30.12.17 The Reason Is Because

People who can allegedly cook should do so without telling us about it, UNLESS they can cunting well speak English.  There is a muppet on TV as I type who repeatedly uses "the reason is because" which is simply horrendous.  If I were as useless, I'd be saying:

The reason you are a twat is because you cannot use the language.

However, I would not do so.  It is grammatically wrong - a howler.  Rather, I would go for one of the following two options to make my point to Mr Ainsworth.

The reason you are a twat is that you cannot use the language

You are a twat because you cannot use the language

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27.12.17 Festive Nonsense

As I have done in previous years, I have noted the excessive use of the word 'festive' in the TV Guide over the Christmas period.  The laziness adopted by the compilers of the TV Choice magazine is pathetic, and the gratuitous use of 'festive' in programme details is ludicrous.

The instances by day and channel have been collated, and are shown in the table below:

It is strangely the case that this year's results have in the main mirrored those of last year, in the general spread of usage.  See the graph below:

For comparison, here is the graph showing last year's results, which were taken over a slightly shorter time span.

I shall not attempt to analyse the full date, but a couple of points are:

a)  Channel 4 is again the most festive of the five main channels, strengthening its position with 36% of all appearances, up from 29% last year.

b)  The overall 'festive' count has increased, from 3.57 per day to 4.24 per day.

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10.12.17 Wetherby Junkies

The need to stop at the services was unfortunate, mainly because the place was mobbed.  Wetherby Services was, on this particular Saturday, the most popular venue in the north.  The degree of popularity only became truly apparent upon entering the building itself.  Mrs MWSC and I were amazed at the over-subscribed facility, and then suddenly dumbfounded by a queue for the toilets that stretched on and on.  With no exaggeration, there must have been well over 100 people waiting to shit and piss.

The double take changed nothing – there were indeed people everywhere, and loads of them clogging the walkway, most in the queue.  How could this be?  We joined through necessity, and inched forward at a snail’s pace.  In due course, it became apparent that the in/out area to the toilets was split by a roped barrier; in on the left, out on the right.  Men were going against the tide to get in to the corridor, dodging the outgoing empty-bladdered visitors.  It became clear that the male facilities were not oversubscribed, but the women were less well catered for.  The backlog was jiggling with the wait.

I resisted the urge to abandon Mrs MWSC, and we held our positions as we eventually rounded the corner, and kept left while getting to the corridor.  Another left turn revealed another 40 feet of females queuing.  I decided to veer right and sort myself out while Mrs MWSC was stuck in the queue.  As a complete aside, I ought to mention that the cashpoint machines (whose screens warned of a £1.99 charge for anyone withdrawing money) are located in the corridor.  The designers were clearly deranged, and anyone wanting twenty quid would have to tackle a dozen women wanting to spend a penny.

Out in the main area, I waited for a relieved wife, and considered the mayhem all around.  In the WH Smiths, people snaked around towards the till, ready to use plastic to buy non-essentials at higher than normal prices.  Coffee drinkers were getting their fixes, and takeaway food of low quality was being served at exorbitant prices.  I stood outside the main entrance to escape the oppressive atmosphere.  While taking in the view, I noted six coaches and realised that this was probably the cause of the madness.  Half a dozen coach drivers had deposited 300 people, each of whom wanted to make his or her own deposit.

A woman came from my right, and she adopted a strange posture.  This could have been linked to her need for the loo, and/or to her inability to cope with the high heels and very tight jeans.  The big arse formed the point in her profile that was a chevron.  She leaned forward as she walked, sticking her arse out behind her.  Mathematically, she was a ‘More Than’ symbol.  I deduced that she was not a visitor to the women’s toilets because she came out again just three minutes later, this time ‘Less Than’ (for her reverse journey to a car somewhere).

Mrs MWSC appeared through the crowds and we made haste, leaving behind the addicts.  I refer to the lunatics paying small fortunes for coffees, pasties, rolls and shite.  Wetherby Services is itself a metaphorical junkie, desperate for its own fix – the repeated injections of mad people intent on pissing, shitting and wasting loads of money on food, drink and non-essentials as part of a frenzy during an intermission in their journeys.

