Sunday 30 April 2017

30.4.17 ITV Hub Bollocks - Oops!


What is wrong with ITV?  Well, lots of things really, mainly associated with ITVBe, but anyway, what is going on with the Hub.  The 'catch up' facility is buggered, and has been for weeks on my laptop.  After years of successful viewing by this method, I have in the last few weeks had a cunt of a time getting anything out of it.


There is simply no progress to be made past the fucking 'Oops' message, and no amount of jiggery-cunting-poking by refreshing, reloading or any reference to the NON-help section allows progress. The sum total of my continued efforts has been irritation, following by anger followed by cunting fury.


I think this is a better and more appropriate option for struggling viewers.

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Sunday 23 April 2017

23.4.17 Speed and Greed Indeed


New rules regarding speeding fines come into effect tomorrow and what a cunting liberty they are.  Talk about the greed of the state for stealing money from its citizens.  As ever, it is 'safety' that is quoted as the motivation for the changes.  Shite, utter shite.  Yes, yes, yes, we all know about he issues with speeding being the great killer of our time - er, no!  Speed in itself is NOT the main issue because it is irrelevant without some consideration of the conditions and the environment.  Doing 45 on a dual carriageway that has a 40mph limit is hardly comparable with 25mph in a 20mph limit, but both will lead to a fine at potentially 50% of wages in a week.

When the weather is fine, and there is no congestion, 80mph on a motorway is irrelevant!  But the biggest farce is inking fines to wages.  The alleged "mega rich" will continue to do what they want, as is the case in all walks of life.  The poor will plead poverty of course, and win.  So it is the struggle middle section of society that will basically be targeted.  This will mean yet more stealth taxes are applied, hitting motorists with higher fines, along with the newly implemented higher road taxes, and in the midst of rising insurance costs and parking charges.  Then there are the cameras for clocking entry to the us lane by an inch that will see more instant fining.

Who would be a cunting car owner.  Actually, a lot of the disabled, but here we go again, 50% of Motability carts are being recalled as part of a targeted approach of reassessing disability and benefits, or in other words, a fucking witch hunt.




A fine of 100% of weekly salary for doing 70 in a 50.  Most people have fuck all disposable income, and I wonder if they wil be allowed to pay £1 per week like those on benefits who get fined for something.

I fully expect to be behind drivers scared of getting caught for speeding.  So in a 20mph zone, there will be cars doing 16mph - and of course they will be overtaken by warriors on bicycles who feel that despite having no costs to bear for annoying the cunting fuck out of drivers most of the time, they are entitled to do what they like.  Uncertainty over whether a zone is 30 or 40 maximum, driver will be slowing down and peering at street lighting hoping to establish what the fuck they should be doing speed-wise.  The frustrations for anyone stuck behind a ditherer will lead to more overtaking, increased instances of road rage, more tailgating not through choice but because a cunt in front is going too slowly. and probably more cunting fines for that!

The country is trillions of pounds in debt, and everyone now is urged towards getting a new car n some or other plan/deal, a car that can never ever be good value or as necessary as the country is determined to believe is the case.  More new cars in more traffic jams controlled in even more "smart" motorways with variable speed limits and watched by more and more cameras. working out instant speeds, average speeds and logging registrations.

Overall, a fucking disaster, and the mess will continue.  Poor people can get a cheap car, drive with no tax and insurance and speed like cunts . . . and they will be treated no more harshly than a sales manager in an Audi A6 who plays by the rules but safely does 85 on the A1 on a clear day (Sunday) who is collared by bored cops on a mission to put money in the till.

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Saturday 22 April 2017

22.4.17 ASDA Price Rises




ASDA is up to its usual tricks, games, shite and shenanigans.  I am not referring to the lack of products on the shelves - I am well used to deficiencies in that area.  No, I am on about the prices.

Today's visit was for a limited amount of stuff, although the limit was reduced because of Asda's uselessness.  The shelf of Plenty was empty - how cunting ironic!  No pork shoulder chops, no cherry variety on 500g yoghurts, and a few other frustrations.  The biggest frustration was in relation to Carlsberg.




