Oh, hospitals… love them. I was in one on Wednesday just gone. Now the nurse hands me the gown and says “you need to get into that.” Hmmm… I do question this, “But, it’s just an injection in my stomach.” To which he responds “well you can keep your pants on.”

I still thought this was weird, but ok, go with it. Now, the problem with being in America as an Englishman is that, i’ve now stripped down to my underwear, and we are caught in a crossfire of sexual predator gazes, our indicting glances to each other, me wondering why that hell i’m sat in my underwear for an injection, and him wondering why this weird British guy had just started getting naked in front of him.

Almost Valentines Day again. I’m happy about that as it’s going to be better than last year. Even when i’m eating a family sized bag of Cheetos in bed on my own whilst watching the Jersey Shore boxset. The only other person I can imagine will be doing the same thing as me is Snooki herself.

Last Valentines I was in hospital as well, I don’t need an awww… I was dehydrated as I couldn’t drink fluids. So I’m on an IV drip and it ran out 3 hrs ago, my stomach is fine now. So I ask the night nurse for a drink of water, it’s not like I wanted to share her bottle of whisky with her, which by now I imagine her to be at least halfway through. 

To put it bluntly she’s a bitch, and took her time. Then on arrival at my bedside 1 hour later she shouted at me and pointed to a drink on the side table and demanded to know why I did not drink that? “Oh, I do apologise, I should have considered all of my options and drank my mouthwash before disturbing you.”

To top this whole thing off, Mr Life Story had just arrived in the bed next to me (not “arrived,” I mean, he had just been admitted, my God, you are sick, get your mind out of the gutter.) So he’s chatting away, talking about all of his problems, his bowel was playing up, his family live miles away so he’s on his own because his wife died a few weeks prior. Naturally I pretended to sleep.

It was hot in there as well. That’s never nice, but Life Story did put on a fan that was drifting my way, that was nice of him wasn’t it? No.

I mentioned the bowel thing yeah? HE MAY AS WELL OF SHIT IN MY NOSE. It was hideous, i’ve now got this air current system that efficiantly and effectively delivers an old widowed mans fecal matter right up my nasal passage. 

Well, you want to piss me off? I’ll get you back. Now i’m not saying that what I did was morally sound, but I felt like I got revenge. But I do recommend that you all think long and hard before pretending to be the ghostly voice of a sick mans dead wife.

So the end of another year, the next one looms, we walk into 2011 blinded and not knowing, I will review the last 12 months in a lovely little poem.

So we started 2010 with the highest of hopes,

We are just happy that the people of Bridgend have stopped abusing ropes.

Then news quickly spread of an earthquake in Haiti,

But later in the year is good news when Will proposes to Katie.

Personally February was difficult when I fell in the ice,

But thankfully the ambulance ride and stretcher was quite nice.

A lot of people loved the end of the year when Robbie rejoined Take That,

On the flip side, infidelity from Mark Owen, Rooney, Cole, it was the year of the rat.

Cadbury was part of a Kraft-y take over, ruining the lives of chocolate workers,

However in hindsight it wasn’t the same intensity as Joanna Lumley’s fight for the Gurkhas.

We had a live Eastenders episode, but also Peggy left,

Ending the legacy of the Mitchell years, which we all knew were the best.

BP was shamed by covering the sea in oil,

Which was almost as scandalous as the things said by Frankie Boyle.

May saw the first ever live TV electoral debate,

The Con-Lib coalition government saw Cameron with a new mate.

The recession continues, our nations debt in the trillions,

Our hearts were warmed by the rescue of 33 Chileans.

Saddened by the deaths of legends including; Nielson, Coleman and Hopper,

It’s was the death of an English designer McQueen that was the fashion show stopper.

The year drew to a close with lots and lots, maybe even too much snow,

Planes we’re grounded leaving the nation with nowhere to go,

Now as we greet 2011 and open the doors,

We’re guaranteed to see more natural disasters and footballer man-whores.

So naturally there are always a few preconceptions when visiting any new place, and to the LA is definitely no exception. Los Angeles, the land of dreams, the Hollywood sign, paparazzi, the strip, an in and Out Burger bigger than even a greedy Augustus Gloop could ever dream of. Oh god I wish. VAGINA. This was my greeting, I’ll endeavour to explain the tragic events that led to this vaginal welcoming.

