was shocked and rather concerned at this turn of events, and with the revelation that the next train back towards civilization left in a little under 4 hours, his alerted state reached DEFCON 1. However when there’s a will to get home, there must be a way – a way that costs around £80 according to the Taxi man I asked.

I now feel a small victory holding onto my 80 English pounds, and will make sure to spend it on something to commemorate my tour of Hertfordshire in the near future, but at the time I was in deep despair and would do anything for a decent nights sleep – even if it meant sleeping in a toilet for the evening…

15 minutes later I was dozing off in the lovely confines of Stevenage train station Gentlemen’s toilet. I can now honestly see how the recent national rail price hike has been spent: keeping me in my toasty bubble of delight, right before the point I was escorted out of the station for doing nothing wrong but being drunk and disabled in a public area.

With my new found love of toilets now fully integrated into my personality – I summoned enough energy to drag my nakered self to the nearest holy ground…this time in the form of ASDA 24/7. With the ASDA minions busy restocking their thin supply lines of Cucumbers and Rustlers Burgers, Dexter stealthily slid his way past the on-duty sentries. With the path clear to his porcelain crib, Dexter was enabled to recharge his batteries interruption free.

Hours later and Dexter was working again - albeit with the motorly functions of an unconscious sloth and the brain power equivalent to a Wasabi snorting Snail. Sure that his 25 mile land mark could not be bettered, Dexter worked away with a small victory in his mind of the time he overcame trial by Stevenage…that is until his alter ego, Chris, successfully returned from his 60 mile detour, to Eastbourne.

A quick game for you all…

My morning routine could only be made more repetitive, if I was starring in a remake of Groundhog day in which Bill Murray’s character has been replaced with the faceless banker of Deal or No Deal; and instead of being a loveable weatherman who finds himself in a series of comical situations, is forced to listen to Noel Edmond’s droning voice for the rest of his days, until his snapping point is breached and he is forced to suffocate the snappily dressed silver fox, using nothing but a phone cord and the number 22 box, all for the sake of his own sanity.

The hour of 7:00 until 8:00 in the morning is a large blemish on the obviously exciting life I lead, in fact if that time were a television show it would be Countdown - perfectly passable but also mind numbingly mundane.

My mornings are already ruined by the prospect of a commuter excursion on the London Underground - of course excursion being the wrong word; replace that phrase with ‘commuter campaign’ seeing as I am always on highest of alert, ever prepared to defend myself from that accountant standing next to me who has been driven to insanity via his forever doomed life of Excel sheets, 3D pie charts, and the multi-code combination to his briefcase, which now in the accountant’s mind has morphed into a rather convenient bludgeoning tool. I will never cease to dread the Piccadilly line southbound, not as long as there is the Microsoft Office suite to frazzle peoples’ minds to the consistency of Butterkist popcorn.

Enough about my eternal crusade against the tyrannous forces of MS Powerpoint 2037 though, I’m here to give you a few minutes of joy to break up that humdrum routine. You will require six things for this task: a bowl, some Scots Oats (or any other ethnic type of oats, we’re all equal here), a tap, a cup (and when I say cup, I mean cup, not a pint glass, not a novelty Wallace & Gromit Mug, but one cup), an 800w microwave (come on, who has anything less than 800 in this day and age?), and an IQ higher than that of an average Pacific Sockeye Salmon. This is a single player game, so don’t worry about inviting any of your accountant friends over to join in…they’ll probably only throttle you with their stupidly oversized Umbrella anyway. The game takes place as thus:

1. Fill the bowl with one CUP of porridge oats.
2. Follow this by emptying 2 cups of water into the same bowl.
3. Place this concoction in your 800w microwave. (If you have anything less than a 800w microwave you are missing out on some awesome cooking power; that and you can’t play.)
4. Turn on your 800w microwave. (Really go and buy the most powerful microwave you can find, the one at work has 1,000w. 1,000 watts! I’m near damm certain my body couldn’t repel microwave power of that magnitude.)

Now the objective of the game is to leave the microwave on for as long as possible, without any porridgy goodness escaping the contents of the bowl - believe me when I say that you certainly do not want to be cleaning up the aftermath of Mt. Quakers when it blows.

My personal record was 4:52 seconds, if you can step up to the plate and defeat that landmark time then you win a smoldering bowl of pulp to burn your tongue on. If you lose, then you’ll just have to miss the 8:07 from Gordon Hill whilst you clean the crap off your nice new 5,000w microwave.

One Michael Jackson! There’s only one Michael Jackson!

