I have read today with complete disgust about the stupidity and zero tolerance that proves this world (and more particularly this country) is so fucked up there's no longer any hope for any of us. It seems the old adage - which suggests he who is without sin should cast the first stone - is out of favour. To err is human, but these days the fascist police state and the advocates of political correctness have joined forces with human rights campaigners, jobsworths and the biggest category of all, cunts, to ensure that anyone making the tiniest slip is made to pay dearly.
A dinner lady, Alison Waldock, has been sacked after eleven years at Queen Edith Primary School in Cambridge. What was her crime? She made a simple mistake, although in my opinion, it was not actually completely her own responsibility to police what the kids should eat!
While serving a seven-year-old girl (who pointed to a gammon dish) she asked if she wanted the gammon and when the child said 'Yes', put some on the plate. This is perhaps what one might actually expect from a dinner lady. Sadly, though, this exemplary execution of her job was to be her undoing, because the girl was a Muslim. What Ms Waldock failed to appreciate was that it was apparently incumbent upon her to actively discriminate on school premises - and decide who should have what food available to them. Alas she completely failed the identity-parade test, and did not realise that the girl was one of forty or so with special dietary requirements. Yes, I am being sarcastic because how the fuck is one person supposed to remember the eating rules and habits of that many children in a busy school when the kids themselves are asking for stuff that contradicts their eating regime (whether in place for personal, medical, cultural or religious reasons) and few wear any ID. How do you tell a vegan from a vegetarian, or decide whether one person can have a sausage or not? Talk about stupidity by the school!
Let's look at things another way; if I went to a motorway service station for an All Day Breakfast, and some cunt declined to give me any bacon or sausages because I might be Muslim, I'd fucking kick off!
The headteacher saved the day; and "raised the alarm". This did not involve the Fire Brigade or interrupt any darts or pool, not did medics need to be called to the scene. No, the 'alarm' was more to instigate priority jobsworthiness, and emergency sledgehammers. The nut being cracked was a poor dinner lady whose loyalty and service was repaid with utterly disgusting heavy-handedness.
The Lunchtime UK Operations Director commented: "Anyone losing their job is regretful." This suggests to me that Mr McAleese needs to return to school himself because this is not English. Someone may be regretful, but he meant to say "regrettable". The people who decided to dispense with this lady's services should be ashamed of themselves; talk about making a pig's ear of things!
In summary, it's impossible these days not to be in the firing line, whether from an institution, an employer, a stupid law or the police force which is no longer fit for purpose. The UK is NOT a free country, there is no freedom of speech, every fucking cunt is desperate to "be offended" and if someone is not bothered about being offended, there is a group of cunts who'll create an association and be offended on their behalf!
This country is well and truly fucked up, and sadly, it isn't ever going to recover. Next we'll see that some dog hairs in a park are the basis for an £80 fine for littering, a dropped (but quickly picked up) salt sachet in a car park is grounds for a £200 fee for the offender, and that fag butt dropped down a drain in the gutter is crime of the fucking century and worthy of a fine (£80 again) for the smoker. Oh . . what's that? . . Ah, yes . . . , these are all in fact true examples of more shit that shows how the UK chooses to prioritise things now.
2nd August Update
It turns out that the parents of the child asked the company for the dinner lady to be sacked, and yet now we learn that the parents are in fact leaving the country. Mr Darr's actions are rather more serious than an oversight by a dinner lady! He managed to defraud the taxman of £500,000 in 2008 and was banned from being a company director after Interecruit (UK) ceased trading. Low and behold, he started up Interecruit (GB) and it was closed down in June because it was operating illegally. So, this was the "fine upstanding citizen" who decided that he, along with his wife, would make sure the dinner lady lost her job. Despicable, and good riddance to the UAE, Mr and Mrs Darr.
...
Wednesday 31 July 2013
Thursday 25 July 2013
25.7.13 Save Us From Nina - Royal Birth
What a terrible week for journalism and the media. As if we needed proof that there are morons everywhere, both in decision making at management level and at broadcasting level, this week's royal birth gave fodder to the asses who then served up a mind-numbing dollop of shit, spread over many days. Each day contained hours that seemed longer than hours, and minutes that dragged on painfully. Coverage of the birth of Prince George was horrendous.
