The phrase 'award winning' is a clever one. It implies quality/brilliance/achievement, and yet does not actually give enough detail for one to know if the thing or service actually has any real value. "The Man Who Says Cunt" is an award winning blog if I decide to give myself an award! [even if that award is simply a Smartie and homemade certificate].
It was with all this in mind that I last week sat down to eat at a Holiday Inn restaurant. Looking over the menu, I came across the following:
Award-Winning Pork & Cracked Black Pepper Sausages
With creamy mashed potato and gravy
At £13.95, it was a touch expensive, but so was everything else. Two things struck me. First, what was the 'award'? Second, the mash and potato combo was clearly of lower quality, not having picked up any award. To satisfy my curiosity, I asked Peter (the waiter) to enlighten me on the phrase 'Award Winning'. Expressing surprise that the menu did not include this information, he disappeared for three minutes (during which time he liaised with the chef, he later confirmed). Upon his return, he presented a sheet of paper - a downloaded copy of a certificate issued by BPEX (the British Pig Executive) confirming a Gold Medal had been awarded to York House Meat Products in the Traditional Pork Sausage Category for 'Hampshire Outdoor Bred Pork with Cracked Black Pepper'.
Satisfied that the phrase 'award winning' was appropriate (although it was in 2007 !) I decided to order, adding Green Beans & Carrots (£1.95) as a side dish. Whilst these vegetables matched the mash and gravy in being 'awardless', the green beans had the perfect level of squeakiness. Peter moved on to other diners, making sure he continued to finish each and every exchange/utterance with "No problem".
The food was okay, but I think that as with the life of sausages themselves, certificates extolling the virtues of any one variety should have a shelf life, and ought to be revoked every once in a while. Three years on, with certificate on the wall, I suspect the makers have lost interest a bit in maintaining standards. Still, I was hungry and ate it all.
I decided to have a dessert, and opted for Knickerbocker Glory - but without whipped cream. Now, I am not sure whether the absence of the cream technically invalidated the tall glass's claim to be a Knickerbocker Glory, but I ploughed through it, trying to minimise the success of the raspberry goo that seemed to want to accompany every spoonful of other stuff.
So, remember, next time you come across something said to be "Award Winning", why not take things a step further and find out more about the award. BPEX's award of Food Sausage of the Year 2007 GOLD has this last week reached an audience greater by 2 - Peter and me. Now I share it all with you.
...
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Friday, 26 November 2010
26.11.10 Aggravation
Mr Roy Hodgson, the Liverpool Manager, was interviewed on 20th November after a 3-0 win over West Ham, with the three goals all being scored in the first half. He was of course pleased with the result, but used a curious turn of phrase:
"It's a shame that in the second half we couldn't aggravate the score"
What? Can you imagine the half-time team talk in the dressing room? "Come on Stevie, Fernando, we've got them on the run. Keep it tight, lads, don't make any silly mistakes, and let's push forward. I'd like you all to try to aggravate the score."
Jolly good show, splendid, what!
...
"It's a shame that in the second half we couldn't aggravate the score"
What? Can you imagine the half-time team talk in the dressing room? "Come on Stevie, Fernando, we've got them on the run. Keep it tight, lads, don't make any silly mistakes, and let's push forward. I'd like you all to try to aggravate the score."
Jolly good show, splendid, what!
...
26.11.10 Celebrity?
Take a close look. What do you get if you cross Woody Allen with Peter Cook, and add a sliver of Paul Daniels?
Gillian McKeith
What an utterly revolting creature.
...
Gillian McKeith
What an utterly revolting creature.
...
26.11.10 Today Please, Josephine!
The "Sliding Doors" moment of my life may have happened today, at the point I decided on which queue to join at Morrisons. I opted for the first one I came to, 'manned' by Josephine. Ahead of me was a couple whose shopping on the conveyor was not a mountain by any means. I was able to put some of mine on to the conveyor, expecting that I'd be served quite soon.
My worries arrived rather quicker than the speed with which Josephine scanned goods. Inch by painful inch, the conveyor progressed, to allow me eventually to transfer all my shopping from the small trolley. To my left, I would already have been in the process of packing my shopping, as that checkout operator was of normal talent. Josephine's till would have benefited from an overhead sign (perhaps a re-working of the old '9 Items or Less' sign [ we all no that should have been "Fewer" ] which is no longer in use since the introduction of the new tills, called: You do all the scanning yourself, while someone stands and watches you. Josephine's sign could have said "9 Minutes or More" to serve as a warning regarding the wait, for those naive enough to join her queue.
The only amusing thing about her dedication to process the shopping was her grappling technique when trying to scan a 2.5kg bag of potatoes. The inanimate objects within the bag were rolled, mauled and pinned down as Josephine hoped they would yield, and allow their barcode to register on the fixed scanner. I was transfixed as she wrestled with the bag for ages. If it had been dough, it would have received a fantastic kneading. Needing to leave, I refrained from commenting, and continued to pack.
I will of course in future avoid any till operated by Josephine - no doubt a lovely woman, but not ideally suited to checkouts.
...
My worries arrived rather quicker than the speed with which Josephine scanned goods. Inch by painful inch, the conveyor progressed, to allow me eventually to transfer all my shopping from the small trolley. To my left, I would already have been in the process of packing my shopping, as that checkout operator was of normal talent. Josephine's till would have benefited from an overhead sign (perhaps a re-working of the old '9 Items or Less' sign [ we all no that should have been "Fewer" ] which is no longer in use since the introduction of the new tills, called: You do all the scanning yourself, while someone stands and watches you. Josephine's sign could have said "9 Minutes or More" to serve as a warning regarding the wait, for those naive enough to join her queue.
The only amusing thing about her dedication to process the shopping was her grappling technique when trying to scan a 2.5kg bag of potatoes. The inanimate objects within the bag were rolled, mauled and pinned down as Josephine hoped they would yield, and allow their barcode to register on the fixed scanner. I was transfixed as she wrestled with the bag for ages. If it had been dough, it would have received a fantastic kneading. Needing to leave, I refrained from commenting, and continued to pack.
I will of course in future avoid any till operated by Josephine - no doubt a lovely woman, but not ideally suited to checkouts.
...
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
24.11.10 Sandwich
Level 1
Fancying a sandwich, I looked along the shelf at ASDA and decided upon a Breakfast Triple: Sausage, Egg & Bacon, Egg & Bacon, and Egg & Sausage.
Level 2
Closer inspection of the packaging revealed a slightly more in-depth description of the above sandwich, as follows.
"Malted bread with egg mayonnaise, pork sausage, smoke flavour sweetcure bacon, brown sauce and tomato ketchup. White bread with egg mayonnaise and smoke flavour sweetcure bacon. Malted bread with egg mayonnaise, pork sausage, brown sauce and tomato ketchup"
Level 3
Ingredients: Egg Mayonnaise, Sausage and Bacon: Malted Bread [Wheat Flour, Water, Malted Wheat Flakes, Wheat Bran, Yeast, Salt, Malted Barley Flour, Emulsifiers (E472e, E471), Vegetable Fat, Spirit Vinegar, Malted Wheat Flour, Wheat Gluten, Flour Treatment Agent (E300), Reduced Fat Egg Mayonnaise (28%) [Hard Boiled Egg, Reduced Fat Mayonnaise [Water, Rapeseed Oil, Cornflour, Spirit Vinegar, Pasteurised Egg Yolk, White Wine Vinegar, Sugar, Salt, Stabiliser (E440),Dijon
I have absolutely no intention of typing any more of this stuff - the above ingredients represent just one of the three sandwiches!