So I arrived in LA and was seen by immigration, then I was sent to secondary immigration. I’m still not sure why, it’s not like I look like a terror suspect. Unless by terror you mean skipping down Hollywood Boulevard in a tequila fueled euphoria. The sad thing is that, that actually happened by the way. In my quest for Cheetos after my departure from a nightclub I was lured by the bright lights into a tattoo parlour. It’s weird to see such a rough looking man with needle in hand that is not shooting up by the way. So I stumble into this tattoo parlour and just point at the PacMan machine. Now. Not in my life have I ever liked playing PacMan, and nor have I wanted a tattoo. “PacMan?” enquired the Tattooist. “Would you like a PacMan?” He made me feel safe, he lured me into a false sense of security, and assumed I would definitely get one. “Just a PacMan…” Now I’ve seen a window of opportunity!! I don’t just have to be stuck with a yellow almost circle, it may not look right, I’m still not entirely sure if I regret my next few words. “Two dots and a fruit.” A cherry was offered, but my friend had reminded me that I rebuke all suggestion of a cherry on my arm, morello or otherwise.  Apparently I stated that I wanted a fresher fruit of which I could eat punnets of. So I now have a PacMan, two dots, and a strawberry, forever etched on my arm.

So back to immigration, I’m now in secondary immigration due to God knows what reason. Imagine being in a completely new country, jet lagged and a Queen-Latifa look-a-like is staring at you whilst you’re shuffling in your chair anxiously anticipating a cavity search. Do I start singing Star Spangled Banner yet? After a lengthy conversation with Queen Latifa at secondary immigration, latex-free by the way, I’m not suggesting that she went in there bareback, what I’m trying to say is that at no point did she, you know, did she put her hand up my… she didn’t “Queen” my “Latifa” put it that way.

I finally get to the hostel I’m staying at and we all go out for a lovely little drink which was nice. I’d been up for 24 hours after a painful flight, a handsfree conversation with Queen Latifa and now slightly tipsy. I’m not sure if you’ve ever stayed in a shared room before, but I was not a fan. I was woken up at 5am, by what I can only describe as a “sexual alarm clock.” This guy opposite my had brought back what my Grandma would call “His lady friend.” Or as I describe after hearing her wailing, “A contentious little slut with a high-pitched alarm-like-shrill that you can not switch off my hitting the top of it. This isn’t even the vagina bit by the way.

So this guys “lady friend” aka easy lover, then whispers the word “No.” I know what you’re thinking I was paying a lot of attention for an annoyed spectator, I have no defense for that sadly. But she then said “No” a few more times. Hang on, this is starting to get a bit rapey. I was getting ready to intervene. Not sexually. But she said yes in the end, so I nodded off.

I decided to get on a bus one day whilst looking for an apartment where hopefully I could move away from the ghosts of my rapey room past. Now, I don’t know how many of you have been on a bus in Los Angeles, but I hope you all have the opportunity, it’s a cultural experience not to be missed. The further out of Hollywood that you get, the worse the clientele of public transport.

First stop – Ugly people

The next one – Very ugly people/ possible mental illness.

Next – Drug dealers / and now probable mental illness

Next – Criminals

Next – Rapists / Paedofiles

Next – Murderers

And lastly – Ugly rapey murderers with a thirst for narcotics and definite mental illness.

Cut a long story short, the bus was only the short service, it changed half-way through, the driver did make an announcement, but there was a guy barking like a dog and clucking like a chicken next to me. So I was then on a bus with no other people in a place I didn’t know and then was told by the bus driver to get off, brilliant. However, I did then find a phone. Don’t worry, we’re getting to the vagina bit!

So as I’m getting off of the bus, I see a cell phone fall in front of me, like a celestial offering it was. Actually, truth be told it was to be a fast track route to some more ridiculous events. I grabbed the phone and decided to call “Mom” as I thought she could contact her offspring and get them to contact me to claim the lost phone back. No answer!! So, I held on to the phone all day and thought that someone would attempt to get this back and call it. Boy was I right, so 3 hours into sitting on the beach “Sexyman” calls me. “Allo, who is this.” “WHO IS THIS” – Shit the bed, I have suddenly realized that Sexyman now things that his partner is having an affair. I hastily explain the situation but he still seemed shady with me. 3 more hours later I’ve still not had a call.

Fuck it, if this woman’s loved ones can’t help her, then I will. But how could I help, by turning into fucking CSI: Sunset Strip is how I do it. Oh God, I wish I hadn’t. So I’m now looking through the phone, looking at messages, deciding if I should call Benji, because they go out for food all the time, I figured he must be the gay-best-friend. I thought I’d leave. Ok, I’m gonna be honest, I got a bit carried away with my CSI job and started looking through my new phone. Now, in the outbox I found a message entitled Little-Ms.Sally. Perhaps this is her name. OH CHRIST. THAT’S NOT HER NAME. Oh God, I’ve now witnessed a vagina that I can only compare to a sideways view at Homer Simpson’s open mouth. I did not want to see that. Cut a long story short, I paraded the picture round, showing anyone that would look… But then I got a call from “Big Sally.”  We ended up meeting so that I could hand the phone, I saw the look in her eye. You know the look. The “you’ve raided my outbox and paraded pictures of my vagina to anyone that will look in the West Hollywood region.” I hope never to see that look again.