I groaned at the TV as for the fifth time, the producers of the news on ITV decided it was essential to get the input [quite how to describe the complete bollocks escapes me] of one Nina Nannar. She chomped at the screen with wild enthusiasm, a state that marked her out as rather manic in comparison to everyone around her. Her breathless rant with gnashing teeth and crazy eyes was a weird thing to behold. "Save us from Nina," I shouted at the screen and lost another million brain cells as they all gave up in unison at having to cope with shite.
Aside from learning that outside Buckingham Palace the crowds were seven or eight deep [close inspection showed a couple of hundred people milling about and they were only this deep/shallow because they all veered to one side of the fountain] we were "treated" to updates from Bucklebury. I say "treated" although after the woman who resembled Sarah Jessica Parker's stablemate wasted my time with shite, I needed treatment! No, luv, there was fuck all happening in Bucklebury and there was NOT a mad party going on. A few locals at a pub is simply irrelevant, and if the barman sold a few bottles of champagne, it was because a few well-heeled people wanted to be able to say they drank a toast there. This is not news, let alone an accurate report on things - as if one were even needed. Elsewhere we were served up with the views of tourists collared by the media, anxious to kill time and fill space.
I like William and Kate, to the extent that I can because I don't know them, but I fear the media bollocks will mean many react negatively. I did not buy a newspaper yesterday, as I've no doubt there would have been at least 28 pages of baby stuff. I feel I need a week to recover from Nauseating Nina, Wittering Witchell and the cringeworthy chuckling of Alastair Stewart, whose smug grin came across even when we could hear only his voice. Julie Etchingham was no better, and interviews with a midwife and Eve Pollard almost caused me to suffer a stroke, they were so horrendous. Luckily Mrs MWSC has seen the adverts and the 'FACT' advice on dealing with strokes, so I knew that even if ITV had its way and half killed me with this shit, I'd stand a good chance of staying alive.
By the way, in case you were encased in concrete and did not see them, here's a chance to relive the moment:
Instructions: stare at this photo for an hour without interruption, then close your eyes for five seconds. Open them quickly and you will see a haunting image of Nina.
...
I groaned at the TV as for the fifth time, the producers of the news on ITV decided it was essential to get the input [quite how to describe the complete bollocks escapes me] of one Nina Nannar. She chomped at the screen with wild enthusiasm, a state that marked her out as rather manic in comparison to everyone around her. Her breathless rant with gnashing teeth and crazy eyes was a weird thing to behold. "Save us from Nina," I shouted at the screen and lost another million brain cells as they all gave up in unison at having to cope with shite.
Aside from learning that outside Buckingham Palace the crowds were seven or eight deep [close inspection showed a couple of hundred people milling about and they were only this deep/shallow because they all veered to one side of the fountain] we were "treated" to updates from Bucklebury. I say "treated" although after the woman who resembled Sarah Jessica Parker's stablemate wasted my time with shite, I needed treatment! No, luv, there was fuck all happening in Bucklebury and there was NOT a mad party going on. A few locals at a pub is simply irrelevant, and if the barman sold a few bottles of champagne, it was because a few well-heeled people wanted to be able to say they drank a toast there. This is not news, let alone an accurate report on things - as if one were even needed. Elsewhere we were served up with the views of tourists collared by the media, anxious to kill time and fill space.
I like William and Kate, to the extent that I can because I don't know them, but I fear the media bollocks will mean many react negatively. I did not buy a newspaper yesterday, as I've no doubt there would have been at least 28 pages of baby stuff. I feel I need a week to recover from Nauseating Nina, Wittering Witchell and the cringeworthy chuckling of Alastair Stewart, whose smug grin came across even when we could hear only his voice. Julie Etchingham was no better, and interviews with a midwife and Eve Pollard almost caused me to suffer a stroke, they were so horrendous. Luckily Mrs MWSC has seen the adverts and the 'FACT' advice on dealing with strokes, so I knew that even if ITV had its way and half killed me with this shit, I'd stand a good chance of staying alive.
By the way, in case you were encased in concrete and did not see them, here's a chance to relive the moment:
Instructions: stare at this photo for an hour without interruption, then close your eyes for five seconds. Open them quickly and you will see a haunting image of Nina.
...