3.12.17 Rights of Passage

Before we got near a plane, an airport worker was on a mission to restrict passage.  The five-foot entrance to the airport via automatic doors was the first 'limitation' introduced to all those hoping to fly.  The next effort to restrict the flow of people was provided by a beskirted sales assistant in the meandering walkway through the shop.  The airport authorities had long ago decided we should all be made to run the gauntlet of the overpriced, pointless products emporium.

However, Miss Constrictor (let's call her Boa) was on a personal mission to further funnel people by blocking the 120cm wide walkway by talking to two cunts who had nothing better to do.  So it was, that passengers trying to make their way to the various airports of Europe were first required to squeeze through a gap no wider than 70 cunting centimetres!  This right of passage [pun intended] was a necessary step in the process of getting on any plane at all.  So, Yorkshire's gateway to the world was as wide as two-and-a-half fucking Toblerones.

The painful process of boarding was made so much worse by the lack of air; people sweated, and oxygen was in short supply.  If only masks could drop from the ceiling.  I found myself wishing we were board at gate number eight, a long walk from the main building, but it would have meant a walk in the open air, plus boarding via the back steps as well.  Instead, we were funnelled through a tunnel after a wait in the cramped area of gate number three, and with boarding at the front only, it took ages.  Inane thoughts came and went, as I stood vegetating in the queue.  The young kid in front of me must have been about 13; his tits were bigger than his mother's.  We shuffled forward.

In my seat I became reacquainted with the half-size arm rests provided by Jet2, arm rests that are no good to man nor beast - unless, that is, you have no arms, or at least nothing below the elbow.  [How strange that BELOW and ELBOW are anagrams]

The Jet2Shop magazine was full of the usual stuff; who exactly buys it?  The editor, Kirsty Calvert, gave her intro and left me all the worse for it.  Here is one small extract for your delectation:

Our Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream All-Over Miracle Oil is super popular.  It maximises on suitcase space too, as it rejuvenates face, body and hair!

I'm not sure which of the two sentences is the worst; make your own mind up.

I turned to considering more manly things, and in particular, why the various watches were being championed according to their resistance levels.  I am sorry, but whether a watch is resistant to water at 30 metres, 50 metres or 100 metres is rather immaterial.  Most people will never subject the things to more than a foot of water, if it falls into a bath or six inches, if if falls into a loo!

Who would choose to spend £41 on a plane when the alleged recommended price is £50.  Any problems and there is no easy return option.

The struggle to disembark via the front door was,as ever, an unhappy affair.  Eventually it was time to show passports to a disinterested, uniformed person and leave the airport.  BUT, nothing so slick or efficient was possible.  Instead, the mob was before us, a heaving mass of flesh, sweat and bad breath in front of passport control.  There were two routes, I came to realise, as we inched forward.  A chap was overseeing the splitting process; to the left was the ABC system for eye and fingerprint checks, while to the right was a queue for one of the two chaps in the conventional kiosk.

As we neared the kiosk, and airport worker guided an old chap with short white hair to the front of the queue, and he took up residency at the glass, resting his cane against the counter.  We waited.  The second passport checker was the target for the HOTWW.  Yes, the constant arrival of immobile people on our right meant the queue made only intermittent progress in getting shorter.  Helpers Of The Walking Wounded were nipping about and flashing the collected passports of the infirm.

The left hand counter was out of action for ages.  I suggested the bloke could be a returning Rudolph Hess and that could explain well over over five minutes at the passport control window.  There was no leeway from the officials.  It used to be more of a spot check, with some people simply being waved through, but despite the big crowd, everyone was getting attention.  With Rudolph at the left window, we had one single person in Malaga actually allowing people into Spain.

The ABC section, which I observed for a while as there was little else to do, was a mess.  The rabble was engaged in sorting out fingerprints and people were staring into screens to get eye recognition clearance.  It was all a palaver, and hardly efficient.  At each of the four machines was a member of staff, and all four of them could have been better employed in checking fucking passports!  Such a policy would have alleviated the wait, as the queues would have been tiny with all six of the airport staff checking passports instead of training thick travellers on how to use a shit system that takes twice as long.  The dogged adherence to a flawed policy and procedure was a demonstration of stupiduty worse than the cunts in charge at ASDA.  Whilst ASDA may well often offer just two manned (or womanned) checkouts, the self service area usually only has one member of staff overseeing the scanners rather than four!  Yes, I know that there are other wasters, such as the floor runner researching the price of a kumquat and two gossipers loitering, the one with the most keys being the more senior, but we have all learnt to ignore them as useful members of staff.

