There are two types or categories of old people:
(1) The silent type
(2) The noisy fuckers who feel obliged to talk and fill the silence with a nauseating, rambling onslaught of shit information about anything and everything. It's as if they need to get it said in case they suddenly die.
It was Mrs MWSC's misfortune to be in a hospital opposite a bed occupied by a lady in category (2). I sat in the chair next to Mrs MWSC, who was fairly horizontal, but with two pillows. I'd arrived when the woman opposite, 83-year-old Joyce, was in mid flow, at 98 decibels to the nurse's 75. The exchange reached me in the corridor before I ever got to the room containing the four beds. Poor Mrs MWSC had endured a fair bit of Joyce, and was all for relocating to an asylum in preference to continued exposure to this torture. The nurse finished the "conversation" and we then had Joyce talking with/at her two visitors.
How she fucking went on; bin collections, holidays, relatives, medical complaints, her back, her dizziness, her kids, her handbag, her trips to Lloyds Pharmacy, her problems sleeping, the television standby feature, pills . . . . . . . and so much more. All revelations and ghastly details were delivered at the aforementioned 98db, and the two visitors played verbal tennis, providing prompts, queries and excuses for Joyce to keep going.
I was losing the will to retain all five senses, and was ready to give up hearing. Mrs MWSC was wondering whether there was any MRSA going spare, to relieve the pain of Joyce-exposure and help divert attention from the old dear. Thankfully, the two vistors left after a further fifteen minutes (lucky them). But Mrs MWSC was stuck in Bed 1, as were the other two women, in Beds 2 and 3. Fortunately the occupants of these other beds were females in 'Category (1)' and so not a fucking peep!
Once the visitors were gone, she switched to her other skill of making a fucking noise by rustling. She set about reading the Evening Gazette and struggling to breathe. I was going to become more involved with the latter and provide a helping hand (around her throat) but thought better of it. Before she started attacking the paper with a biro (crossword, I think) she received a visit from a registrar. He pulled the curtains around her bed, and this gave myself and Mrs MWSC a preview of what "The Voice" is likely to be like - the forthcoming BBC rival to X-Factor. From behind the curtain, we both heard the life story of Joyce. Mrs MWSC was able to recite certain sections of the output, having heard the answer to "what's been happening with you then, Joyce?" four times already. I will not torture you with the stuff discussed; one query from the doctor, though, was "Did you hit your head?" - a general enquiry about her various falls over the last couple of weeks. "Once," said Joyce, "I must have caught it as I had a black eye." Miss Marple indeed. Not for the first time, he then asked her, "Do you get short of breath?" Joyce said she did, while I was thinking "If I had my way, she'd be a whole lot shorter of breath".
"Bed 3" (as she was referred to by one of the nurses) provided us with some mild amusement. Apparently she'd had a fit or a 'turn', whatever that is, and was being observed. [Interrogation had actually established drink and drugs played rather a large part in her 'episode'] She'd been sleeping when I arrived, and somehow managed to sleep through the raconteur's loud revelations - unless she was pretending. When Joyce picked up her Gazette, "Bed 3" asked to go home, and was told that would be up to the doctor to decide. Some twenty minutes later, she'd had enough and decided to get dressed and leave. As she was going through the door, a nurse appeared and the result was that they headed for the main desk up the corridor, to sign a "self discharge". I wondered if 'pissing yourself' counted as a self discharge.
Ten minutes later, two nurses appeared through the door, one pushing a wheelchair. It was "Bed 3" being pushed back into the room to resume her position in, yes, bed number 3. "That's the problem with discharging yourself. What if no one had been around and you collapsed?" The nurse's question/concern brough a smirk to me and Mrs MWSC. How embarrassing to discharge youself and then collapse. However, ten minutes later, Mrs MWSC was saying "She went that way" to a different nurse, who had just walked in and seen an empty Bed Number 3. "Bed 3" had hopped it all of a sudden.
I left Mrs MWSC to read her book, noting that all was quiet from Bed 2, and Joyce was sleeping like an 83-year-old baby with 64 health problems, puffy legs, 22 types of pills in her locker, a tube up her nose and no mobiles to play with - but she was silent.
...
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
30.8.11 Overrun UK
This has got nothing to do with xenophobia, or racism, but everything to do with "the system", and how the UK is basically both stupid and fucked. Unfortunately the country has got itself into a mess from which it cannot now escape. The doors to the UK were opened by Labour in 1997, and the metaphoric doorman was noticeable by his absence. The invitation went out to pretty much anyone, and there was a stream of takers from all countries. The result was predictable, and in fact expected by those in the Labour government whose aim was to increase the mix of the general population such that its own chances of re-election and a sustained Labour administration were enhanced. This engineering by Labour has led to a system that's now overrun. This was inevitable.