Monday 22 July 2013
22.7.13 June Quotes of the Month
1 - "It's boy band legend Abz from 5ive." [Philip Schofield on Mr & Mrs in cloud cuckoo land]
2 - "These food bags are for food, aren't they? [Jess]
3 - "If that dog could talk, she'd be useless." [Maria, ref Ashley, of Ashley & Pudsey fame]
4 - "The Voice is literally the Olympics of singing." [Danny O'Donoghue talking bollocks]
5 - "That is one shit burger." [Gordon Ramsay on Hell's Kitchen USA]
6 - "I've never punched a horse." [TMWSC]
7 - "They get in 'em, you know." [Jess, reference cats and carrier bags]
8 - "Have you got room in there to fuck yourself?" [Aly, with a variation of an old favourite]
9 - "The dark orangey bits will stay on the map." [Lucy Versamy dumbing down her weather forecast]
10 - "The weather fronts still dangle down on Thursday." [Alex Deakin dumbing down his weather forecast]
11 - "We're not particularly weird in the finger department, are we." [Aly]
12 - "We believe he has a fundamental right to sunbathe." [Ricardo Patinc, the Ecuadorian Foreign Minister, regarding Julian Assange]
13 - "Do you want me to taste one of your nuggets?" [Adam]
14 - " We've got a massive problem with worklessness in this country." [Ed Miliband on Radio 4, creating a stupid term and talking shit]
15 - "It is necessary to accept this was systematised action." [Another Radio 4 contribution]
16 - "See what will be credible to the electorate who add up the sums." [Radio 4 shit, yet again]
17 - "I'm not worried, Nel - whack it in. [Jess - ref tea in a cup]
18 - "It sounded something like you'd trodden on its windpipe." [Sue, to TMWSC]
Other gibberish involved reference to, among very many examples:
A ray of colours, rather than an array of colours
Awareance instead of awareness
A mindfield instead of a minefield
...
Friday 19 July 2013
15.7.13 Lindisfarne Lunacy
Last Saturday was a revelation. I do not mean in any spiritual sense, whatever the lunatics on Holy Island might have thought or might have intended, but in simple terms, a revelation. I learned what a weird place it is, and how it attracts even weirder folk. Lindisfarne is most definitely full of lunacy and inanity.
With the causeway able to allow crossings from 9.45am, we arrived at its edge at 10.30am ready to explore what was thought by us to be a quirky place - along with hundreds of others who had chosen this day to invade the place. Yes, there was a fair amount of disappointment when we saw coaches everywhere. The first oddity was seeing the migrants who were on foot. They milled around on the side of the road, devoid of working brains and inviting vehicles to run them over. However, the convention meant that most strays moved over to the right and followed stakes in the mud that marked out the quickest route to the island. This was a popular route because we could see from our car that there were many dozens of people traipsing across the mud, most carrying their shoes. Noticing a pushchair causing some issues for a pusher, we laughed at the madness. Two of the pilgrims were carrying flags for some unknown reason. This oddness was matched by the mayhem that presented itself when we arrived at the car park. Instead of joining in with the awkwardness, I turned around and parked 100 yards away on the roadside - basically 10 yards back from the road on sand, alongside other vehicles. It was then a short walk to the car park, from where the hoards were marching towards the holy fucking grail.
The scene was reminiscent of a festival - Glastonbury, perhaps - but the benefit at the other end was most definitely NOT there. Like stations in a 'marathon' race, trestle tables to the roadside offered passers-by some wares that were rather less useful than water. The throngs moved towards the main areas with an affected disposition, what with most being elderly, infirm, disabled, or cuntin' nuts!
The ambiance was weird, and the purpose of our visit was not so much called into question as interrogated beyond fucking belief. We moved forward to the accompaniment of tapping crutches and dithering that led me to announce it was like a fucking pilgrimage to Lourdes, and I was seriously considering a swift exit from what could only turn into a cocked-up day. Passing bods wearing hi-viz vests they'd acquired from Poundland, I finally got to a crossroads. Not a 'crossroads' in my life, but the real-life place where a decision had to be made. Mrs MWSC wanted the loo, so a left turn was necessary. When we found the small block, there was a queue that prevented any possibility of a decent piss, and we aborted. Why the place has insufficient facilities to cater for visitors is a question that will no doubt be answered by a useless nun who prowls the priory and is in the habit (literally) of achieving fuck-all through the medium of prayer.
The walk towards the 'castle' was one that meant following the masses who'd arrived to marvel at not-a-lot. The pretty scene was ruined by hundreds of people milling around, and we considered our options. There was little to actually consider; paying over-the-odds for a visit to a castle that would be tainted by the proximity of every other fucker on the island was rather less than attractive. Plu, with about five rooms to view, I would have been able to report less of the attraction than some cunt's arse shuffling about in front of me.