Contrary to the Title of this post, the following 97 lines of text will be talking about football, yes football, the sport of football, the very same football which invades your parks. The kindred football that attacks your ear drums with it’s insistent football commentary. Football with it’s hold on the tabloid back pages with it’s football pundits and it’s football fans, the very same football fans who are your football friends, who invite you down the football pub, with no intention but to watch the football on the football television, which shows the football 24 hours a day of the footballing week. DON’T TRY AND DODGE THE FOOTBALLING FOOTBALL BULLET, FOR THERE IS NO ESCAPING THE FOOTBALL.

Now I’ve recovered from my football hysteria, lets talk more about football. The beautiful game of Soccer Football takes place on emerald fields, with blades of grass that you could cut yourself on. It is played by athletes, not just any athletes, the worlds finest and most able bodies gentlme…ah I won’t humour you, it was invented by a bunch of gutless Italians who were too weak and too well practised in the art of amateur dramatics to play Rugby. The modern game is officiated by FIFA (The Federation of Improvisational Footballing Actors), which is led by it’s president Mr. Bean.

What brings me on to such an illustrious subject upon this fine evening, is my recent visit yesterday to the home of The Fulham Bedrocks, (as I’m informed they are affectionately known as in the United States). Last night their stadium Cravendale Cottage played host to my beloved team, The Arsenal Cannonballs. Only victory would do for the Cannonballs, meaning that inevitably they would lose to a last minute goal as scored by a man whose name begins with Z, which means he can only be a vile devilish man; the battle between good and evil was lost, and the world might has well of ended that evening - no need to wait until the end of the year.

It was a too and throw game between the Gannondorf’s and the Bedheads, which is probably as good as any football analysis you’ll hear from Senior Lineker on BBC’s flagship Football show Loose Deranged men, in which ex-England super striker-man Alan Shearer, performs the role of a Cow in a coma for an hour and a half, before his fellow pundit Mark Lawrensen, plays the part of a washed-up racist alcoholic takes over from the slumberfest - both roles which they probably perfected, during their time in the FIFA Premier Inn League.

The thing that I found most entertaining about my visit to South London however, is not any the soccerball, or surprisingly the overpriced pints of Lager (yes it wouldn’t be a Dexter Paine blog without some form of Alcohol getting a mention). No the thing which entertained me most of all was the troupe of comedians occupying the Away end of spectators; for never have I heard in unison heard such creativity from a crowd of cold drunken men. This being my first Arsenal game in almost six years (I am an avid fan as you can see), I had lost my match practice so to speak when it came to football chants, but my singing fitness quickly returned by the third rendition of the ever popular “Shall we sing a song for you?” in E Major.

Only one thing could have overshadowed the joy of patronising the Fulham Bigcock fans in their own back yard, and that would have been if the home fans actually started to cry their songs of war straight back in our Cannon-fodder faces, so then we could do battle with our mouths…strictly in a masculine and non homo-erotic sense of course. It was deeply disturbing in that case then, to discover that all Fulham fans are either the most passive people on the planet, or that they have been stuffing too much fine wine and Caviar down their middle-class throats to even have the physical ability to use their vocal chords. It was odd and somehow bothering to me that myself and the rest of the Arsenal brigade had failed to illicit a response from the home fans. It was a little like prodding a distressed Coyote Bear with a stick and for it to only sit back and smile at you with a slightly slacked jaw; or similar to watching big titted porn for the first time only for your gentlemanly bits not to be the slightest bit interested.

Luckily the lovely people at Craven Crackhouse had already thought this through and assembled a wonderful statue of Michael Jackson outside their Library to finally give their fans a true voice!…Really…I kid you not. Go into Google now (or any other search Engine provider, I’m sure there’s at least one other one) and type “Michael Jackson Craven Cottage”.

You will be greeted by the single most horrifying thing you have ever seen - a lifeless shell of the former King of Pop that can only be made worse if he was wielding a machete in one hand, and the severed head of Bubbles in the other.

Why is it there? Who thought it would be a good idea to erect such a figure? How has it not been destroyed yet by the outgoing rush of Football fans after every game? When will FIFA have the decency of nuking this monstrosity, in order to save any more innocent Children’s eyes perishing?

And why were you seriously considering counting the number of lines in this blog post to check that my opening sentence was correct?