The further sections on ingredients for the two extra rounds are then followed by more blurb:
Contains gluten, milk, wheat, barley, egg and mustard. May contain traces of nuts and/or sesame seeds.
NO ARTIFICIAL COLOURS OR HYDROGENATED FAT.
!WARNING: Not suitable for a low potassium diet. Extra care has been taken to remove shell, although some may remain.
I will not bother noting the dubious 'nutritional' information.
In summary, then . . . . . . . Un-fuckin-believable! No wonder the country's in a mess, obesity and heart disease are on the rise, and arteries are fucked. The shit that's in food is mind boggling.
...
Fancying a sandwich, I looked along the shelf at ASDA and decided upon a Breakfast Triple: Sausage, Egg & Bacon, Egg & Bacon, and Egg & Sausage.
Level 2
Closer inspection of the packaging revealed a slightly more in-depth description of the above sandwich, as follows.
"Malted bread with egg mayonnaise, pork sausage, smoke flavour sweetcure bacon, brown sauce and tomato ketchup. White bread with egg mayonnaise and smoke flavour sweetcure bacon. Malted bread with egg mayonnaise, pork sausage, brown sauce and tomato ketchup"
Level 3
Ingredients: Egg Mayonnaise, Sausage and Bacon: Malted Bread [Wheat Flour, Water, Malted Wheat Flakes, Wheat Bran, Yeast, Salt, Malted Barley Flour, Emulsifiers (E472e, E471), Vegetable Fat, Spirit Vinegar, Malted Wheat Flour, Wheat Gluten, Flour Treatment Agent (E300), Reduced Fat Egg Mayonnaise (28%) [Hard Boiled Egg, Reduced Fat Mayonnaise [Water, Rapeseed Oil, Cornflour, Spirit Vinegar, Pasteurised Egg Yolk, White Wine Vinegar, Sugar, Salt, Stabiliser (E440),
I have absolutely no intention of typing any more of this stuff - the above ingredients represent just one of the three sandwiches!
The further sections on ingredients for the two extra rounds are then followed by more blurb:
Contains gluten, milk, wheat, barley, egg and mustard. May contain traces of nuts and/or sesame seeds.
NO ARTIFICIAL COLOURS OR HYDROGENATED FAT.
!WARNING: Not suitable for a low potassium diet. Extra care has been taken to remove shell, although some may remain.
I will not bother noting the dubious 'nutritional' information.
In summary, then . . . . . . . Un-fuckin-believable! No wonder the country's in a mess, obesity and heart disease are on the rise, and arteries are fucked. The shit that's in food is mind boggling.
...
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
23.11.10 Litter Hotspot!
At Junction 6 of the M62, there's a sign that says:
Litter hotspot. Please take your litter home.
What the fuck!? What's a litter hotspot ?? Oh dear, it's a hotspot, so instead of throwing this wrapper out the window, I'll take it home and dispose of it responsibly. Now, I'm not at all knocking the sentiment here, and I abhor idiots who lob shit out of a car window. However, the idea that a 'litter hotspot' is some sort of special zone that means people will adopt new behaviours is quite laughable. What's the next sign going to be then?
Murder hotspot; please kill a cunt somewhere else and dispose of the body responsibly.
Hmmmmm. As far as I'm concerned, the term "Hotspot" relates to Strike It Lucky and not a lot else.
...
Litter hotspot. Please take your litter home.
What the fuck!? What's a litter hotspot ?? Oh dear, it's a hotspot, so instead of throwing this wrapper out the window, I'll take it home and dispose of it responsibly. Now, I'm not at all knocking the sentiment here, and I abhor idiots who lob shit out of a car window. However, the idea that a 'litter hotspot' is some sort of special zone that means people will adopt new behaviours is quite laughable. What's the next sign going to be then?
Murder hotspot; please kill a cunt somewhere else and dispose of the body responsibly.
Hmmmmm. As far as I'm concerned, the term "Hotspot" relates to Strike It Lucky and not a lot else.
...
Sunday, 21 November 2010
21.11.10 Roundabout £500k
Times are hard, and priorities have to be considered. In such circumstances, it is unbelievable that some projects carry on regardless, whether worthwhile or not. Take the local (to me anyway) "upgrade" of two roundabouts. For many years, these two round things have served the public quite well, allowing vehicles to pick a route and in some cases change the general direction of their travel to coincide with their planned journey. All that was required was an ability to know that clockwise was (and still is) the preferred convention. Now, even in this part of the country, the very thickest cunts can do that!
The two roundabout had existed unchanged for so long that there was no issue for drivers negotiating them. Sure, at rush hour, there were build-ups of traffic, but cars can't be made to disappear. The council was obviously anxious to spend loads of money, and came up with a hair-brained scheme. The work undertaken includes:
...
The two roundabout had existed unchanged for so long that there was no issue for drivers negotiating them. Sure, at rush hour, there were build-ups of traffic, but cars can't be made to disappear. The council was obviously anxious to spend loads of money, and came up with a hair-brained scheme. The work undertaken includes:
- Planting trees in the middle of one of them. [How the fuck can that be either necessary or advantageous? It simply means visibility is reduced. Two dozen massive trees, requiring many people and JCBs for no benefit is utter madness.]
- Traffic lights installed for the five routes into one of the roundabouts.
- Minimal road widening, with new kerb stones all round. [Nothing wrong with the old ones.]
- New signs, including one black & white arrow sign that's about 30 feet long! [Every cunt knows to turn left!]
- New road markings all over the place.
- Dozens of men at work for very many weeks, not to mention the advance planning etc.
...
21.11.10 Fabi-o-so-shit
Quite simply, Fabio Capello is clueless, uninspiring, inept and a clown. There's little else to say, and very many would agree with this assessment of the England manager.
However, more clueless, more inept and more clown-like is the Football Association! For some strange reason, the FA decided that appointing a non-English-speaking 'club football' manager to our highest position in football was appropriate, and unbelievably, that he was worth £6M per year in wages.
Worse, much much worse, was the FA's complete fuck-up in the run-up to the World Cup, when it extended his contract (when it did not need to) so that his terms of employment included a full two year's notice period!
Now we are stuck with him. Ask yourself this - if your employer paid you £6 Million per year, would you leave and give it up, or would you want paying? I suspect we'd all like the money. So, who is the biggest plonker/twat? Not Fabi-o-so-shit. No, instead we should be thus describing the collection of idiots making up the FA, which has 'Sweet FA' in terms of options now.
...
However, more clueless, more inept and more clown-like is the Football Association! For some strange reason, the FA decided that appointing a non-English-speaking 'club football' manager to our highest position in football was appropriate, and unbelievably, that he was worth £6M per year in wages.
Worse, much much worse, was the FA's complete fuck-up in the run-up to the World Cup, when it extended his contract (when it did not need to) so that his terms of employment included a full two year's notice period!
Now we are stuck with him. Ask yourself this - if your employer paid you £6 Million per year, would you leave and give it up, or would you want paying? I suspect we'd all like the money. So, who is the biggest plonker/twat? Not Fabi-o-so-shit. No, instead we should be thus describing the collection of idiots making up the FA, which has 'Sweet FA' in terms of options now.
...