For many weeks, these 20-can boxes of Carlsberg have been £11 each (after a phase of £15 during which I bought not one of them from Asda).  The box I picked up today was first on the conveyor belt, and I was waiting to make sure the £11 was applied by the scanner, especially as the price was conveniently missing on the display.  [This is almost certainly no cunting conincidence - sharp prictice indeed!]  The beep came, and £14.00 was the price.  I declined to accept this and the item was removed.  CUNTS.  The checkout operator confirmed "everything has just gone up".  But why the cunting fuck?

ASDA is getting more and more like American Airlines, and I would not be surprised to receive a punch from a checkout operator next time I load up the conveyor and don't put my toiletries in a sealed plastic bag.




I think the only thing that was okay on this visit was the ability to park in a blue-badge bay, as there were no fuckers abusing them.

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Saturday 15 April 2017

15.4.17 Non-English Pronunciation




We have suffered for long enough on "negossiation" instead of "negoshiashon" but things have gone too far now.  What the cuntin fuck are these pronunciations all about?

For the uninissiated.  [John Inverdale, un-cuntin-initiated!]

Unsubstanssiated.  [Radio 4]

Discover the Ceylon-inspired Colour Expert from Shwartzkopf.  [TV Ad meaning "salon"]

Anthony Marssi-al.  [50% of all commentators cannot deal with the name Martial]

Imparssi-al.  [Andrea Catherwood on Radio 4, trying and failing to say impartial]

Race-ee-o.  [Cunt on Radio 4 saying ratio]

Ray-show.  [Jeremy Corbyn inventing a further way to pronounce ratio]

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15.4.17 Nationwide Poetry


The TV advertising campaign is a fucking nightmare.  Self-indulgent and annoying as cunting fuck, these adverts and the people reading out the twaddle are mind numbing and shockingly irritating.




This self indulgent fucking shite
Assaults our eyes and ears
It's Nationwide, it's day & night
And driving me to tears

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Friday 14 April 2017

14.4.17 ASDA Price Rise


It comes as no surprise, I am sure, that I've experienced yet another example of Asda's annoying fucking-a-cuntin-bout.  For many months, Sprite has been available in a 2-litre bottle for £1.  It is now £1.85 for no fucking good reason!




The illogical fluctuations are a fucking nightmare.  Just as a declined the opportunity to purchase overpriced Sprite, I avoided the overprice Dentastix, which have apparently needed to be sold at £8.97 instead of £5.00.  The policy is clearly to reduce prices on some things, and rip the customer off on other things.

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Sunday 9 April 2017

9.4.17 Another Flight To Spain


The journey to Spain was never going to be without issue.  Let's face it, every one of the previous hundred or so flights had brought its own challenges and level of stress. On this occasion most of the drama occurred before we got near the plane.

The Airport

The relatively short hop to Spain with just three items of hand luggage would surely seem to most people a likely easy proposition.  Arriving to show our boarding passes at the security gate a full hour before departure, Mrs MWSC, Junior and I were hoping to sail through - or should that be fly through?




The queue was enormous, and the snake ahead was a real anaconda. Obviously not all of the security lanes were operating; when did that ever happen?  I exchanged glances and raised eyebrows with Mrs MWSC, as we inched forward.

The rather empty drop-off zone had belied the hustle that was going on inside the terminal.  The snake wriggled slowly as staff attended to the baggage checks with all the dexterity of a fudge slice stuck in a vat of blancmange.

We had two small cases and a very small bag conforming to the 35x20x20cm size for a 'second' bag. Despite not having six separate items (as per the max allowance) we were still obliged to take up seven spaces on the roller - not three for the three items we had.  This was on account of having to separate laptops, toothpaste and shit that needed the scrutiny of muppets.  As for the organisation at the airport - it was absent!

Four scanners were in operation, but there were only two walk-through gates available.  But before getting anywhere near them, there was the issue of the polythene bags.  While a member of the snake, I'd observed the shenanigans involving the proper use of these things, for the containment of liquids within individual 'portions' not exceeding 100ml, within an overall maximum per traveller of 1000ml (if contained within the cunting fucking bag!).  I saw a bloke being instructed on how to put the contents of his TWO bags into just one, with the emphasised requirement that the bag could be sealed.  The traveller would have failed his GCSE in Origami, I judged.  It was painful to watch this little vignette of airport security life.