N is for Niconite

Cigarettes are odd things aren’t they? To some people they are the perfect remedy to a stressful days work, to others they are the magical portal to a world of social salutation; while on the other hand many see them as little Siphons of Hitler’s hatred, spewing evil and spite through any man, woman, or Penguin, who may so much as stare at a pack of Marlboro for longer then a couple of seconds. Look at people with their death sticks! How dare they puff on the blood of Orphans, don’t they know that Cigarettes are manufactured from the Marrow of abandoned Panda children?

(Before I further insult the population of China (the Worlds future Oppressors), may I point out that Cigarettes are not actually made from Panda babies…they save them for the secret chemical which makes Stretch Armstrong so damm flexible).

What brings me onto the subject of these peculiar off-white tubes, is that I all of a sudden feel as though my attitude towards them is a social anomaly. After all, I am not totally abstinent from Tobacco - I had my first cigarette in almost 6 months on Boxing day after a ‘stressful’ day bumping into old school friends and repeating time and time again just what I’ve been up to with myself for the past ten thousand years (it really did feel like fucking Groundhog Day at times). In the past I’ve also been known to dabble with smoking at social events; for me they always made for great excuses to introduce oneself to new people, and thus making oneself not look like Billy no mates in the club you CERTAINLY DIDN’T arrive to own your lonesome…right before the point I started coughing in my nearest acquaintances face due to my lack of smoking finesse - thanks cruel world, thanks for making me so shit at doing something which can kill me.

This brings me to my point, while I’m not at all bothered by these long sticks of mystery and misery, I also find myself hating them for making me look like a total dick.

Smoking Lads of my age have always had a certain stigma attached to them. Many gents (mostly those wearing tracky bottoms and more gold than Mr T after a spending spree in Cash Converters) who smoke in public will be named and shamed as brutes, before being chased down Suburban streets by old age pensioners wielding The Daily Mail as a baton. Those blessed enough to have the gods of Pall Mall smile upon them, are hailed as Loveable rogues who are as cool as Mick Jagger escaping a terrorist bunker blindfolded, through a barrage of explosions, whilst riding a Velociraptor - which shoots lasers through it’s stare of loathing towards outwardly agressive guerilla thugs…yes that is the coolest thing I could think of right now.

For lil’ ole me however, smoking usual results in the overwhelming sense that nicotine is attacking ever motor function in my body, including my ability to speak any part of the Queens language, which is cut to short one word comments, usually followed by a draining of colour from the face and an over-exaggerated repetitive nodding action…often interpreted as groggy uncontrollable swaying. Throw in a little alcohol into the mix and don’t be surprised if some Dexter decides to bring up a treat from dinner time. All it takes is a couple of drags of Dunhill for me to look worse than the average occupant of Azkaban.

I suppose it could be said my body’s intolerance towards Cigarettes represents a strong character trait hidden deep within me, a guardian soul looking out for me and refusing to turn me over to the dark side of the force. But then again my occasional deference to the Emperor and his shiny new Death Star could easily as well be explained by a general haphazard personality who is just too stubborn that this is one habit that is not for him.

If there was a Venn Diagram to categorize peoples’ attitudes towards cigarettes, there would be a circle just for me that encompasses every single belief of the tobacco world.

And more than likely that circle would be titled “Reserved for whiny little pussies”.

Captain Schoville’s Chilli Fiend

“Dex, I think you need professional help.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well for starters that bottle of Tabasco was full to the brim before you smothered it over you touched it.” - Holds up empty container of said hot sauce.

I’m not sure when my love affair with chilli began; actually wait a second whilst I smack my skull repeatedly against a stone cobble wall. Yes I remember the day my spice addiction began as if it were yesterday, the year was 2007 and Dexter Paine was beginning his steady ascent to his prime - it was one of those stages in a life when things start to drastically change for a lad of 16 going on 12; a steady supplement of NME and XFM set me on the path to music snobbery, I started purchasing my own clothes to replace the expanse of tracky bottoms and Reebok Hoodies which had amassed over the years, my lifelong battle with spots was coming to an end thanks to the lovely people at Clearasil arming me with the ammunition I needed to finally fight off the mountain hoard which was occupying my face, and for the first time in my life I was using hair product: in fact I probably single-handedly kept Brylcreem in business during the sixth form years of my teenage-hood.

But for all the new fashion gurus, music moguls, and face plasterer personalities joining and improving upon my increasingly split persona, cracks began to appear on the surface and seeping through the chasms of darkness flooded through a much different side of the once reserved lad who used to spend his days contributing to the great philosophical debate of which is better - Ocarina of Time or Wind Waker.