Saturday, 20 November 2010
20.11.10 Panic Room
No, not what you're thinking. The "Panic Room" that may spring to mind is the one in the film of that name, with Jodie Foster playing the lead, supported by Kristen Stewart as her daughter. Earlier today, I found myself witnessing the existence of a panic room that was (and still is) somewhat larger than the one in the film. So large, in fact, that hundreds of people were inside.
The idea, of course, is that those inside a panic room are safe, and no one can get in. The 'twist' on the version I came across today was that not only could no one get in, no one could get out! The very large panic room contained everything one could possibly need to survive for many months, possibly even years. I will put you out of your misery and now reveal more about this strange place; you may be surpised to learn that it was none other than an ASDA store.
Many thousands of square feet containing all sorts of items had attracted hundreds of people. Inside, they wandered around, warm and safe, ignorant of the outside world, and they mooched around choosing things they'd like to have. I was outside the store, and wanted to get in - but the 'panic room' was resisting my advances. The main reason for this was not the presence of steel doors, concrete walls or a time lock. No, the ASDA store was technically open and not supposed to be a 'fortress'. "What made it so?", I hear you ask. The fucking entrance being six feet wide, that's what!
So, the retail giant decided that this particular store would best serve its customers' needs by allowing them a six-foot wide opening, through which every single shopper (complete with trolley - and possibly pushchair/wheelchair/guide dog/delinquent kids) must enter and leave. What a fucking bottleneck! Twats!
I was recently in another town's version of a panic room, where the entrance/exit was in fact a pair of six-foot doors, affording a very slight improvement on the above, despite their being at right angles to each other and encouraging a 'free for all' in the entrance area. However, to get to the main area, there's a small walkway, and this is where there's usually a problem. Two weeks ago, I was obstructed by multiple cunts with trolleys, who had stopped to chat. A security guard sat close by, doing nothing; not surprising as no fucker could easily move let alone get in with a bomb or out with a fillet of beef under a jumper. After what was a painfully slow 'edging' process, further progress was then actively discouraged by an inanimate object - a fucking metal 'carousel' containing baguettes! So, one of the things jeopardising entry to the store (and creating a risk that I might abort) was the point-of-sale structure resulting from some idiot's insistence that I might desperately need a baguette for 50 fucking pence - on my way into a massive shop!
Don't panic - I didn't buy one. As for today, I managed to get inside, and when leaving some forty minutes later, I avoided the oncoming fat man.
.....
The idea, of course, is that those inside a panic room are safe, and no one can get in. The 'twist' on the version I came across today was that not only could no one get in, no one could get out! The very large panic room contained everything one could possibly need to survive for many months, possibly even years. I will put you out of your misery and now reveal more about this strange place; you may be surpised to learn that it was none other than an ASDA store.
Many thousands of square feet containing all sorts of items had attracted hundreds of people. Inside, they wandered around, warm and safe, ignorant of the outside world, and they mooched around choosing things they'd like to have. I was outside the store, and wanted to get in - but the 'panic room' was resisting my advances. The main reason for this was not the presence of steel doors, concrete walls or a time lock. No, the ASDA store was technically open and not supposed to be a 'fortress'. "What made it so?", I hear you ask. The fucking entrance being six feet wide, that's what!
So, the retail giant decided that this particular store would best serve its customers' needs by allowing them a six-foot wide opening, through which every single shopper (complete with trolley - and possibly pushchair/wheelchair/guide dog/delinquent kids) must enter and leave. What a fucking bottleneck! Twats!
I was recently in another town's version of a panic room, where the entrance/exit was in fact a pair of six-foot doors, affording a very slight improvement on the above, despite their being at right angles to each other and encouraging a 'free for all' in the entrance area. However, to get to the main area, there's a small walkway, and this is where there's usually a problem. Two weeks ago, I was obstructed by multiple cunts with trolleys, who had stopped to chat. A security guard sat close by, doing nothing; not surprising as no fucker could easily move let alone get in with a bomb or out with a fillet of beef under a jumper. After what was a painfully slow 'edging' process, further progress was then actively discouraged by an inanimate object - a fucking metal 'carousel' containing baguettes! So, one of the things jeopardising entry to the store (and creating a risk that I might abort) was the point-of-sale structure resulting from some idiot's insistence that I might desperately need a baguette for 50 fucking pence - on my way into a massive shop!
Don't panic - I didn't buy one. As for today, I managed to get inside, and when leaving some forty minutes later, I avoided the oncoming fat man.
.....
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
17.11.10 Ode to X-Factor ***
Now Katie's been saved for the fuckin' fourth time
No slight misdemeanour, a right cuntin' crime!
In seeking attention this talentless twat
Displays all the traits of a right spoilt brat.
This fame hungry monster annoys with a flair
Much greater of course than that big wispy hair
Her straining and whining are rather obscene
We're tired of her drama, and Katie's no queen!
How utterly awful, how utterly shit
The crappy pink jacket that didn't quite fit
Not quite mediocre, not quite worth a yawn
It's Paije whose departure I'd truly not mourn.
By kicking out Aiden the public saw sense
Rejecting his claim of "I'm just so intense"
That's bollocks and bullshit and all that you bring
The truth is quite simple, you can't fuckin' sing.
As Katie looks on at the sharpening knives
Another week passes and Wagner survives
He can't sing for toffee, he's shit through and through
His presence is causing a hullabaloo.
Rebecca is stuck with two kids on her own
A state of affairs that she likes to bemoan
We're somehow expected to all be impressed
She's managing "Scouse-ly" to not be depressed.
The judges give views while she stands there agog
And finds herself nodding like 'Churchill' the dog
Well, yes, she can sing, and she has her own twist
It's nasal and taints every song on the list.
Departure for Treyc means all is now well
Her voice was okay but she just couldn't spell
It didn't work out, she did not make her mark
It's true to confirm there was no fuckin' spark.
When Cher sings a song there's a 9 in 10 chance
She'll rap and annoy with that one-footed dance
She's nowhere as good as the hype would suggest
We're still working out whom she's truly impressed.
Goodbye Belle Amie, it was always a 'No'
Just four extra people to pad out the show
You're almost forgotten, that's just how it is
An answer, perhaps, in a trivia quiz.
Hail Mary from Tesco, oh please don't "bogof"
We like that you're normal, in no way a toff
And so it's a pity your limits are clear
There's one type of song that you want us to hear.
It's Matt who's most likely to flourish and win
A painter who does what it says on the tin
He's tipped in the papers, the best of the crowd
While Wagner just grins with his head in a cloud.
And so to the band with a chance to excel
The target of teenagers screaming so well
They want One Direction and squeal with delight
Although all the singing's no more than "all right".
While Dermot is droning and Simon is smug
The Cole from New Castle might manage a shrug
She's useless and may as well fuck off for lunch
Or else find a toilet attendant to punch.
There's nothing much good or much bad to be said
Of Dannii Minogue or the stuff in her head
Not quite an endorsement, I think you will sigh
In fact she adds nothing but one extra "i".
But just to her right is the featherweight Elf
Who talks utter shit while in love with himself
Does anyone care that he cannot be heard?
Well, 'No', he is best when we can't catch a word.
We watch Simon pause for dramatic effect
But gone is his honesty, now I detect
He's playing some games and he's not being fair
While Gamu's at home in a state of despair.
While Wagner gropes Mary and Katie feels stressed
Rebecca flaps fingers and Paije 'does his best'
They Cher One Direction, a chart-topping hit
My money's on Matt, as the others are shit.
Copyright TMWSC
...
No slight misdemeanour, a right cuntin' crime!