We now have ludicrously high immigration, and the results of this policy madness are evident in many ways. The taxpayer now has to provide greater and greater subsidy for institutions and benefit payments, to cater for those new arrivals who cannot be blamed for wanting a better life. From around the world, people have flocked here, including many criminals. Even those not intent on committing crimes are in some cases just desperate. Sadly, whatever they do and whatever becomes of them, it can never be as bad as what they left behind. So, there's perhaps less of a deterrent to doing whatever might be needed to get by - legal or illegal. It is not therefore a surprise to learn that a third of criminals entering Britain's top youth jail last year were foreign. One in ten at Feltham Young Offenders Institute was from Somalia. There are many other statistics, and other nationalities highlighted, but the point is that accepting hundreds of thousands into the country has put a strain on everything: education, housing, jails, law enforcement, translation, healthcare, employment, benefits. The numbers and the demands/needs mean the system was and is fucked.
Worse, though, is the fact that little can be done about it. The EU legislation means we're tied to many policies. Rulings of one sort or another seem always to come down on the side of the disadvantaged, the claimants, the immigrants, the little guy. I have no idea what's right or wrong, fair or otherwise, but I do believe the outcome most often shows the UK government to be powerless. Some related statistics just released show that 25.1% of new born babies last year had mothers born overseas. In Newham, East London, that figure is 75%. Last year 241,000 foreigners were given permission to settle in the UK.
The economics are quite simple. Hundreds of thousands arriving, and the vast majority being a drain on resources, means that balancing the books will require higher taxes and mean fewer services, and poorer standards of service. This is all fine, if the policy was accepted by the country after being openly proposed. Unfortunately, the scheming Labour Party was far from open with its objectives.
Maybe it's actually no more than the UK deserves. All I know is that the UK will from now on become poorer year by year, as will its citizens. The drain on resources, the stresses on infrastructure and the adjustments so necessary in all areas will collectively mean it's "downhill all the way". As I said before, this is economics, maths, simple logic, and nothing to do with racism - but it's the fear of being accused of racism that's contributed so greatly to the scale of the problem now facing the country. If a boat that is full and holds 2000 passengers sets sail on an ocean crossing, having allowed a further 2000 on board at the last minute, then I would argue that the captain is asking for trouble. If we are to avoid mayhem, then someone needs to take charge and exercise due care and attention, for the benefit of all.
...
We now have ludicrously high immigration, and the results of this policy madness are evident in many ways. The taxpayer now has to provide greater and greater subsidy for institutions and benefit payments, to cater for those new arrivals who cannot be blamed for wanting a better life. From around the world, people have flocked here, including many criminals. Even those not intent on committing crimes are in some cases just desperate. Sadly, whatever they do and whatever becomes of them, it can never be as bad as what they left behind. So, there's perhaps less of a deterrent to doing whatever might be needed to get by - legal or illegal. It is not therefore a surprise to learn that a third of criminals entering Britain's top youth jail last year were foreign. One in ten at Feltham Young Offenders Institute was from Somalia. There are many other statistics, and other nationalities highlighted, but the point is that accepting hundreds of thousands into the country has put a strain on everything: education, housing, jails, law enforcement, translation, healthcare, employment, benefits. The numbers and the demands/needs mean the system was and is fucked.
Worse, though, is the fact that little can be done about it. The EU legislation means we're tied to many policies. Rulings of one sort or another seem always to come down on the side of the disadvantaged, the claimants, the immigrants, the little guy. I have no idea what's right or wrong, fair or otherwise, but I do believe the outcome most often shows the UK government to be powerless. Some related statistics just released show that 25.1% of new born babies last year had mothers born overseas. In Newham, East London, that figure is 75%. Last year 241,000 foreigners were given permission to settle in the UK.
The economics are quite simple. Hundreds of thousands arriving, and the vast majority being a drain on resources, means that balancing the books will require higher taxes and mean fewer services, and poorer standards of service. This is all fine, if the policy was accepted by the country after being openly proposed. Unfortunately, the scheming Labour Party was far from open with its objectives.
Maybe it's actually no more than the UK deserves. All I know is that the UK will from now on become poorer year by year, as will its citizens. The drain on resources, the stresses on infrastructure and the adjustments so necessary in all areas will collectively mean it's "downhill all the way". As I said before, this is economics, maths, simple logic, and nothing to do with racism - but it's the fear of being accused of racism that's contributed so greatly to the scale of the problem now facing the country. If a boat that is full and holds 2000 passengers sets sail on an ocean crossing, having allowed a further 2000 on board at the last minute, then I would argue that the captain is asking for trouble. If we are to avoid mayhem, then someone needs to take charge and exercise due care and attention, for the benefit of all.
...