Let’s talk about rape. Since when has it been ok to use this as are dailyvocabulary? People are always saying, “I just got Fraped.” Who decided “Yeah, that sounds perfectly acceptable to play down rape.” But the problem is, you’ve got older people on Facebook like my Nan, when my Granddad put a status on there, saying how much she enjoys watching Corrie all day, and I liked it I don’t really want to read my Nan’s wall post to me that honest to God said “That’s not true Ryan, your Granddad just Face Raped me.”

I’m just surprised that as a nation we have taken this new word on with such enthusiasm, in a day and age where there is campaigning for rape victims, due to concerns that allegations may not be taken seriously. Now what happens, you walk into a police station and tell them you’ve been raped. “Sorry have you actually been raped or did your friend write that you just wanted to give Mick Hucknall a gob job?” I’m just glad we got to the bottom of it before I was swabbed.

Recently actually I’ve just committed social genocide, you know what I mean, a social culling… When you have that Facebook spring clean, deleting all 5 of the “stop tax on cider” groups that you joined on a whim or “Leona to win X-Factor, and that person that gave you a cigarette outside a club that you realised that you a mutual friend with that neither of you have seen for years. The problem with this is, it all comes up onto your wall, for everyone to see, so now what I’ve ended up publishing is “RYAN HAS LEFT THE FIND MADILINE MCCANN” Facebook screaming for all to see, “RYAN HAS GIVEN UP HOPE FOR THE SAFE RETURN OF A MISSING CHILD” brilliant,

fan-fucking-tastic, now even my Nan thinks I’m an utter bastard. Don’t worry, I’ll just tell her I was raped in the face by my Uncle.

I literally have never have been on such a long flight, it took 11 hours. Now I’m not sure if you’ve looked at my non-plane friendly frame. The only other flight I’ve really taken before was on holiday to Turkey.  So I get on the plane, I’m not sure if you’ve ever been running late for an International flight, but I end up running through the airport like Liam Neeson’s small child, searching for the love of his life. Whereas I’m running because I’ve just bought so many duty free Toblerone’s that I could build an actual pyramid of my own.

I end up sitting next to this guy from Colorado, and little did I know, I was about to witness my first impression of America. A child is crying behind us, admittedly it had been going on for around 15-20 minutes. But this guy from Colorado just loses, quite literally, turns slightly psycho with anger and everything, twisting himself round in our extra legroom seats, his long legs now pushing into mine, undermining the very reason for my necessary upgrade, he screams “ENOUGH ALREADY.” With that, the 2 year old girl actually stops crying. Fuck Supernanny, this guy’s got it covered. No more “Get down to their level.”  To cut a long story short, I moved away from this guy because I felt extremely intimidated by him as I was laughing hysterically at SpongeBob Square Pants whilst he was trying to sleep, and I didn’t think he was going to get “Down to my level.” But instead verbally abuse me like a 2 year old girl. So I’ve moved and I’m in another seat. I’ve watched about 54 episodes of SpongeBob Square Pants by now. Every single available season of 30 Rock and Colin Farell’s latest attempt at a non-Irish accent.

I’m now extremely tired and I swear to God that there is about 7 hours still left of my flight. The thing is, they try to mess with you by getting you to change your watch at the beginning of the flight and turning all the lights off, “oh, because now I wont get jet lagged.” I figure that I may as well get some sleep as everybody else is, and they can take a running jump if they think that I’m going to sit here and watch Snakes on a Plane. Don’tget me wrong, I have no fear of Snakes, or flying, it’s just the shittest movie ever made. I’d sooner be in a state of unconsciousness.

After an hour of shifting about; pillow, no pillow, blanket, no blanket, tight complimentary eye mask, sucking my thumb whilst having “Colorado’s answer to Supernanny, rub my back.” Nothing was working!! It’s at this point that I decided to really take action. Action in the form of a “Sleep Hypnotisation” CD kindly provided by the eye squeezing mask supplying airline. So this voice begins telling me to relax, ok, we’re getting somewhere. So I’m now in the process of releasing all of my worries, concerns and fears, and the peaceful voice then leaves, only to be replaced by… whales, waves, dolphins and other nautical acoustics. Oh that’s right, I forgot that I’m Ariel the bloody mermaid. What do they think when was boarding? “This man looks like he sleeps at Seaworld. After an hour of this CD, I reopen my eyes having not slept at all, merely now having a feeling of sedation and referring to The Southern States Supernanny as Sebastian.