In seeking attention this talentless twat
Displays all the traits of a right spoilt brat.
This fame hungry monster annoys with a flair
Much greater of course than that big wispy hair
Her straining and whining are rather obscene
We're tired of her drama, and Katie's no queen!
How utterly awful, how utterly shit
The crappy pink jacket that didn't quite fit
Not quite mediocre, not quite worth a yawn
It's Paije whose departure I'd truly not mourn.
By kicking out Aiden the public saw sense
Rejecting his claim of "I'm just so intense"
That's bollocks and bullshit and all that you bring
The truth is quite simple, you can't fuckin' sing.
As Katie looks on at the sharpening knives
Another week passes and Wagner survives
He can't sing for toffee, he's shit through and through
His presence is causing a hullabaloo.
Rebecca is stuck with two kids on her own
A state of affairs that she likes to bemoan
We're somehow expected to all be impressed
She's managing "Scouse-ly" to not be depressed.
The judges give views while she stands there agog
And finds herself nodding like 'Churchill' the dog
Well, yes, she can sing, and she has her own twist
It's nasal and taints every song on the list.
Departure for Treyc means all is now well
Her voice was okay but she just couldn't spell
It didn't work out, she did not make her mark
It's true to confirm there was no fuckin' spark.
When Cher sings a song there's a 9 in 10 chance
She'll rap and annoy with that one-footed dance
She's nowhere as good as the hype would suggest
We're still working out whom she's truly impressed.
Goodbye Belle Amie, it was always a 'No'
Just four extra people to pad out the show
You're almost forgotten, that's just how it is
An answer, perhaps, in a trivia quiz.
Hail Mary from Tesco, oh please don't "bogof"
We like that you're normal, in no way a toff
And so it's a pity your limits are clear
There's one type of song that you want us to hear.
It's Matt who's most likely to flourish and win
A painter who does what it says on the tin
He's tipped in the papers, the best of the crowd
While Wagner just grins with his head in a cloud.
And so to the band with a chance to excel
The target of teenagers screaming so well
They want One Direction and squeal with delight
Although all the singing's no more than "all right".
While Dermot is droning and Simon is smug
The Cole from New Castle might manage a shrug
She's useless and may as well fuck off for lunch
Or else find a toilet attendant to punch.
There's nothing much good or much bad to be said
Of Dannii Minogue or the stuff in her head
Not quite an endorsement, I think you will sigh
In fact she adds nothing but one extra "i".
But just to her right is the featherweight Elf
Who talks utter shit while in love with himself
Does anyone care that he cannot be heard?
Well, 'No', he is best when we can't catch a word.
We watch Simon pause for dramatic effect
But gone is his honesty, now I detect
He's playing some games and he's not being fair
While Gamu's at home in a state of despair.
While Wagner gropes Mary and Katie feels stressed
Rebecca flaps fingers and Paije 'does his best'
They Cher One Direction, a chart-topping hit
My money's on Matt, as the others are shit.
Copyright TMWSC
...
Sunday, 14 November 2010
14.11.10 Katie Catastrophe
Would you fuckin' credit it! The sing-off should have been a perfect situation for dispensing with crappy Katie, and what happens? - It all goes so wrong. The Elf at last did something useful and created deadlock, but the public somehow registered more votes for cuntin' Katie than Aiden. Admittedly he was shit, and his hair was begging for a 'flake', but after the agony of prolonged exposure to Katie, we're still stuck with her!
Come on Wagner! And Cheryl, stop playing your face, you sulky wench - and sort out that Star Wars hair.
PS: Is it just me, or do you also think of 'Churchill' (the nodding dog) when Rebecca is on screen; ohh yes.
PPS: Has Liam's stylist modelled him on a Playmobil character? That hair!
Come on Wagner! And Cheryl, stop playing your face, you sulky wench - and sort out that Star Wars hair.
PS: Is it just me, or do you also think of 'Churchill' (the nodding dog) when Rebecca is on screen; ohh yes.
PPS: Has Liam's stylist modelled him on a Playmobil character? That hair!
Friday, 12 November 2010
12.11.10 Bewdley
A sheep farmer living in Bewdley
Was known for behaving quite rudely
He was not so much blunt
As a right fuckin' cunt
Who 'liaised' with his flock rather crudely
Copyright TMWSC
Was known for behaving quite rudely
He was not so much blunt
As a right fuckin' cunt
Who 'liaised' with his flock rather crudely
Copyright TMWSC
Thursday, 11 November 2010
11.11.10 Nil By Mouth
Jack Sprat could eat no fat
His wife could eat no lean
And so he never touched her twat
Nor she his 'runner bean'.
Copyright TMWSC
His wife could eat no lean
And so he never touched her twat
Nor she his 'runner bean'.
Copyright TMWSC
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
10.11.10 The Art of Queuing
I am not good at queuing! Some people seem to be unbothered by waiting ages in line, and have developed a resilience that I cannot fathom. Where they may be 'black belts', I haven't even managed to buy a fuckin' Karategi.
The main problem in my nearest shop is the range of services available at the till, and I always seem to shop just behind some cunt with an agenda. On a recent visit, I stood waiting and watched a running order that was quite simply preposterous!
The main problem in my nearest shop is the range of services available at the till, and I always seem to shop just behind some cunt with an agenda. On a recent visit, I stood waiting and watched a running order that was quite simply preposterous!
- A small basket of items, each of which had to be scanned of course.
- A delay because the discounted bread had a bar-code that would not scan, so the till operator (the one with glasses who had to peer at the small numbers) fucked about, making multiple attempts at manually entering the correct number.
- A request for cigarettes; the till operator swivelled 180 degrees and played "mini cuntin' battleships", trying to locate the correct packet on the various rows & columns.
- Then it was necessary to pause, while the shopper searched for his loyalty card; I sensed the transaction might be concluding any second, but I was wrong.
- A mobile top-up for £20 was the next 'procedure'.
- Then, fuckin' two lucky dips on the lottery, and a 'number 4 scratchcard', whatever the fuck that might be. Dumbfounded, I seethed as Mildred (or whatever the till operator's name was) pissed about unlocking a plastic box containing a roll of cards, after entering details to get the Lotto ticket.
- Am I making this up? - NO! Next, a plastic cuntin' key that is used for the electric. I'm not sure how all that works, but I do know that Mildred had to stick the key in the yellow terminal and press buttons.
- FINALLY, time to settle up and fuck off; but not before lingering to stick a card in the machine and enter a PIN. "Cashback?" said Mildred. "I want 8 minutes of my fuckin' life back", I thought.
10.11.10 Shearer Delight
The Northeast's own guru, Alan Shearer, came out with a gem on MOTD, on Saturday.
"I've often said on a couple of occasions that I'd be worried."
Twat, eh! Still, there are also faceless people who erect signs, to display equal ineptitude in tangible form. Example:
Stairs are slippery when wet, please take care - British Rail Station
Well I rather though that most things when wet are a bit fuckin' slippery!
And one that caught me out a bit in London advised visitors to Hyde Park of a potential problem.
Sculptures can be hazardous at certain times of the day
Not quite sure what to make of that . . . . . . .
"I've often said on a couple of occasions that I'd be worried."
Twat, eh! Still, there are also faceless people who erect signs, to display equal ineptitude in tangible form. Example:
Stairs are slippery when wet, please take care - British Rail Station
Well I rather though that most things when wet are a bit fuckin' slippery!