Leaving Rudolph behind (Hess, in case you've forgotten) I pocketed our passports and headed for the exit.  As ever, the exit from Malaga Airport was restricted to a five-foot wide gap, reduced by whatever coefficient had to be applied each minute based on encroachment and blockages.  Blokes holding cards got in the way, as did dithering fuckers who insisted in stopping in or just outside the doorway.  Leeds Airport granted us 70cm, and Malaga Airport matched this, just about, but not before some sidestepping and circum-cuntin-navigating.  Generally, there was no right of passage.

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21.11.17 Ikea Farcical Delivery

I have just been on line to buy a pillow, and have encountered a double-whammy problem with the pathetic offering from Ikea.

1  The delivery cost for a fucking £15 pillow is £7.50

2  The delivery date is scheduled to be in TWO CUNTIN WEEKS TIME!

Absolute madness.  I am lost for words.

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7.10.17 Plastic

I left the kitchen, taking with me the small plastic bin that holds the recyclable plastics.  I emptied it in the large plastic wheelie bin and then went to get a lottery ticket.  I first needed to use the cash point because I had no real money.  The local bank closed down on Friday, as did its cashpoint machine outside, so I was obliged to use the large lump of plastic situated inside the Co-op that serves as an ATM.  I stuck my plastic card in the thing and took out £50.  I got two real noted, and a £10 that is now basically plastic.  I didn't need a plastic basket, as I would be shopping properly later on.  I got a TV Guide and went to the till where I would buy a lottery ticket as well.  I decided to offload the plastic £10 note.  As I got to the till, I noticed on a floor a pair of plastic knitting needles in a plastic wrapper, so put them on the counter.  The assistant suggested they had fallen out of the needlework magazine that was propped up to one side, a magazine that was encased in plastic to (unsuccessfully) hold the wool and needles.  I presented the £10 plastic note and was frustrated to receive in my change a plastic £5 note that was adopting a shape that would not change.  It was folded in a way that suggested a change of chemical structure had fucking occurred.  Pissing fucking plastic.

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17.9.17 Field of Dreams? Asda Nightmares!

Can there be any supermarket worse than ASDA?  This is a rhetorical question because of course there is no establishment that is as annoying or useless.  I suppose to some small degree my views are shaped through having a relatively small store closest to my house.  'Small' is a relative term, because the footprint of this blot on the landscape is rather large - enough to have decimated the green field that was minding its own business before the planners came along and acted like cunts.

"Build it and they will come" is the line from Field Of Dreams, and in similar style, the cunts-in-charge adopted this approach in the belief that shoppers would swarm to the stadium of mayhem.  They were right; from far and wide, people flock to be fucked.  The lies about pricing have spread to thousands of people in a catchment area that denies them any real alternative.  The Cunt-op may well have improved its pricing policy, but you will still be hard pressed to find more than a handful of things you can buy without being truly ripped off.

After just about three years of the green monster having devoured a pristine coastal field and offered us a sweeping social downgrade, there is work underway to add to Asda's assault on the landscape. The "Build it and they will come" line may well apply to shoppers, but the mantra also applies to other retailers.  Like flies around shit, the hangers-on are now mobilised, aided and abetted by the cunts at the council who have decided that more green fields can be decimated.  Why?  Because apparently we are in need of yet another fucking McDonald's and all the accompanying litter.  On the opposite side of the inadequate mini roundabout is a massive shell that will house three or four more retail outlets.  The diggers have dug, the brickies have laid their shit, and the mud has taken over.  From the site office (two shipping containers) the CIC are no doubt happy to look out and be smug. The vandalism is half-way completed.  Soon, the others (a Marston's pub, B&M, Aldi and more) will join in the obscenity.

Asda's own exploits are best described as a corporate con.  There are hundreds of red and white signs shouting "Rollback".  Yes, everywhere I look, I see flagrant disregard for any retail honesty or integrity.  Rather, I see manipulation and lies on most tickets and pricing displays, complementing well the actual products, whose sizes and weights have been tweaked insidiously by manufacturers.  Thus, it is more like "Two rolls forward and one rollback".