I grew an ego, and not the kind of good ego that enjoys dressing up as Mrs Lovett from the 2004 Chace Community School production of Sweeney Todd (there will be no photographic evidence to follow). I found myself with the sudden urge to make a name for myself, to be loved and adored by my fellow peers, but with a cool, hip me and not the dweeby shell that was more concerned about how the next World of Warcraft update will effect my avatars mana regeneration rate.

To do this I made several lifestyle changes to put me on the quick route to the peak of popularity hill; and if some of these lifestyle alterations included stuffing my mouth full of dried Chilli then so be it.

Peer pressure is a brutal and wonderful thing, and to work your way to the top of the food chain in Enfield you had to battle through the bottom mounds of chilli challenges to prove oneself. One fateful day whilst say in Pizza Hut a challenge manifested itself which would warp not only my social standing at the time, but my culinary preferences for the rest of my life. The challenge went like thus:

1. Measure one tablespoon of Pizza Huts spice mix.
2. Eat one tablespoon of Pizza Huts spice mix.
3. Repeat until your fellow peers declare you the Chili Fiend

So with the Chilli bar set at a mere two tablespoons after a whip around the table, step forward Dexter “Mild” Paine. With no previous experience in the Spice game, I felt a little under prepared to say the least of what I was letting myself in for; I never found myself drawn towards hot food and tended to stay to the more timid side of condiment corner. So to say I was expecting terrible and torrid times ahead for the innards of my digestive system, would be spot on.

However something extraordinary happened to me that day, something quiet magnificent, which can only be explained and attributed to the powers above. For just prior to my first intake of Fiery flakes, the mighty god of all things spicy named Scoville, was sitting in the heavens wondering what on earth to do with all the surplus chilli resistance he had forgot to augment more evenly to humankind over the past decade. Rather than spread this heat resistance to every man and woman alike, he decided to, just for a laugh, see what would happen if he concentrated all the power into the single most unlikely being alive.

That single being happened to be the dorky kid currently sat in the Southbury road branch of Pizza Hut, currently holding a pile of peppery goodness just inches from his face. With one swift move of a wrist, Schoville armored me from the evils of pungent flames which would have rapidly burnt up my insides and instead immortalized me in the eyes of all those present.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five tablespoons later, my job they say in the movies, was well and truly done. Flash forward to present day and I just can’t get enough of the stuff. A meal feels incomplete without a copious sprinkling of Cayenne, or a generous serving of finger chilli. By the time I turn 30 my stomach lining will be more frazzled than Pete Doherty’s brain after a visit to the Glue factory, but it doesn’t matter to me as long as I get just one more kick out of the exotic zestful flavours which only chilli can give to my poor unresponsive taste buds.

So now every time I find myself sitting in a curry house, or browsing the Mexican food section of a supermarket, I think back to that afternoon in Pizza Hut and the days where acclaim and approval toook precedence in my life. I’d like to think that my ego has subsided a little as I’ve matured over the past five years - but then again you only have to look through my collection of recent pictures on Facebook to see it takes a lot to remove that near permanent portrait of Smugness which has been etched to my face.

I suppose in a lot of ways, I have a lot in common with chilli - attention seeking, a little over the top at times, and a right pain in the ass if taken in large dosages.

If the next song is Justice, we’re all getting laid.

Oddly enough in these terrible recession hit times, the country is still allowed just one little glimmer of joy and happiness to celebrate at the end of each depressing and tediously long year. That period of time is officially known as “Christmas brought to you by Coca-Cola” on the Christian calender, with previous sponsors ranging from News International, all the way through to Marks & Spencers (hence the custom to buy every male in the family grey woolen socks for December 25th). The Irony is that Christmas to the vast majority of the English, is itself a very depressing and tediously long time of the year - depressing in that married women are driven to a state of insanity over the prospect of receiving another Boots hand therapy set from their loved ones for the 16th year running; and tedious in the fact that the festive high street build up to Saint Nic’s visit begins in March these days; give it another decade and society will begin to realize that there is no real point in clearing away Christmas decorations come January, because no doubt ITV will be showing A Christmas Carol a full 11 months in advanced in the build up to “iChristmas 2022”.

Christmas time now though is also synonymous with drunken debauchery it seems, with offices and places of work often closed for weeks at a time from the resulting hangovers of Office festive parties. Company Christmas booze-fests were first made popular in the early 1980’s, by fast-food companies desperate to raise slave staff moral, and thus reduce the saliva content of their sandwich menu. Unfortunately chains like McDonald’s and KFC failed to foresee the problems in having kitchen-hands working with the alcohol content of an Absinthe brewery running through their blood streams, leading to puke being added to the brands’ list of secret ingredients.