And one that caught me out a bit in London advised visitors to Hyde Park of a potential problem.
Sculptures can be hazardous at certain times of the day
Not quite sure what to make of that . . . . . . .
10.11.10 A Wheel Question
Just how much does it cost for the needless transportation of wheels around the UK? Every minute of every day, there are thousands of rather heavy wheels being lugged around by heavy goods vehicles. I accept that lifting a set of wheels will save money on wear and tear, but that's not the point. So many are in the 'raised' position that surely the slight drain on fuel consumption per vehicle will add up to rather a lot (?) I know I wouldn't want to drive around with my boot filled with an axle and bloody great wheels+tyres!
Just a thought.
...
Just a thought.
...
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
9.11.10 Wagner!
Think of 'Wagner' as the horse in the Grand National that's running along, doing its own thing, but without a jockey. Whilst others are trying to compete and win, and actually have a chance to do so, Wagner has no chance at all; in fact, he's a rather pointless distraction. But do you know what? It's rather funny to have him there, and something inside you thinks it might be really funny if the riderless horse somehow interferes with the other competitors, and totally mucks things up!
Come on Wagner - veer into the mainstream and trip up the other cunts!
[Cheryl - I've sorted out your appointment with the vet - he'll be putting you down in the morning; it's for the best, you useless . . . .]
Come on Wagner - veer into the mainstream and trip up the other cunts!
[Cheryl - I've sorted out your appointment with the vet - he'll be putting you down in the morning; it's for the best, you useless . . . .]
9.11.10 Hot Cakes
When was the last time you bought a 'hot cake'? No, not warm bread or a hot sausage roll - but a hot cake? Exactly! So, the expression "selling like hot cakes" is shit, and basically means not fuckin' selling at all!
While I'm at it, I'd just like to confirm that I have absolutely NO old rope and so I won't be expecting any money for it!
While I'm at it, I'd just like to confirm that I have absolutely NO old rope and so I won't be expecting any money for it!
9.11.10 Crisp Colours
It's just not on! For very many years, it used to be Green for Cheese & Onion, and Blue for Salt & Vinegar. That was just the way it had always been, and there was no need to change it. However, about twenty years ago, Walkers fucked up the market by switching the colours around. Going against the convention of the day, which all manufacturers had to that point adhered to, Walkers decided that Cheese & Onion packets should henceforth be Blue, and Salt & Vinegar packets Green.
This was unwarranted and confusing for many crisp eaters of the day. However, time is a great healer, and slowly but surely the market adjusted itself, with consumers getting used to this new coding system. To this day, standard crisps work to this colour coding.
BUT NO . . . . there is a problem! There is a renegade packet in our midst, which I discovered yesterday while expecting to taste Salt & Vinegar, holding an open green packet. Was it a rogue supplier, a foreign product? Not at all. The guilty party was none other than Walkers. For "Squares", the two flavours are in packets according to the old/original colour scheme! Outrageous!
Inconsistency is a crime, in my book. Whatever next? I am considering my options, as to what action to take. I will give the matter some serious thought, and keep you posted.
This was unwarranted and confusing for many crisp eaters of the day. However, time is a great healer, and slowly but surely the market adjusted itself, with consumers getting used to this new coding system. To this day, standard crisps work to this colour coding.
BUT NO . . . . there is a problem! There is a renegade packet in our midst, which I discovered yesterday while expecting to taste Salt & Vinegar, holding an open green packet. Was it a rogue supplier, a foreign product? Not at all. The guilty party was none other than Walkers. For "Squares", the two flavours are in packets according to the old/original colour scheme! Outrageous!
Inconsistency is a crime, in my book. Whatever next? I am considering my options, as to what action to take. I will give the matter some serious thought, and keep you posted.
Monday, 8 November 2010
8.11.10 C-Trip
Coach Trip now has a twist, with supposed celebrities on board. Those of you who've read my earlier posting on Sheryl Gascoigne might have gained the impression that I'm less than impressed with people taking advantage of the "Gascoigne" name. Bianca, the one who appeared on that shit programme a while back (that I cannot recall - like I'm a Celebrity . . but indoors and shit, hosted by Ant & Dec) is on the coach trip and rather brilliantly, the host Brendan, who oversees everything, hadn't heard of her. In the paper, he's reported as saying that if the 'celebrity' had been Gazza himself, then it would have meant something! Excellent.
Kick her off, and see if she can hitch hike - that's what I say.
Kick her off, and see if she can hitch hike - that's what I say.
8.11.10 C-Factor
What a farce! Last night's judging revealed everything you'll ever need to know in concluding that Cheryl Cole is a wimp, a totally useless judge and in fact pointless. Her refusal to cast a vote in the sing-off was completely in sync with her lip-sync efforts when supposedly singing wishy-washy tunes. Miming to music, and not saying anything when it matters, but preening and lapping up attention all the time, she's pathetic.
On Saturday evening, in the minute's run-up to Mary's performance, she uttered a line to the camera that exemplified her uselessness:
It could actually be a real moment for Mary
What the fuck's that mean? It almost makes Alan Shearer sound intelligent! We all know Wagner shouldn't be in the competition, but do you know what - I think it's funny (for the time being) because it's fucking up the show and annoying the judges. But let's put that aside, because he'll be gone soon. Treyc and Katie were in the sing-off, and CC was asked to vote after Simon - but she refused. Dannii and the Elf both dragged out the act of giving a name, but eventually did so, to leave 2-1 with CC either to save Katie with her final vote or go to 2-2 and count public votes. She did neither! So, for the very first time in years, the "mentor" (Oxford English Dictionary: noun. A self serving c*** who goes to America when it suits) is allowed to skip having input. No bottle at all!
But is it 100% her fault? The whole world seems to pander to the needs of CC, and she gets let off the hook. I never thought she was a 'special needs' person, but clearly she is, and the bosses at X-Factor have recognised her limitations (of which there are so, so many). How Simon Cowell can sit next to her and allow such uselessness is beyond me, unless an under-table hand job is in play somewhere in this fiasco.
Katie is useless; I have an old bent screwdriver in a drawer somewhere, and it's of more use than her. The 'judges' suit themselves by keeping her it the competition, as it fuels the interest in the show and causes controversy. Treyc is a far better singer, but boring. So, it's Katie who gets reprieved because they like her being on the show.
Roll on next week, as I cannot wait to see the quivering Grimshaw astound me with his inability to hit the required notes, pronounce anything properly, or provide a genuine smile. His "intense" style is a joke, but not funny. "Indulgent" was what Simon said a while ago about one of his crappy songs, and each week, Aiden does indeed indulge in serving up wobbling versions of songs, making sure his nasal twang features here and there.
Cheryl should be instantly sacked and replaced by Nicole Scherzinger.
On Saturday evening, in the minute's run-up to Mary's performance, she uttered a line to the camera that exemplified her uselessness:
It could actually be a real moment for Mary
What the fuck's that mean? It almost makes Alan Shearer sound intelligent! We all know Wagner shouldn't be in the competition, but do you know what - I think it's funny (for the time being) because it's fucking up the show and annoying the judges. But let's put that aside, because he'll be gone soon. Treyc and Katie were in the sing-off, and CC was asked to vote after Simon - but she refused. Dannii and the Elf both dragged out the act of giving a name, but eventually did so, to leave 2-1 with CC either to save Katie with her final vote or go to 2-2 and count public votes. She did neither! So, for the very first time in years, the "mentor" (Oxford English Dictionary: noun. A self serving c*** who goes to America when it suits) is allowed to skip having input. No bottle at all!
