According to lie-factory Wikipedia, Gok Wan’s name means Noisy Big City, but it would be far more appropriate if he were called Nosy Big Twat. From the Trinny and Susannah school of tit-prodding and granny-groping, Gok is desperate for you to dress properly. So take off that stained T-shirt, wipe the crumbs off your trousers and get ready to look beautiful. Come on, you slob. You disgust me. This is Gok’s Fashion Fix. Each week, Gok berates someone new for wearing clothes that he disagrees with. This week is a sports therapist, who owns a lot of shorts. Five whole pairs, the selfish bitch. He surprises her by waiting until she gets to work and running full pelt towards her, bellowing “SAAAAAAAMMMMM” like ...

Hayfever is just about the wettest allergy there is. Seriously, being made to cry because of flowers and having to stay inside with all the windows shut because little bits of pollen might attack you. Well boohoo. Not only do I have hayfever, the big snotty crying disorder, I also have a bad back. So I'm both incredibly wet and incredibly weak. Yay for me. A bad back is one of those things that doesn't really inspire sympathy from people, because there's nothing obviously wrong with you. There's not bits falling off your face, no amusing cast for people to drunkenly write their bar orders on, and you don't black out, fall over or bleed randomly. You ...

Meeting a male friend is easy. Quick handshake, a "how's it going?" and we're set, regardless of whether we've known each other all our lives, or met once on a hazy night out. Nice simple, straightforward rules. With women, it used to be quite simple - just an awkward wave hello and a smile. Again, only an idiot could get that wrong. And now, all of a sudden, the rules have changed and this bloody kissing on the cheek thing has shown up. Nobody ever explained the rules of the kiss hello to me, it's just started happening out of nowhere. And I can't cope. There's so many questions brought up, before we even find out who imported this awful bloody ...

When walking into a pub, it takes approximately 5 seconds to decide what sort of establishment it is.  If fifteen pairs of eyes follow every move you make, while drinks are angrily slammed down, you can be pretty sure that it's locals only.  Or if there's music playing at a volume that sounds like Concorde taking off, but there's not enough room to move - let alone dance - then it's not going to be a conversational hot-spot. My previous most-scary pub experience was in Nuneaton, where a chap in the corner was tattooing people.  Drunk people.  I don't know if you've ever been in a proper tattoo parlour, but they probably don't do it with a fag hanging out of ...

I was trying to check into a hotel, but couldn't, because the useless arse-stains at lastminute.com hadn't bothered to tell the hotel that I was coming, or that I'd booked a room. Hilariously, the hotel have had problems with them before - sometimes orders don't come through when they're booked at the last minute. And their phone support is closed on a Sunday, so could I call back tomorrow? A perfectly sensible idea, bum sniffers. I quietly stood at the check-in desk, checking e-mails on my phone to give them a booking reference (and at £3,000 per MB of data, I might as well have just booked the whole hotel out and spent the night going from room ...

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch is the longest station name in the country (note to self: check spelling on that. Might have missed an 'l' somewhere.) Every year, hundreds of train spotters turn up to be photographed in front of the station sign, as a little memento of the time they went to Wales. I don't know why they do this. A wet Sunday afternoon in Wales, standing on a platform with a ridiculous name while surrounded by anorak wearing, flask carrying trainspotters. Can there be a more depressing station than that? Yes. Babestation. Babestation is the televisual version of those weird adverts in the back of magazines offering a genuine teacher who'll talk to you over the phone while you knock one out. It features ...

Aah, beer. The shouty, falling-down juice that's always there for you. It's the glue that holds everything together: Curry, X-Box, friends and beer. It just wouldn't work without beer. It's the magical cement that makes everyone happy. Unless you're an alcoholic. Or been run down by a drunk driver. Or have severe liver problems. Or have blacked out on a park bench at 3am and woken up with a tramp masturbating next to you. The only flaw with beer (sorry, beer) is that it has to be cold to be enjoyed properly. This means preparation on a scale comparable with hosting the Olympics. I can't prepare anything. Actually, that's ...

Being the health nut that I so clearly wish I was, I ended up at a swimming pool the other day.  None of your Joe Public scrotes pissing in the shallow end for me though, this was a private swimming pool, for members only.  Yeah.  It, er, came attached to the hotel I stayed in so I, um, got in for free.  But that's hardly the point, is it? The point is, I was there, with my complimentary towels and lockers that you don't have to put 20p in to prove you won't steal the key.  As though 20p is a deterrent to anyone that's determined to lock a locker and go home for whatever reason. Anyway, in the swanky changing rooms ...

15 bell-ends, one job. The race is on to find someone to tongue Alan Sugar’s wrinkled old scrotum. And make lots of money before the economy collapses. Before this series of The Apprentice started, I took a look through the candidates, allowing them to hang themselves with their own demented words. Now we’re halfway through – seven firings (can you name them all?) and one who gave up before they’d even started – let’s see who’s left. Ben Clarke With Phil gone, Ben has little competition in claiming the award for biggest twat of the series. A walking stockbroker cliché, he even wears braces and a pin-stripe suit, like the dick uniform that it is. Braces! It’s 2009, gawddarnit. Thankfully doesn’t wear a ...

Susan Boyle is currently the nation's favourite special-needs virgin. With the web literally bursting at the seams making unflattering comparisons between her and - among others - Phil Mitchell, a hairy potato and a badly-inflated Jasper Carrott, it's all to easy to pick on her. As I just proved. The reaction to her singing is the result of nearly ten years build up on Britain's Got Talent, The X-Factor and all the way back to whichever of the Pop shows came first. The one with Myleene. And it's all about the way that they only show the best of the best and the worst of the worst, and the predictable editing. When a teenage girl sobs to ...