For me in my 8 and a bit year existence, I have never once been invited to one of these office events and never quite understood the high levels of anticipation amongst working types at the prospect of having a few free pints, before shoving my arse in the photocopier. Luckily for me, the profile and grandeur of end of year blowouts has only grown larger in the face of this disheartening financial meltdown. There are certain things to expect, rules to abide by, and almost definitely a minimum level of alcohol consummation. So now I am seasoned in what to expect from said Christmas Gatherings, here is my guide on how to survive them:

1) Book the next day off.

I can not stress to you how important this is, not only will you be able to fully enjoy the nights entertainment as well as the free bar, but you will also not have the worry about the daunting prospect of actually speaking with other human beings the following day - my experience of the morning after the night before consisted of me being awoken by a dog shitting on my face in Hampstead Heath at 2:15 in the afternoon, but hey at least I didn’t have to go into work reeking of Lassy’s excreted Pedigree Chum.

If you do decide to fight through and actually make it into the office/kitchen/Building site/Operating theatre for the next days work, do be prepared to face at least one or two smug bastards who left the previous nights shenanigans to make it home just in time for the 10 O’Clock news; these people will make the next 9 or so hours of your life a living hell by pointing out how terrible you look, shoot patronizing comments at you about how important sleep is, and actually be the only people who actually remember the moment you stipped of naked and performed the whole of the YMCA with only a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s and a piece of elastic to hide your shame.

2) If it’s fancy dress, bite the bullet and suit up hard.

I enjoy going out in fancy dress, if there is one thing I enjoy about going out dressed like a dick, it’s knowing that I will be going out with other people dressed like dicks who aren’t at heart dicks. If you are one of these people who think that themed party’s are for dicks and arriving in a comical hat will suffice, then think again, for you will stick out like a saw thumb amongst the sea of dicky Buzz Lightyears, dicky Princess Zelda’s and dicky Adolf Hitlers - the fact you are the only one not dressed like a dick, will therefore make you the dick of all dicks (if you catch what I’m trying to put my dick on here).

My personal experience from Christmas Social event 2011, is that people will take costume preparation more seriously then even the most high priority deadline: say for instance your party (like mine) is a Día de los Muertos theme (or Day of the dead for those of you reading from outside the Mexican border, [finally the dream marriage of Halloween and Christmas has been recognized on mainstream calenders]), it will not be out of the ordinary to watch fellow co-workers putting the finishing touches to their Chilli outfits, instead of meeting that not so important print deadline.

So to cut a long story short, just lose all of your inhibitions, find a group of mates, go dressed as a foursome of Mexican Wrestlers, drink a bucket of Tequila, and start a tag team match on the dance floor.

3) In you are one of those non-drinker types, now is not the time to start.

If I haven’t made it clear enough already, office parties are very unsober affairs and Chances are that the bar will be free, in fact I’m pretty sure it is actually illegal for employers to make employees foot the bill for any drinks bought in the month of December. So it can be very easy for those not swain by the dark side, to let down your hair and take a sip of the greatest poison known to man.

Don’t let peer pressure get the better off you, especially if you know by shandy number two you will be declaring your unwavering love to the 70 year old cleaning lady, and by shandy number three, dry humping the nearest bar stool. I understand how difficult it can be to say no without looking like a complete tool in front off your fellow peers, so therefore you may want to come up with a number of preemptive excuses to cover up your alcoholic past, for example: “Not for me thanks, it won’t agree with all the crack in my system”, might work a charm. Other recommendations of mine include “Better not, I shat in the photocopier the last time I drank”, “I don’t think I should, I get really racist when I’m drunk” (not applicable at a Daily Mail party) and finally “Alcohol only gives me an erection, and I’m rock hard just from talking to you already”

Last but certainly not least…4) If you’re going to sleep with anyone, make sure they supersede you in the office hierarchy.

It’s the fast-track route to a that hard earned promotion and let’s face it, you can finally say to all your friends that you did it…LIKE A BOSS.

Anonymous asked: I miss you. Your writing makes me smile though and if I can't see you in person, at least your writing conjures up vivid images of you. Which admittedly lift my mood quite a lot. Well done.

Thank you very much for your kind words dear Sir/Madame/Rodent; I say rodent because the child-like majority of my brain finds a small amount in pleasure in believing that you have misspelled Anonymous, and you are in fact Anonymouse the international Mouse of mystery and MI6’s most dangerous spy. The only thing that makes me doubt this slightly bizarre theory, is that I can’t ever recall meeting a mouse who enjoys their cocktail’s shaken not stirred.