But is it 100% her fault? The whole world seems to pander to the needs of CC, and she gets let off the hook. I never thought she was a 'special needs' person, but clearly she is, and the bosses at X-Factor have recognised her limitations (of which there are so, so many). How Simon Cowell can sit next to her and allow such uselessness is beyond me, unless an under-table hand job is in play somewhere in this fiasco.
Katie is useless; I have an old bent screwdriver in a drawer somewhere, and it's of more use than her. The 'judges' suit themselves by keeping her it the competition, as it fuels the interest in the show and causes controversy. Treyc is a far better singer, but boring. So, it's Katie who gets reprieved because they like her being on the show.
Roll on next week, as I cannot wait to see the quivering Grimshaw astound me with his inability to hit the required notes, pronounce anything properly, or provide a genuine smile. His "intense" style is a joke, but not funny. "Indulgent" was what Simon said a while ago about one of his crappy songs, and each week, Aiden does indeed indulge in serving up wobbling versions of songs, making sure his nasal twang features here and there.
Cheryl should be instantly sacked and replaced by Nicole Scherzinger.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
7.11.10 Dear Deirdre
Here is the ultimate proof that the shit outlined on the problem page is bollocks. The following is a word-for-word account of one exchange from yesterday's paper. For the avoidance of doubt, my comments are in bold.
Q: My mate thinks she needs to go on a diet but she only weighs 7st. How can I get her to understand she's not fat? We're 16.
A: It sounds like a potential eating disorder. [ No shit Sherlock! ] Urge her to see her doctor for advice on healthy eating and contact Beat Youthline. Riveting stuff, don't you think? I realise Deirdre has employed technical know-how which surpasses that of Quincy and Petrocelli combined, but something tells me she's not had to put in too much effort here.
I reckon that I could quite easily provide a 'problem page' service, based on the useless fuckin' input from Dozy Deirdre. If it is simply a case of stating the cuntin' obvious, I'd be fine.
Q: I'm not sure of the location for this diaphragm; what's the best place for it?
A: Cunt
Q: I'm two-timing my fiancee with a colleague at work, and feel guilty, but cannot stop. What's your view?
A: You're a cunt
I think you get the idea, so I won't give any further examples. Nevertheless, I maintain that I'm equally as qualified as Deirdre to give advice.
Q: My mate thinks she needs to go on a diet but she only weighs 7st. How can I get her to understand she's not fat? We're 16.
A: It sounds like a potential eating disorder. [ No shit Sherlock! ] Urge her to see her doctor for advice on healthy eating and contact Beat Youthline. Riveting stuff, don't you think? I realise Deirdre has employed technical know-how which surpasses that of Quincy and Petrocelli combined, but something tells me she's not had to put in too much effort here.
I reckon that I could quite easily provide a 'problem page' service, based on the useless fuckin' input from Dozy Deirdre. If it is simply a case of stating the cuntin' obvious, I'd be fine.
Q: I'm not sure of the location for this diaphragm; what's the best place for it?
A: Cunt
Q: I'm two-timing my fiancee with a colleague at work, and feel guilty, but cannot stop. What's your view?
A: You're a cunt
I think you get the idea, so I won't give any further examples. Nevertheless, I maintain that I'm equally as qualified as Deirdre to give advice.
7.11.10 Turn The Lights Off
There's an obsession in local government for changing street lights, swapping older models for the latest design. In my region, the old silver posts are being replaced by green ones. It involves an inordinate amount of work, and the new ones are put in place alongside the old. At a later date, someone comes along to 'adjust the connections' before the old post is removed. The end result is that when it's dark, some fuckin' light is shed on an area below. Collectively, these little areas of light help cunts to find their way around. In actual fact, the end result is not unlike what already fuckin' existed. Still, in these times of supposed hardship and when there's a need for constraint, it's nice to know we do not have councils that waste money.
In some areas, lights are not actually being switched on, to conserve power and save money. This rather makes a mockery of installing new lights, then. As far as I'm concerned, the government could quite easily save loads of money by not only halting the stupid swap-out scheme, but turning off lights on motorways. Every second or third light could be turned off in most areas, to save millions of them shedding light; there's still enough to see.
Of course, saving money is the 'in thing' at the moment, and there are cut-backs everywhere you look. Times are hard and getting harder, and this is evidenced at a national level by the lack of planes to go on aircraft carriers. While all this is supposedly essential, it seems that giving away 37 billion pounds in aid (a big increase on the previous level) is something that the government considers sensible, warranted and possible. Cunts! This country is a fucking joke, and the left hand does know what the right hand is doing - it's tossing off a load! So, whilst I did think that turning off lights would be an easy way to reduce costs, what's the fuckin' point if the cunts-in-charge are giving that much away anyway. So, the lights may be on, but there's no one at home!
In some areas, lights are not actually being switched on, to conserve power and save money. This rather makes a mockery of installing new lights, then. As far as I'm concerned, the government could quite easily save loads of money by not only halting the stupid swap-out scheme, but turning off lights on motorways. Every second or third light could be turned off in most areas, to save millions of them shedding light; there's still enough to see.
Of course, saving money is the 'in thing' at the moment, and there are cut-backs everywhere you look. Times are hard and getting harder, and this is evidenced at a national level by the lack of planes to go on aircraft carriers. While all this is supposedly essential, it seems that giving away 37 billion pounds in aid (a big increase on the previous level) is something that the government considers sensible, warranted and possible. Cunts! This country is a fucking joke, and the left hand does know what the right hand is doing - it's tossing off a load! So, whilst I did think that turning off lights would be an easy way to reduce costs, what's the fuckin' point if the cunts-in-charge are giving that much away anyway. So, the lights may be on, but there's no one at home!
7.11.10 Sequence
Some may be familiar with Leonardo of Pisa, better known as Fibonacci, most often mentioned in connection with a sequence of numbers, as noted below:
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144 . . . . .
I have my own sequence, known for obvious reasons as the C-Quence, although it is most definitely not of infinite length. Rather, it is a collection of just a few numbers, as set out below:
1, 4, 10, 12, 15, 20, 24
Some years ago, the numbers were slightly different; in the past there would have been an '18, but some of the other numbers were not in play; 4 has always been there though. Any idea what these numbers mean? NB: on this occasion, the 'C' does not in fact mean 'Cunt' but stands for something else. Have a drink and a think. I'll update this post with the answer below, in due course.
10.11.2010. 21.55hrs
The different options for the numbers of cans, when buying Carlsberg, from singles to a full crate
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144 . . . . .
I have my own sequence, known for obvious reasons as the C-Quence, although it is most definitely not of infinite length. Rather, it is a collection of just a few numbers, as set out below:
1, 4, 10, 12, 15, 20, 24
Some years ago, the numbers were slightly different; in the past there would have been an '18, but some of the other numbers were not in play; 4 has always been there though. Any idea what these numbers mean? NB: on this occasion, the 'C' does not in fact mean 'Cunt' but stands for something else. Have a drink and a think. I'll update this post with the answer below, in due course.