As we queued to walk through the arch that would flash red or green, I realised the smaller bag Id put on the roller sill contained in its back zipper the tablet owned by Mrs MWSC.  I dashed round to try and rectify the situstion.  Alas, I saw the bag enter the mouth of the machine, and the Polythene Warden confirmed I would have to have the bag looked at on the other side.  I had not realised that 'the other side' meant 'Hell'.

Meanwhile, Mrs MWSC was dealing with Junior, whose belt had elicited a buzz and red light, and as penance, the security woman made him take off his shoes. As he awaited the re-scan, I wondered whether he had without my knowledge fashioned new shoes from black Semtex as part of a bid to bring down western civilisation.  Apparently not, and the only inconvenience caused was the long wait to be reunited with footwear.

A few places back, I followed on and sailed through the arch without alerting security in any way.  Round the other side, and along past the waiting shoeless contingent, I spied my little blue bag on the floor, immobile and sad.  I was frustrated and not pleased to see three bags on a small table in front of my bag. I realised it was in 4th place, and I waited for some time.  Gestapo-style input was already being meted out by a power-hungry inept woman who had with her a chap who was being trained. Yes, at my expense, a trainee was learning on the job, taking his instructions from the cunt who loved her ability to dictate the speed of progress for everything around her.




Another security chap appeared on the scene and was holding a polythene bag stuffed full of make-up.  The bag was not sealed, and as anyone in the security world appreciates, this was a major threat.  Yes, the redundancy of the zip-lock feature of the bag was of massive significance to the fuckers in Security. The severe challenge to all of humanity needed to be dealt with pronto.

Fuck knows why the traveller, a young woman, needed not just Boots No.7 but Boots Numbers Eight-to-Thirty-Cuntin-Two as well!  Four efforts at juggling and sealing were fruitless, and odourless.  The various containers of coloured muck were not complying with any attempt to align in such a way that they could fit inside the bag allowing it to be sealed.  A tube of something blue was binned.

To my left, the trainee holding tongues swabbed the inside of a case for traces of something cuntish. Nothing was being achieved and I was convinced nothing would register on the tiny damp cloth that was being smeared along the surfaces.  Sadly nothing was registering in the brain of the woman to my right, but she did eventually give up, and presented the bag to the security guy suggested he might try and seal it.  His response was simple; he took the bag, ditched another item and then sealed it while she looked on aghast, with an expression that no make-up could make better.  Time passed; I stood; boarding commenced at Gate 9.  Fuck!

Mrs MWSC and Junior had sorted things out on the belt and shoe front, and all the cases were intact.  Pulses everywhere were picking up and I heard a man further to my right ask, "Where are all the staff?"  Without an answer, he continued, "What if we miss our flight?"  but again got no input.  "Is this all the staff you've got?" he queried, and deaf ears were in abundance.  "Is that a yes or no?" he asked, with more desperation and annoyance.  The chap in front of me mumbled, avoiding any eye contact, and said nothing that anyone could hear or benefit from.



Boudicca at Security

I stood and waited, while Mrs MWSC and Junior went off towards Gate 9, having taken from me their boarding passes and passports.  My bag had been moved to the table, and was now in third place.  The trainee and Boudicca were almost done swabbing; they had taken so long that I wondered if they might be planning a post-coital cunting cigarette, but then I remember it was a no smoking area.

The next bag was plucked from the table and put on the bench by the chap who was adept at sealing poly bags after lightening the load.  "Whose is this?" he asked.  The woman to my right said "Mine" and despair (or was it resignation) showed on his face.  Yes, make-up woman was now going to take up more of the resources available, to have her case rummaged through.