So Mr/Mrs I hope that the next time we meet you will forget your obligation to keep your identity secret and in return I’ll buy you a pint of Lager/block of Cheddar - whichever indeed takes your fancy.

END TRANSMISSION

Dex

I admit it, I hate Nirvana…

…There I said it, now excuse me while I build myself some semi-temporary defenses from the barrage of Troll shit that the internet is preparing to throw square into my face.

I came to this conclusion yesterevening after pint number six, whilst stood in a fine establishment know as The Borderline, a club located inside of Central Londonshire. Every Saturday The Borderline Schizophrenic club play a varying mixture of music, which consists of The Smiths, Morrissey, and…er…more Smiths. I have no problem with early indie pop - in fact the thought of baggy Jumper clad girls and boys dancing as if they have lost all use of their basic motor functions brings a little bit of warmth to my ice cold heart. It reminds me of a better time where human beings were content with 8-bit video game graphics and Footballers could kick the shit out of each other, whilst the referee urged them on. You only have to watch the Wimbledon team of the 1980s to realize that Premiership football has lost it’s edge ever since officials started brandishing red cards to players who grabbed the oppositions bollocks.

Anyway enough of me thinking about the gory years, I’m here to defend my right as a user of the internet. Now me and my pathetic excuse of a masculine body enjoy a little “boogie-woogie” every now and then; to describe my dancing style as ‘extravagant’, would probably be a severe understatement - heck my friends believe there is a massive conspiracy around the real identity of father, and that Pulp’s hit Common People is actually reciting the events leading up to Jarvis Cocker and my mother conceiving yours truly.

Me being the son of SkyCocker aside I’d like to attempt to explain my desire to hip shake and jive my way through a dance floor every time Damon Albarn’s beautiful voice is played over the speaker system. You see when I step into a dancing emporium I am nearly always greeted by the same sorry sight of BO ridden gentlemen believing that the only way to express their appreciation to the DJ, is by hopping in a mathematically inconsistent sequence on the spot, whilst pumping a right fist to the sky, and wrapping a left hand around the nearest moving object they can find - whether female, male or other. Funnily enough I can foresee these series of events seeming like fucking groundhog day to any person who has ventured into any bar in North London.

Now this relates me back to my opening point, upon entering The Baulderdash Bar, I was greeted by this sea of masculinity, believing that they were god’s gift to women, simply for knowing the lyrics to Live Forever. For anyone not familiar with the song Live Forever (A.K.A the combined population of the world excluding the United Kingdom), imagine a drunken cat singing at the top of their voice, whilst being accompanied by the entire compliment of the Adam’s Family playing on assorted, rusted instruments.

I decided to break up this mundance-fest by moving in my usual homoerotic fashion way around the dance arena, much to the adoration of me peers. I’m not going to lie by saying that the copious amounts of alcohol up until this point probably assisted in my actions this evening, but had no contribution to the events which followed.

The mood suddenly changed by the introduction of Kurt Cobain and his mob thrashing down their tunes or whatever the kids like to say in this day and age. I couldn’t name the particular track of the moment, but it was a long way away from the sounds of Robert Smith and Jarvis Cocker which I had found myself becoming accustomed to, I found myself off-guard, defenseless in unknown territory, wandering in the Twilight zone as some frustrated long haired bloke sung about how angry he was…grrr, take that world!

I think the thing the frustrates me most about Nirvana is that they haven’t released anything in over fifteen years, yet the world still bloody idolizes them - what a lazy bastard that Cobain is, at least Steps had the decency to reform after a sad decade apart, and to think he almost led to my demise on Saturday evening, for when I as in my confused state, surrounded by all the fist punchers and baggy trousered mob, I became snared by a large womanly person, who I’m sure was all well meaning, but almost suffocated me with her jaws of death…all thanks to Nirvana. Thank you Kurt.

I almost found out that fateful evening how sexual harassment works both ways, but fortunately enough I was saved. Saved by a woman in high heels stepping on my toe and my amatuer dramatic skills.

I escaped this time, but I am now left paranoid and in a confused state of mind - I know Nirvana’s game now, they wrote their music to leave the casual music mogul like myself, pretend to love them, simply because the rest of the music world was hailing as the best thing since sliced bread: they didn’t even use synths; how can you be music revolutionaries without synths? Even Chumbawamba experimented with keys every now and then. So For reasons unknown to me, they have decided to ruin any sex life I can dream of having with rockster chicks and scene girls, by writing lyrics that I simply can’t relate to, and macho-aggressive tracks I have know prior experience of moving to…

…dickheads. Them Foo Fighters are good though eh?