10.11.2010. 21.55hrs
The different options for the numbers of cans, when buying Carlsberg, from singles to a full crate
7.11.10 Boyes
While shopping last week, I was about to enter a 'Boyes' store when I stopped, caught in a dilemma. I had to consider carefully whether to break the rule, as outlined on a sign on the glass door, and enter despite not qualifying to do so. The print was clear:
GUIDE DOGS ONLY
Now, not being a guide dog, I should not have entered. After a few seconds, I decided that the shop owners had most likely fucked up, and did in fact want paying customers (humans) to enter, browse and buy. I also considered that expecting dogs to read the sign and identify themselves as either a 'guide' or 'non-guide' variety was expecting a bit too much. In any event, I've never met a guide dog that carries cash or a credit card, so commercially it would be suicide for Boyes to restrict access so severely.
After entering, browsing and not buying, I left the establishment via a different glass door, located the other side of the tills, and walked out to the high street. For some strange reason, I looked over my shoulder, and discovered some more signs.
CCTV is in operation on these premises
I felt slightly cheated that I'd not known about this during my browsing, after entry through the other door. As I'd not been on a mission to steal anything, I decided my human rights had not been unduly compromised, and let the matter pass. Next to this sign was a further announcement:
No Food or Drink to be consumed on these premises
I quickly recapped and realised I'd not consumed anything, mainly because I'd normally go to a cafe or fast food place for food, rather than a cuntin' general hardwear/household goods/clothing store. Lucky for me I'm so fuckin' sensible, or I'd have unknowingly scoffed my way around the shop.
Perhaps, though, the most interesting sign was this one, which confused the fuck out of me - and as with all the signs, it was a proper printed one rather than a 'home made' effort:
All perfumes are locked away securely every night
Now, it was news to me that the local currency amongst people-up-to-no-good is now perfume! Do thieves (who are often known to operate in specific areas, as per further signs) complete dodgy transactions, and pay with 100ml of Denim, or Paco Cuntin' Rabanne? I've never found that a bottle of Jazz is accepted in a Post Office for stamps, or Rive Gauche satisfies the fuckin' butcher. So I find it hard to believe it's necessary for Boyes staff to lock away securely a few bottles/containers of smelly liquid each night, fearing that the local crime syndicates are likely to mount a raid on a small high street shop, in an area that's covered by CCTV (NB: not just in the street but in the shop as well, as per the sign!) and where parking requires a blue disc! So, on balance, I think that this is a good example of a Pointless Sign.
GUIDE DOGS ONLY
Now, not being a guide dog, I should not have entered. After a few seconds, I decided that the shop owners had most likely fucked up, and did in fact want paying customers (humans) to enter, browse and buy. I also considered that expecting dogs to read the sign and identify themselves as either a 'guide' or 'non-guide' variety was expecting a bit too much. In any event, I've never met a guide dog that carries cash or a credit card, so commercially it would be suicide for Boyes to restrict access so severely.
After entering, browsing and not buying, I left the establishment via a different glass door, located the other side of the tills, and walked out to the high street. For some strange reason, I looked over my shoulder, and discovered some more signs.
CCTV is in operation on these premises
I felt slightly cheated that I'd not known about this during my browsing, after entry through the other door. As I'd not been on a mission to steal anything, I decided my human rights had not been unduly compromised, and let the matter pass. Next to this sign was a further announcement:
No Food or Drink to be consumed on these premises
I quickly recapped and realised I'd not consumed anything, mainly because I'd normally go to a cafe or fast food place for food, rather than a cuntin' general hardwear/household goods/clothing store. Lucky for me I'm so fuckin' sensible, or I'd have unknowingly scoffed my way around the shop.
Perhaps, though, the most interesting sign was this one, which confused the fuck out of me - and as with all the signs, it was a proper printed one rather than a 'home made' effort:
All perfumes are locked away securely every night
Now, it was news to me that the local currency amongst people-up-to-no-good is now perfume! Do thieves (who are often known to operate in specific areas, as per further signs) complete dodgy transactions, and pay with 100ml of Denim, or Paco Cuntin' Rabanne? I've never found that a bottle of Jazz is accepted in a Post Office for stamps, or Rive Gauche satisfies the fuckin' butcher. So I find it hard to believe it's necessary for Boyes staff to lock away securely a few bottles/containers of smelly liquid each night, fearing that the local crime syndicates are likely to mount a raid on a small high street shop, in an area that's covered by CCTV (NB: not just in the street but in the shop as well, as per the sign!) and where parking requires a blue disc! So, on balance, I think that this is a good example of a Pointless Sign.
Saturday, 6 November 2010
6.11.10 CC In The USA
Cheryl has just returned, after feathering her own cunt in the USA, and is rightly the subject of some serious dissatisfaction from her 'acts' on X-Factor. Not that I really give a toss about any of them (CC or the four oh-so-needy attention-seeking wannabees). Youngsters have long been told by parents to work hard, get an education, and it will all pay off. I think the updated version should perhaps be:
Be a chav, don't worry about being educated, pretend to sing, punch toilet attendants, associate yourself with people who might make up for your own shortcomings, hook a footballer, get your teeth and hair sorted, wait for your other half to fuck-up, ditch him whilst becoming the hard done by victim, suck up to industry people who might be useful to you, then look after number one at all times because you're worth it.
Be a chav, don't worry about being educated, pretend to sing, punch toilet attendants, associate yourself with people who might make up for your own shortcomings, hook a footballer, get your teeth and hair sorted, wait for your other half to fuck-up, ditch him whilst becoming the hard done by victim, suck up to industry people who might be useful to you, then look after number one at all times because you're worth it.
6.11.10 I'm Not A Celebrity
Can somebody please tell me how the fuck Sheryl Gascoigne qualifies as a "celebrity" ?
Here we have a woman who in her own right has nothing to offer anyone, but has proven she can take, take, take. In one single respect she is in fact recognised, then - for cashing in at maximum level, milking 'Gazza' for everything possible. Her 'association' with him thus offers her another opportunity to cash in. Bosses at "I'm A Celebrity . . . ." obviously think the British public is desperate to see a leech alongside the other horrible creatures in the Australian jungle.
The programme should therefore be renamed; I'm Not A Celebrity But My Estranged Husband Is, Although I've Long Since Decided Only To Look After Number One (Whilst Keeping The 'Gascoigne Name Because It's Handy) Get Me Out Of Here.
Here we have a woman who in her own right has nothing to offer anyone, but has proven she can take, take, take. In one single respect she is in fact recognised, then - for cashing in at maximum level, milking 'Gazza' for everything possible. Her 'association' with him thus offers her another opportunity to cash in. Bosses at "I'm A Celebrity . . . ." obviously think the British public is desperate to see a leech alongside the other horrible creatures in the Australian jungle.
The programme should therefore be renamed; I'm Not A Celebrity But My Estranged Husband Is, Although I've Long Since Decided Only To Look After Number One (Whilst Keeping The 'Gascoigne Name Because It's Handy) Get Me Out Of Here.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
3.11.10 Prisoners
No cuntin' prisoner should be allowed to vote. End of.
I see in the news that a criminal has been sent to prison after his failure to turn up for the 100 hours of community service he was 'awarded'. It seems he has a problem with 'motivation' and has declined to complete this (soft) option for his wrongdoings. So, the judge has now jailed him, and has expressed disappointment and dismay that someone could prefer jail to unpaid work. This whole saga highlights a sorry failure regarding the prison system in the UK - that prisoners are not forced to work anyway. So, this lazy cunt wants to sit around for a few months doing nothing, at great cost to the tax payer, rather than do a few hours work. If I were in charge, he'd be doing hard cuntin' labour while inside. Obviously with that sort of regime, we'd never have got into this position; the cunt would be glad to do community service to atone for his crimes.