30.8.11 Cheryl & Ashley
So, 'poor' Cheryl and Ashley had to revise their plans for a holiday. Apparently they were as gutted as Richard Branson's house that the fire on Necker Island meant a scrapping of plans for a romantic break. Having to put up with this level of inconvenience is truly atrocious for them.
As a 'second best', they had to consider alternative locations, including Roman Abramovich's home in St Barts. It's such a hard life, trying to make plans when out of the blue, lightning strikes. The hardship for C&A is clearly severe, but friends have indicated that Cheryl and Ashley will pull through, and make a go of things whatever life throws at them. Our heroes - endurance beyond belief.
...
As a 'second best', they had to consider alternative locations, including Roman Abramovich's home in St Barts. It's such a hard life, trying to make plans when out of the blue, lightning strikes. The hardship for C&A is clearly severe, but friends have indicated that Cheryl and Ashley will pull through, and make a go of things whatever life throws at them. Our heroes - endurance beyond belief.
...
30.8.11 Bird Seed
By the time I realised there was no bird seed in the house on Saturday, it was too late to do much about it. There is most definitely some logic to my concern, as I do have a bird requiring seed on a daily basis - otherwise my worry over bird seed would be a bit random. The realisation came at 6.30pm, but I was mildly comforted that I could get some on Sunday at the pet store in the next village. Jimmy had seed for Saturday, so was happy enough.
A late start on Sunday was followed up with a necessity to watch the Grand Prix. That's me we're talking about, not Jimmy. What I'd failed to realise was that on Sundays, the pet shop closes at 3.00pm. So, whilst Vettel was crossing the line, Jimmy was getting a bit cross and I felt I'd crossed a line. What with it being a Bank Holiday on Monday, the shop over the road would not be open in the morning. I decided I owed it to Jimmy to feed him his Sunday dinner (late) and my only option was a twenty mile round trip to Wilkinsons. I knew it was open until 4.30pm, so I dutifully went on a mission. Success followed, and Jimmy was catered for on Sunday, and Monday.
The bag of Canary seed was, I think, meant for a different bird - one called "Connie". I worked this out from the packaging; the one-kilo bag had the interesting strapline of "Keeps Connie Chirpy" which seems to have no relevance at all. The product itself was labelled as follows:
Wilko
Impeckable Canary Mix
A very good 'play on words' but rather worrying, as it suggested that Jimmy would struggle to peck the stuff. Fortunately he managed quite well.
There you have it - excitement all round.
...
A late start on Sunday was followed up with a necessity to watch the Grand Prix. That's me we're talking about, not Jimmy. What I'd failed to realise was that on Sundays, the pet shop closes at 3.00pm. So, whilst Vettel was crossing the line, Jimmy was getting a bit cross and I felt I'd crossed a line. What with it being a Bank Holiday on Monday, the shop over the road would not be open in the morning. I decided I owed it to Jimmy to feed him his Sunday dinner (late) and my only option was a twenty mile round trip to Wilkinsons. I knew it was open until 4.30pm, so I dutifully went on a mission. Success followed, and Jimmy was catered for on Sunday, and Monday.
The bag of Canary seed was, I think, meant for a different bird - one called "Connie". I worked this out from the packaging; the one-kilo bag had the interesting strapline of "Keeps Connie Chirpy" which seems to have no relevance at all. The product itself was labelled as follows:
Wilko
Impeckable Canary Mix
A very good 'play on words' but rather worrying, as it suggested that Jimmy would struggle to peck the stuff. Fortunately he managed quite well.
There you have it - excitement all round.
...
Monday, 29 August 2011
29.8.11 David Coulthard
How stupid and petty of David Coulthard. I am so tired of hearing him refer to Sebastian Vettel during commentary with the stress on the second syllable. Everyone else manages to say the name with the stress at the beginning, just as it should be said. This is not even an argument about whether the first letter should be taken as a 'V' or an 'F' when speaking in English. It is acknowledged that the German means an 'F' sound, but generally we don't go around saying "FolksVagon" do we? Anyway, that aside, why oh why does DC insist on saying Vettel's name wrongly? For the record, it is said:
Sebastian Vettel (German pronunciation: [zeˈbastian ˈfɛtəl]
So, what is DC's explanation for consistently mispronouncing it? Here's what he himself says:
"I pronounce my name as David Coal-thart; everyone else pronounces it a different way. So when I am pronouncing names wrong [sic] when I am doing the BBC1 F1 coverage, my defence is no-one ever says my name correctly."
What a petty twat.
...
Sebastian Vettel (German pronunciation: [zeˈbastian ˈfɛtəl]
So, what is DC's explanation for consistently mispronouncing it? Here's what he himself says:
"I pronounce my name as David Coal-thart; everyone else pronounces it a different way. So when I am pronouncing names wrong [sic] when I am doing the BBC1 F1 coverage, my defence is no-one ever says my name correctly."