I was waiting because I had forgotten to remove the tablet from the small blue bag.  With so much jostling and with so many things to take out of cases or out of pockets, it was almost inevitable. Belts, liquids, laptops, camera, coats, coins and three cases, plus coats; enough for anyone, I believe.  I was ruing my oversight now, as my loss of concentration was having significant consequences.  Take-off was due in 23 minutes.




The woman to my right was having her belongings picked over, and her case was packed tighter than a nun's cunt.  Inside was a dense lump that reminded me of a car after it had been through a crusher.  I looked over to a raised arm, some 12 feet away, and the item held in a security person's hand.  It was quite possibly the largest tub of Vaseline I have ever seen. It had to have been four times the size of the maximum 100ml container allowed, and 25 times the amount you would ever need in a month. It was aloft, and providing a strange vision in the mayhem of the security zone.

Finally it was my turn.  I directed the chap to the tablet in the back pocket, confirming I had packed it myself, and had not left it unaccompanied so that a stealth ninja jihadi could fill it with death.  He decoded not to bother with the rest of the contents, and stuck to swabbing while I looked over at the snake that was still wriggling along its considerable length.

Finally I was free to jog on, and did so with some concern considering the plane was supposed to be taking off in ten minutes.  I made time enough to hit the right hand of four faces on my exit from the security area, the red angry face that confirmed my dissatisfaction with the "service".  Up the escalator, along and through the never-ending fucking shop, past Toblerone mountains, made-up women doing fuck all, pathetic teddy bears and yards of watches, down an escalator and along to Gate 9.  Mrs MWSC and Junior were there, waiting.  We we the second from last to go up the stairs to check in, and then go back down another set of stairs to walk towards the plane, over 300 yards away.  On board, five minutes before departure!

The Plane

As if predetermined by some cuntin God of Travel, Mrs MWSC found that behind her Ryanair window seat was a young kid - a cunt indeed.  To be fair, he was only a cunt because his mum was a bigger and better cunt, and as totally useless as a numb clit.  As dictated by the God of Travel, the mother was inept at controlling the kid, and what came out of her mouth was simply shite.  Within twenty minutes he was slamming the drop-down plastic tray against the back of Mrs MWSC's seat.  I stood up and looked over the back, caught the eye of Mother Cyclops and said "Excuse me!" All rather staid and British, yes, but delivered with an edge of indignation and threat that she could have shaved her beard with.




There was some further screaming (from the kid, not from me or Mrs MWSC) but it did not escalate into the issue it might have, and my plan to relocate Mrs MWSC to a spare seat just in front was not put into effect.  I concentrated then on my 330ml can of Bulmers Cider, which turned out to be sweet, horrible and four cunting quid!  In desperation, I passed the time writing this post, hoping time was passing more quickly than it actually was.

I recalled the chap I'd followed into the airport and his rather tiny case in tow. The case he was pulling along behind him was no more than half the size of the permitted cabin luggage, and it was languishing (on wheels) at the end of a 4-section extended aluminium handle.  He might as well have carried it; the trundling wheels were working overtime.  It was like he was taking a chihuahua for a fucking walk, all six-foot-plus of him.  I suspected he was on a business trip, probably to Switzerland with no babies or kids winding him up.

At 7.53 Spanish time, the pilot decided to join in verbally.  The speakers were permanently set such that the cabin crew's announcements regarding drinks, snacks, gifts and scratchcards were delivered at ear-piercing levels.  The captain's announcements were, however, inaudible.  I suspect that training involves a module where anyone flying a plane is required to mumble and purposely phrase input badly such that no one has a fucking clue what's been said.  I still managed to hear the twat in row 26 while the pilot was mumbling! By way of confirmation of this hypothesis, I received audible input just 10 seconds later, when a member of the cabin crew decided to tout shit, and speared my ears with her offensive onslaught.

The end eventually came.  It was not death, because I am of course writing this blurb, so the end refers to the flight.  The effort to get off the plane was as ever challenging.  Apart from an altercation of mild proportions when a nosy cunt gave an unwanted opinion on the art of queuing, the three of us made it to the passport control booths, just past the side queues for people intent on pissing about with the biometrically configured passport clearance arrangements - a glorified self-service affair that simply takes longer.  Jet2 next time!

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