I don’t know why it keeps happening, maybe because I am a juvenile delinquent the relishes any opportunity for innuendo. But I hate innuendo, we all do! WAIT. No, we hate cheap innuendo, the casual “Oh Ah” by unintelligent people that can not think of something funny to say. Or the one that shamefully travelled the Atlantic riding on the back of shitty American television, “That’s what she said!” Now you don’t have to be a connoisseur of humour to appreciate the few good innuendos the unintentionally ones that happen to me on live radio.

It does take a catalyst to make this happen, a dirty minded co-host or just a slip of the tongue (don’t pickup on that one.) In this case I was stating to my co-host that I was going to tell her blissful and whimsical tales to pick her up from a subdued mood, I proclaimed that I would snap a rainbow over her head and let love rain down on her, and then without me knowing I was just about to say something that she perceived to be utter filth as my mouth opened I stated to not just her but loyal and adoring listeners that I will change her life as I am an Elephant of Fun and will brutally use my Trunk of Wishes on her. Needless to say I had to cut to a track.

There are many of these that happen, and I must say, the one below is my favourite.

http://funofryan.tumblr.com/post/1571804913?ref=nf

Yes, we are all aware of the spaces that give priority to Parents and Small Children outside of the supermarket. I don’t personally feel that these spaces qualify for their real use after 7pm as that is too late to go to Waitrose with Fergus and Pippa, or to ASDA with Chloe and James, or to LIDL with “FUCKING SHUT UP AND PUT THOSE BASTARD SWEETS BACK”.

So… me a friend, Becca, parked the car in the parent and baby space (due to limited time and the cold) I know it was wrong, but considering what was about to happen, you’d have thought that i’d have just park ON a parent and baby.  

A homeless looking guy was walking past whilst I was in serious break of the P and B rulings, I don’t think he was homeless, probably rich actually, you know these people with all this money, going to buy their humous, actually he may of been more affluent than that, which means he was buying the ingredients to make humous, however, i’m not even sure he was wearing shoes. Anyway it came to no surprise that he himself was absent of children!!

He walked right passed, but i noticed he looked discruntled by the location of my vehicle and lack-of-children combo. No sooner did he walk past, me and Becca feasting on some rotisserie delights of superstore, he was back all of a sudden slamming on the window of my car, now… the words that were about to come out of this shoeless-humous-lover’s mouth will chill my spine in my darkest of dreams.

The scarecrow looking man then started shouting “Where are your children!!!” Now i am not an expert in deciding if someone looks like a blatant paedophile, but i am guessing, screaming that one-liner in the parent and baby area at a supermarket is pretty up there. He then continued to scream at us, so i blew him a kiss. Imagine my surprise when this did not calm him down. I don’t think that continuing to feast on a chicken leg was best either, he looked the type to be angered by any carnivorous tendencies.

He then ran into the store telling us to “stay there” naively assuming we would only be too happy to oblige, thinking back on it, he was so angry as to my parking, he wished for me to extend my breach? That would be like Rosa Parks’ bus driver dropping her to the police station. Of course we moved fairly sharpish anticipating a security staff or manager accompanying him on his return. No. He came back out with a digital camera, now, I am not one for speculation, but i would like to think that he purchased that, just to take pictures of us. He then tried to take a picture of us, now not in the original space. Who care’s this much?

The scarecrow looking, chickpea loving, shoeless child-finder then began to chase us around the car park, trying to catch up with my car, now i’m not sure what he would have tried to do if he’d have caught us,  all i know is that this have-a-go hero had a lot of vigilance. Maybe he’s not the freelance parking superhero vigilante I think of, but it’s better than they thought of a photo of my chicken smeared face being stared at when he’s at home smothering himself in humous. 

As long as I have my mates, then lame but funny nights out, “your mum” jokes, and perilous nights out ending in, mostly, zero conquests, then The Inbetweeners will continue.

I read recently in a column that, “We would like to think we’re Skin’s, but we’re Inbetweeners.” Well… Eff it, i’m from Bristol (where Skin’s is filmed) from this day on, I will crusade my lifestyle as a SkInbetweener. The way I see it, it’s less drugs than Skins, and less parental content than Inbetweeners! Sorted. When will Channel4 start filming?

To prove how traumatic my life is, I have put this picture below from a few drinks I had for my pre-birthday party, it’s like a Pakistani wedding, it goes on for weeks! My friend turned up wearing exactly the same as me. Tragic. We look like the stupid version of Jedward, Oh… that’s Jedward.