What a petty twat.
...
Sunday, 28 August 2011
28.8.11 Sofa News
The DFS shit that infiltrates households via newspapers is rather tiresome. Glossy A3 sized pages showing the latest 'sale' prices must have cost a fortune to produce, and I've no idea what the company pays newspaper owners to slip the marketing material inside. I am struck by the names chosen for the various items.
The Spritzer
Slightly inappropriate name, as if you spill one, it won't just wipe off. The sofa is not leather, but covered with an absorbent hessian-type material.
The Envy
If you're mad enough to buy this at £499, you will most definitely not be the envy of your friends. A truly ghastly effort that is not worth describing.
The Omega
As the name implies, this is the very last sofa you should choose.
The Walcot
So aptly named, taking inspiration from Theo Walcott, possibly, as the finishing is awful. It's off white and a bit flowery and doesn't quite work.
The Dazzle
£799 for a plain white leather 2-seater sofa that doesn't dazzle.
The Dawson
This is a brown space station masquerading as a sofa. It's a ludicrous lump of who knows what, covered in the hides of seven cows. With £500 off, it's now only three fucking grand!
The Camden
This 4-seater looks horrendous, with a pattern that's an absolute riot.
The Rapier
A strangely named corner sofa, considering it's leather and anything sharper than a staple, let alone a rapier, would be lethal to the covering.
The Mason
As attractive, comfortable-looking and fashionable as a brick.
Don't forget the DFS deals. But would you credit it, though, I've no interest in a sofa being deposited in my room for 4 years. Terms and conditions apply. Remember, the goods may wear out long before you finish paying for them, and that's your lookout/tough luck. 0% APR representative. 0% IQ of store representative.
Strangely, a Harveys catalogue seems to have appeared in the last day or two as well. The various items of furniture have all been named with varying degrees of appropriateness, ranging from none to 'fuck all'. Let's look at some examples:
Eva, Swing, Bel Air, Club, Mistral, Consular, Julpiter and Empire
These are all sofas
Swing, Boat, Calais, Wessex, Alexis, Astoria and Forrester
These are all table and chairs sets
Las Vegas, Hong Kong, Derby
These are swivel chairs with a stool
...
The Spritzer
Slightly inappropriate name, as if you spill one, it won't just wipe off. The sofa is not leather, but covered with an absorbent hessian-type material.
The Envy
If you're mad enough to buy this at £499, you will most definitely not be the envy of your friends. A truly ghastly effort that is not worth describing.
The Omega
As the name implies, this is the very last sofa you should choose.
The Walcot
So aptly named, taking inspiration from Theo Walcott, possibly, as the finishing is awful. It's off white and a bit flowery and doesn't quite work.
The Dazzle
£799 for a plain white leather 2-seater sofa that doesn't dazzle.
The Dawson
This is a brown space station masquerading as a sofa. It's a ludicrous lump of who knows what, covered in the hides of seven cows. With £500 off, it's now only three fucking grand!
The Camden
This 4-seater looks horrendous, with a pattern that's an absolute riot.
The Rapier
A strangely named corner sofa, considering it's leather and anything sharper than a staple, let alone a rapier, would be lethal to the covering.
The Mason
As attractive, comfortable-looking and fashionable as a brick.
Don't forget the DFS deals. But would you credit it, though, I've no interest in a sofa being deposited in my room for 4 years. Terms and conditions apply. Remember, the goods may wear out long before you finish paying for them, and that's your lookout/tough luck. 0% APR representative. 0% IQ of store representative.
Strangely, a Harveys catalogue seems to have appeared in the last day or two as well. The various items of furniture have all been named with varying degrees of appropriateness, ranging from none to 'fuck all'. Let's look at some examples:
Eva, Swing, Bel Air, Club, Mistral, Consular, Julpiter and Empire
These are all sofas
Swing, Boat, Calais, Wessex, Alexis, Astoria and Forrester
These are all table and chairs sets
Las Vegas, Hong Kong, Derby
These are swivel chairs with a stool
...
Saturday, 27 August 2011
27.8.11 Stupid Questions
The top three stupid questions of the day were as follows:
1st - "Can I interest you in a pack of ten Mini Cheddars today?"
[Till operator in Poundland]
2nd - "For the lottery, yes?"
[Till operator in the Co-op after I said "Two lucky dips please"]
3rd - "Do you need carrier bags?"
[Till operator in Morrisons, for my £126 worth of shopping!]
...
1st - "Can I interest you in a pack of ten Mini Cheddars today?"
[Till operator in Poundland]
2nd - "For the lottery, yes?"
[Till operator in the Co-op after I said "Two lucky dips please"]
3rd - "Do you need carrier bags?"
[Till operator in Morrisons, for my £126 worth of shopping!]
...
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