Passing a short woman, we head: "If I was going to head-butt someone, it would be him." This was both odd and amusing, and I wondered whom she was talking about. Having abandoned further progress towards the castle, we were aiming for the Priory, and noting the complete weirdness of the people around, Hippies, were everywhere, as were women priests/vicars, or whatever it is that lesbians in the Anglican world are called. The mix of folk was perverse. After a loo-stop at a pub for Mrs MWSC, we encountered music and a crowd watching a performance. The performers were in fact twats waddling about with their arms in the air, while music played from an Hitachi portable stereo. WTF?
At the churchyard, there was a massive queue, and for some strange reason people were in line awaiting entry to fuck-all. I was desperate to regain my sanity and sought an exit route from the complete madness that surrounded me. Holy Fucking Shit.
The run-down nature of the place was surprising, and I could not understand how more effort had not been made by the local council to cater for the thousands of visitors who were all prepared to act weirdly and to spend money - as well as praise everything around. I seriously felt like Edward Woodward in "The Wicker Man" and expected that at any moment, the local in-breds would laugh as I was lured to the site for sacrifice. Rather than being burned alive, I had a burning desire to escape, and I led Mrs MWSC, Junior and our friend to safety, leaving the revellers and raving lunatics to continue in their communal trance.
Maybe a visit out-of-season would be, to some degree, rewarding, and the place is definiely of some interest, with natural beauty. However, the numerous nuns, and misguided pilgrims were a hazard, both physically and mentally. I should not finish this account without mention of the woman who pulled a face at Mrs MWSC. After finishing a cigarette, Mrs MWSC extinguished it and put it into a bin. In doing so, she encountered a cunt who sniffed and pulled a face that extended ugliness far beyond the realms of her natural look, as Mrs MWSC put the dead ciggie in the bin. The expression of disgust was profound, but as Mrs MWSC said to me - and admitted that she should have said to the pompous bitch - "you're the one who's leaning on a fucking bin".
Here endeth the lesson.
...
With the causeway able to allow crossings from 9.45am, we arrived at its edge at 10.30am ready to explore what was thought by us to be a quirky place - along with hundreds of others who had chosen this day to invade the place. Yes, there was a fair amount of disappointment when we saw coaches everywhere. The first oddity was seeing the migrants who were on foot. They milled around on the side of the road, devoid of working brains and inviting vehicles to run them over. However, the convention meant that most strays moved over to the right and followed stakes in the mud that marked out the quickest route to the island. This was a popular route because we could see from our car that there were many dozens of people traipsing across the mud, most carrying their shoes. Noticing a pushchair causing some issues for a pusher, we laughed at the madness. Two of the pilgrims were carrying flags for some unknown reason. This oddness was matched by the mayhem that presented itself when we arrived at the car park. Instead of joining in with the awkwardness, I turned around and parked 100 yards away on the roadside - basically 10 yards back from the road on sand, alongside other vehicles. It was then a short walk to the car park, from where the hoards were marching towards the holy fucking grail.
The scene was reminiscent of a festival - Glastonbury, perhaps - but the benefit at the other end was most definitely NOT there. Like stations in a 'marathon' race, trestle tables to the roadside offered passers-by some wares that were rather less useful than water. The throngs moved towards the main areas with an affected disposition, what with most being elderly, infirm, disabled, or cuntin' nuts!
The ambiance was weird, and the purpose of our visit was not so much called into question as interrogated beyond fucking belief. We moved forward to the accompaniment of tapping crutches and dithering that led me to announce it was like a fucking pilgrimage to Lourdes, and I was seriously considering a swift exit from what could only turn into a cocked-up day. Passing bods wearing hi-viz vests they'd acquired from Poundland, I finally got to a crossroads. Not a 'crossroads' in my life, but the real-life place where a decision had to be made. Mrs MWSC wanted the loo, so a left turn was necessary. When we found the small block, there was a queue that prevented any possibility of a decent piss, and we aborted. Why the place has insufficient facilities to cater for visitors is a question that will no doubt be answered by a useless nun who prowls the priory and is in the habit (literally) of achieving fuck-all through the medium of prayer.