Ginseng and all.

I should expand on what I hope to achieve from this whole campaign of linguistic terror. When the day comes that I am rich and famous from my groundbreaking invention, an app which informs individuals how much more alcohol they need to consume before they reach the blackout threshold, I will wish to recall the days and months leading up to said achieved stardom; because lets face it, my brain will be already too tortured from all the beer-testing trials to which it will no doubt endure, to even remember what I was up to just ten micro-seconds ago, let alone a number years.

So lets star with they now, where I awoke myself at approximately 6:43 am, only to wonder into the family bathroom and declare to myself: “OH GOOD LORD SIR! ARE YOU AWARE A SECOND HEAD IS MANIFESTING ITSELF ON YOUR NECK!”

I talk of course of a massive spot (any yanks would call it a Zit I suppose), which was in the process of building a loving relationship with the skin on the back of my neck - well I call it a spot; the word ‘growth’ would probably best describe it. I looked like a cross of Johnny Knoxville’s character in a particular alien-themed film starring Will Smith (there was only one Men in Black movie I’ll have you know, and it sure as hell wasn’t the one where Tommy Lee Jones has a civilization of miniature wookies living in a train station locker), and the fake president/mutant boss from Final Fantasy VIII…anyone who has not yet played Final Fantasy Five-One-One-One, please stop reading immediately, go to your nearest Playstation console and play the opening disc…It’s fine we’ll all wait…done now?…Good.

After defeating said Fake Mutant president my spot problem, I took the local London Underground train to my work place in Piccadilly Circus (I will cover more of what I do in greater detail at a later date), which is aptly named after the traveling band of Russian gymnasts who died here in the great London condiment battle of 1864, when the Elephant they were traveling on was struck in the eye with mustard Piccalilli, causing it to frantically rush head first into the nearest Starbucks, killing all of it’s passengers. The future London tourist attraction was thus christened Piccalilli Circus, but was later renamed to Piccadilly Circus at the Russian embassy’s request - coincidentally, Piccadilly is in fact Russian for “Should have taken the bus you fucking idiots”.

After a fulls day doing whatever I do, I traveled a full 50 meters to the nearest booze depository known as ‘Graphic bar’ in a place known as ‘Golden Square’; I’m aware that all this sounds awfully pretentious and middle class, but my dad used to sell second hand cars and thinks the Falklands War was fought and won single-handed by Al Murray; so that makes me the Prince of cockney’s for all I’m concerned.

The fact remains however that this is London, and the street name has the word ‘Golden’ contained within it, thus meaning all alcoholic beverages must start at no lower than £752.23. Luckily for me I had somehow acquired what is known as the ‘company bar tab card’, a mysterious laminated object featuring nothing on it but a two digit number. When flashed in front of the bar-keeps inanimate gaze, he/she was instantly under your spell and felt the urge to charge you nothing for a seemingly infinite number of beverages. With such power available to me at just the flick of a wrist, I decided to try as many variations of cocktail available to me, which included something known as a ‘Ginseng Lu-tin’. Now I do like Ginseng, she happened to be my favourite character from Street Fighter, but would she taste as good as she fought? Quite frankly I still don’t know, because unfortunately for me it is also a London tradition that you let everybody within a 16 mile radius take a sip of an exotic and unknown drink. Leaving me with the dregs of a once proud and mighty cocktail, combined with the fresh mint content of a Wrigley’s gum factory, and enough ice to sink the Titanic four times over.

Quite frankly it tasted like Squid arse.

Here we go again…

…Just as I think I can let go of another draining aspect of my time, I suddenly feel compelled to start writing / blogging / letting my brainily fluids leak across mine, and if for some reason you are reading this, YOUR SCREEN. Why are you still reading!? HURRY. CLICK THE CLOSE BUTTON.

The matter remains however that these are the youngest of my days…apart from yesterday, and the day before that, and before that, you get the idea. So I return to you ole’ fair and fine world with EPIC DEXTER, the one stop place which documents my life to anyone you can read a word of English or at least make out my tiny penis on the secret camera above my MacBook screen; don’t fool yourself, I know it’s switched on and broadcasting a live feed 24/7.

I begin with the re-branding of this whole internet identity. I felt it necessary to present this saga under a new guise - this has been done only as to trick my feeble and easily swayed mind into thinking that something new and novel has arisen. Sparkly sparkly. Shiny shiny. I make children with the highest order of ADD look like the most patient of folk.