I entered the store three weeks ago to a display of Sprite, bring sold at £1 under the 'Rollback' bollocks.  The Cunts In Charge had raised the price from £1 to £1.85 per 2-litre bottle two weeks earlier, for absolutely no reason.  The stock markets had not been jittered into raising world prices for this commodity; there was no scarcity that could have any way suggested a need to introduce an 85% price increase.  Then, two weeks later, I am supposed to be impressed that Asda has put the price back down to a level where I could again buy the fucking stuff instead of boycotting it!

There IS NO ROLLBACK!  Peperami packs fluctuate between £1 and £2.50. Pot of Joy four-packs fluctuate between £1 and £2.40.  Summer Fruits High Juice is up to £1.20 after a year at £1.  Was the 20% hike related to the product's withdrawal for three weeks, and reappearance with a new label design and screw cap?  I hope not because the plastic top is now of a worse design and it is more fiddly to line up the thread than the perfectly functioning previous darker green cap.  Last week, the Hot 'n' Spicy Chicken Breasts went from £1 to £1.50 for no reason.  This is not the only issue with chicken at Asda.

Yesterday, I went to get chicken wings, and some salad.  There were chicken goujons, chicken breasts, chicken legs, chicken thighs, and of course chickens.  Now, I know chickens don't fly, but I believe that anatomically, they still have cunting wings, and Charles Darwin suggested change over thousands of years, not fucking overnight!  Not a cunting wing in the cunting shop!  Not even a bag of them in the freezer.

Two weeks ago I was forced to use the self service area for a box of beer. There were only two normal checkouts in use, both of them oversubscribed. I could not face a long wait for one item, and the days of an manned express checkout for up to 9 items have long since ended.  With trepidation I approached the zone . . . . no fucker to hand in an Asda uniform.  I of course pressed to confirm that I had no need of a bag - as if a fucking twat-of-a-5p-bag would be any good for 20 cans in a box!  I scanned and waited, instantly angry that I was now in the limbo stage of retail.  This is where I want to buy something that I have selected, I have the money and simply wish to proceed . . . BUT . . . I am not allowed to do so because I need 'clearance'.  I stood in limbo, awaiting input.  I had been instructed to do so my the machine, and the voice command that told me what was going on.

"Please wait for assistance; a colleague is on their way".

This was more cunting infuriating than the system that denies purchase of some fucking cans.  How the cunting fuck does a machine have a colleague? The only part-acceptable explanation would be a robot that might assist me further.  The petrol pumps have stickers suggesting that a colleague might be able to assist, so inanimate "colleagues" are apparently working at Asda. More severe was my annoyance at the abuse of the English language.  A colleague . . THEIR way . .  fucking disgraceful!

A young chap appeared and with some sort of weird flourish, attended to the machine, allowing me to spend fucking money.  "There you go," he said, as though he had achieved something in life.  I decided not to thank him for his divine intervention; that would mean Asda inconveniencing me so that I could then be grateful for the inconvenience being removed.  "Bring back the CONVENIENCE" I say . . . . . fuck the Rollback Bollocks.

A few days later I had shopping that was in a trolley, and I spied a checkout with just one person 'on the belt' (not literally).  I loaded my stuff behind the remaining items of the customer in front, but I soon regretted this.  There was an issue with an item of clothing.  The wait for an "override" as excruciating. Finally, a waddling cunt in a "Happy To Help" sleeveless yellow vest arrived, jangling like a Prisoner Cell Block H guard, unhappy as fuck to deal with 'scan-gate'. Without any checks, she stuck a key in the till and tapped a few numbers, muttered something, and prepared to fuck off.  I toyed with the idea of ramming the unwanted hanger up the arse of the twat with the keys (or should that be up the twat of the arse with the keys?).  The ignorance was astounding, and she was in a world of her own.  What is the point of giving a twat at the far end of the store a key, and then having her eventually perform an override without any checks?  The checkout woman may as well keep the cunting key in her own pocket!

Field of Dreams?  No, more like Normal Asda Nightmares next to a Field of Mud.

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