The walk towards the 'castle' was one that meant following the masses who'd arrived to marvel at not-a-lot. The pretty scene was ruined by hundreds of people milling around, and we considered our options. There was little to actually consider; paying over-the-odds for a visit to a castle that would be tainted by the proximity of every other fucker on the island was rather less than attractive. Plu, with about five rooms to view, I would have been able to report less of the attraction than some cunt's arse shuffling about in front of me.
Passing a short woman, we head: "If I was going to head-butt someone, it would be him." This was both odd and amusing, and I wondered whom she was talking about. Having abandoned further progress towards the castle, we were aiming for the Priory, and noting the complete weirdness of the people around, Hippies, were everywhere, as were women priests/vicars, or whatever it is that lesbians in the Anglican world are called. The mix of folk was perverse. After a loo-stop at a pub for Mrs MWSC, we encountered music and a crowd watching a performance. The performers were in fact twats waddling about with their arms in the air, while music played from an Hitachi portable stereo. WTF?
At the churchyard, there was a massive queue, and for some strange reason people were in line awaiting entry to fuck-all. I was desperate to regain my sanity and sought an exit route from the complete madness that surrounded me. Holy Fucking Shit.
The run-down nature of the place was surprising, and I could not understand how more effort had not been made by the local council to cater for the thousands of visitors who were all prepared to act weirdly and to spend money - as well as praise everything around. I seriously felt like Edward Woodward in "The Wicker Man" and expected that at any moment, the local in-breds would laugh as I was lured to the site for sacrifice. Rather than being burned alive, I had a burning desire to escape, and I led Mrs MWSC, Junior and our friend to safety, leaving the revellers and raving lunatics to continue in their communal trance.
Maybe a visit out-of-season would be, to some degree, rewarding, and the place is definiely of some interest, with natural beauty. However, the numerous nuns, and misguided pilgrims were a hazard, both physically and mentally. I should not finish this account without mention of the woman who pulled a face at Mrs MWSC. After finishing a cigarette, Mrs MWSC extinguished it and put it into a bin. In doing so, she encountered a cunt who sniffed and pulled a face that extended ugliness far beyond the realms of her natural look, as Mrs MWSC put the dead ciggie in the bin. The expression of disgust was profound, but as Mrs MWSC said to me - and admitted that she should have said to the pompous bitch - "you're the one who's leaning on a fucking bin".
Here endeth the lesson.
...
Sunday 14 July 2013
14.7.13 Mission Impossible
Hardly 'Mission Impossible' but this was what I heard today when in the local Asda. One very dozy bod was taking control of what must have been a fraught situation, and directing another less vocal assistant. This level of input following the request of a woman was well below the level of input by Asda on Friday when I was in need of some garlic, and found the same store to be devoid of a single fucking bulb! Empty shelves and empty fruit or veg bins are the order of the day in the 'Skelton Skip', the appropriate name for this green block of pointlessness in what was once a pristine field.
As the one left behind to look for a courgette managed to dither in front of me, I considered how the disappointing (though not surprising) level of intellect at Asda was likely to keep offending me in the weeks, months and years to come. Depressed, I pushed forward, literally, and tried to acquire some sprite. I had intended to obtain some cans rather than a 2-litre bottle for £1. Sadly I was to be thwarted by an outrageous pricing policy that meant the eight-can pack holding 2.64 litres was not worth buying. Pro-rata it should have been £1.32, but instead I was expected to pay £4.20. A slight premium for cans is one thing, but more than three times the cost was a joke.
Today, I was witness to the fact that it's indeed possible for a checkout operator to take over a minute to scan a cabbage. After my purchase of little more than beer, some asparagus, juice and cooked meats, I joined a queue that appeared short enough to be worth the bother. The spindly checkout woman was young and as thin as the asparagus I'd placed on the conveyor. After the delay while a problematic barcode caused her to lose another half kilo through panic and stress, she finally tapped in some numbers after a colleague arrived to assist her with the rogue cabbage. I finally cleared the checkout and attempted a swift exit, but this was a pointless endeavour. Doom appeared quickly in the guise of a fat fucker in front of me who dictated the pace of forward movement - fucking slow. The waddling heap of flesh finally allowed me to escape, and I was glad to be outside again. Behind me I'd left the spindly checkout operator to fight off anorexia and the two agents to seek out a courgette. As I hit the bypass, I saw the various locals ambling along the side of the 60mph road, as they were strangely drawn to the 'Field of Dreams'. The living dead were spooky.
...
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