I went through a number of title’s in my mind before EPIC DEXTER; Roasted Chestnuts INC, Dexy’s Midday Crawlers, I am not Spock, Rooney’s Spook Group, Standard Fart, Stale Hipster, Mumblings of a Secret Serb, Napolean Velcro’s Sticky Situation, Skintight Democracy, and The Beatles Greatest Hits; were all considered before I settled on the name EPIC PAINE…before realizing that said name would only serve to make this page sound like an open forum for self harm tips. Thus the finally flip of this proverbial coin that has finally settled on EPIC DEXTER.

So if that hasn’t scared you off then join me tomorrow for another broadcast straight from the inner-sanctums of the wobbling muddle of pud held within the constraints of my Head bone.

Anonymous asked: Pretty sure you've always wanted to see me naked.. Well.. I'm feeling pretty adventurous today so go to datelink5(dot)com (switch [dot] with .) then sign up and find my profile under the username 'lolsummer69'. I hid my face in the pictures. but I want you to guess who I am and then hit me up on Facebook lol. Good luck.

Thank you for the invitation, unfortunately I have a rare sight mutation, which enables me to see straight throw people’s clothing anyway. Some call it a blessing, but there’s only so many inverted nipples one can have the pleasure of viewing, before they just have to hide away…

Zie Mac - She is Dead

Once again I have to apologize for the lack of activity on my tumblr, My MacBook has been fooling around an aweful lot lately and it all came to a head last night when the machine was official declared as “battered”.

Fortunately it is being repaired by the kind people at The Military state known as Apple and will back with me by the end of next week. Until then I’ll be working from a ZX Spectrum my dad’s windows PC, so don’t expect anything particularly creative for a while.

END TRANSMISSION.

In a Universe far far away…(Episode IV: A New Hope)

…So ultimately I could apply for university just like I did three years ago, but this isn’t so much a pathway to the future, more of a scenic route to distract me from the impending doom of growing up. With another year of my precious time wasted away I will still be in this position of ponder, but who knows I might hit an epiphany somewhere amongst that period where I turn around and declare “WATCH OUT WORLD DEXTER’S GOING FREELANCE”.

I don’t know much about freelance Graphic Designers, but I bear more knowledge about how to become one than say how to become a freelance Hairdresser, so I’ll give it a go.

Going Freelance holds many disadvantages when compared to working for “the man”, especially for a freshly baked post graduate. There’s no regular guaranteed(ish) wage and requires someone with more wisdom than Aristotle to decipher the mountains of paperwork. Combine this with a job flow which is as easy to predict as the Euromillions lottery and retarded clients who want their new logo to be emblazoned with fluorescent PINK, because PINK is the best colour in this PINK world and they want to attract attention with the PINK because PINK is very bright so everything must be PINK. Honestly it’s a fucking surprise that the suicide rate for Freelance designers isn’t higher, in fact for the benefit of the industry I may make it my sole responsibility to bludgeon to death any client with my Graphics Tablet, who demands that their website is designed in Microsoft Word.

Dreary points aside however and their are some positives to be taken from a career in freelance. There’s the opportunity to work in your own environment, the flexibility of working to a time which suits you, the chance to charge extravagant sums of money (once you are more established of course) and most of all the satisfaction of being self sufficient.

As has been stated before, going freelance straight from University is a tough one. Obviously as soon as you leave the educational system, you are left alone as Billy no mates, a small fish in a big pond dominated by the sharks of the design world. But I may be able to get there by making contacts and working hard in a Rocky Balboa Montage sequence kind of way. I suppose it is a bit like body building to be honest, you have to start with the light exercise, get into a training routine, then stomp out the fags, pour away the alcohol, drop the carbs, drink nothing but protein shakes and raw egg whites, buy the skin tight lycra shorts and then pump yourself with enough steroids to make your penis shrivel to the size of a button mushroom. Then and only then will you have the bulging body to make the Incredible Hulk shit himself, or from a freelance point of few, enough clients to make you smack your head repeatedly against your keyboard out of frustration

While going freelance is something I could easily set up by just building a website and purchasing a printer, it’s something I would rather consider in the future once I’ve completed my warm-up in a few design studios a few years in the future.

In conclusion then I am left with four AND ONLY FOUR options to consider for my future, which is looking pretty bleak to be honest anyway because inevitably Aliens will one day enslave the human race with their vastly superior technology and infinite wisdom. Until that day happens however I’ll continue spreading my visual filth because who knows, if clients don’t like it then maybe our interstellar invaders will.