So, prisoners should not be able to vote, and all prisoners should have to do work. If a prisoner refuses, then there should be no parole granted, ever. End of.
This country is so fucking soft and useless, it's embarrassing!
I see in the news that a criminal has been sent to prison after his failure to turn up for the 100 hours of community service he was 'awarded'. It seems he has a problem with 'motivation' and has declined to complete this (soft) option for his wrongdoings. So, the judge has now jailed him, and has expressed disappointment and dismay that someone could prefer jail to unpaid work. This whole saga highlights a sorry failure regarding the prison system in the UK - that prisoners are not forced to work anyway. So, this lazy cunt wants to sit around for a few months doing nothing, at great cost to the tax payer, rather than do a few hours work. If I were in charge, he'd be doing hard cuntin' labour while inside. Obviously with that sort of regime, we'd never have got into this position; the cunt would be glad to do community service to atone for his crimes.
So, prisoners should not be able to vote, and all prisoners should have to do work. If a prisoner refuses, then there should be no parole granted, ever. End of.
This country is so fucking soft and useless, it's embarrassing!
3.11.10 Fat Chance
An hour ago I was buying a paper, being served at the till in the Co-op by someone of around 50 years of age, when she was approached by a younger colleague. The younger person (about 25) had in her hand a 250g block of lard, and proceeded to ask advice on what might be needed for a customer who wants 'a pound of lard'. Obviously the answer was two blocks, and I watched the younger employee waddle away down an aisle (possibly indicating that she may be partaking of rather too much fat in her own diet).
I am not surprised, but I am disappointed the dumbing down of everything means that no longer is it necessary for anyone to have to be in possession of general knowledge, life skills or common sense. Worse, there also seems a complete void where any form of embarrassment might dwell for not knowing such basic stuff. It's a sad day when a shop worker, despite being in an establishment where food is sold by weight, cannot begin to comprehend the approximate equivalents between metric and imperial measures. Worse still, there's no motivation to become aware on the part of employees, or a requirement for them to do so from the employer!
I looked up the aisle as I left the shop, and saw the assistant reaching the customer at the far end, by the butter section. He was himself about 40 years old, and should have had more idea; no doubt he was sent on an errand by his 'missus' to get 'a pound of lard' and upon arrival at the Co-op, had no fuckin' idea what to buy.
This is all pathetic, and proves what a useless world we now live in. Could things ever get back to how they were? Fat chance!
I am not surprised, but I am disappointed the dumbing down of everything means that no longer is it necessary for anyone to have to be in possession of general knowledge, life skills or common sense. Worse, there also seems a complete void where any form of embarrassment might dwell for not knowing such basic stuff. It's a sad day when a shop worker, despite being in an establishment where food is sold by weight, cannot begin to comprehend the approximate equivalents between metric and imperial measures. Worse still, there's no motivation to become aware on the part of employees, or a requirement for them to do so from the employer!
I looked up the aisle as I left the shop, and saw the assistant reaching the customer at the far end, by the butter section. He was himself about 40 years old, and should have had more idea; no doubt he was sent on an errand by his 'missus' to get 'a pound of lard' and upon arrival at the Co-op, had no fuckin' idea what to buy.
This is all pathetic, and proves what a useless world we now live in. Could things ever get back to how they were? Fat chance!
3.11.10 Helmets
At what point did the world decide that helmets are essential everyday wear across a range of activities, whether for work or for leisure?
Cycling
Apparently it's now essential always to be wearing the most outlandish helmet you can obtain, whether that's with regard to the colour of it, or the shape/height of the lightweight plastic pudding mould stuck on top of a skull that may or may not contain a brain of noticeable size. From my own observations, it's pretty clear that the cycling 'abilities' on display suggest that many skulls are in fact deficient regarding useful contents. Maybe I'm being unfair, but is it really necessary in all cases for helmets? I observed someone riding a bike the other day, so slowly that her speed did not exceed that of someone undertaking a brisk walk. A walker alongside the cyclist, 12 inches from the kerb, would certainly not have been wearing a helmet, nor would the walker deem it necessary when entering the carriageway to cross the road! So, there is some inconsistency floating around, wouldn't you say? I have no statistics to hand, but I would be confident in betting that there are no more fatalities of bike riders than there are each year for pedestrians. I don't see the H&S twats insisting that we all wear hats.
Of far more benefit to drivers, pedestrians and cyclists themselves would be a complete ban on iPods etc. I cannot be trusted, while driving, to eat a Twix, use a telephone, operate a SatNav or wobble about all over the road, but a cyclist is able to do pretty much anything and is often intent on committing suicide while listening to "Lying In The Arms of Mary" (or perhaps Dyin' would be more appropriate) whether that's by Smokie, or more likely The Sutherland Bros & Quiver (1976).
Highway Maintenance Staff
I saw a chap yesterday, who got out of his car (having parked off the road) and moved a couple of traffic cones. For this tricky manoeuvre, he had to be wearing a yellow hard hat - why? I was tempted to nudge him along at 40mph as a form of human pinball, but thought better of it, after considering the consequences. I wouldn't want to dent my car, and I'd only get 2 points for yellow anyway.
A Turban Question
I have no idea of the answer here, but what happens when a Sikh wearing a turban wants to enter a building site - or for that matter, wants to move a traffic cone, or indeed ride a bike? Answers on a postcard.
Look At My Helmet
The practice of strategically placing a hard hat on the back shelf of a car is one that proves beyond all doubt that the driver is in fact a wanker.
Cycling
Apparently it's now essential always to be wearing the most outlandish helmet you can obtain, whether that's with regard to the colour of it, or the shape/height of the lightweight plastic pudding mould stuck on top of a skull that may or may not contain a brain of noticeable size. From my own observations, it's pretty clear that the cycling 'abilities' on display suggest that many skulls are in fact deficient regarding useful contents. Maybe I'm being unfair, but is it really necessary in all cases for helmets? I observed someone riding a bike the other day, so slowly that her speed did not exceed that of someone undertaking a brisk walk. A walker alongside the cyclist, 12 inches from the kerb, would certainly not have been wearing a helmet, nor would the walker deem it necessary when entering the carriageway to cross the road! So, there is some inconsistency floating around, wouldn't you say? I have no statistics to hand, but I would be confident in betting that there are no more fatalities of bike riders than there are each year for pedestrians. I don't see the H&S twats insisting that we all wear hats.
Of far more benefit to drivers, pedestrians and cyclists themselves would be a complete ban on iPods etc. I cannot be trusted, while driving, to eat a Twix, use a telephone, operate a SatNav or wobble about all over the road, but a cyclist is able to do pretty much anything and is often intent on committing suicide while listening to "Lying In The Arms of Mary" (or perhaps Dyin' would be more appropriate) whether that's by Smokie, or more likely The Sutherland Bros & Quiver (1976).
Highway Maintenance Staff
I saw a chap yesterday, who got out of his car (having parked off the road) and moved a couple of traffic cones. For this tricky manoeuvre, he had to be wearing a yellow hard hat - why? I was tempted to nudge him along at 40mph as a form of human pinball, but thought better of it, after considering the consequences. I wouldn't want to dent my car, and I'd only get 2 points for yellow anyway.
A Turban Question
I have no idea of the answer here, but what happens when a Sikh wearing a turban wants to enter a building site - or for that matter, wants to move a traffic cone, or indeed ride a bike? Answers on a postcard.
Look At My Helmet
The practice of strategically placing a hard hat on the back shelf of a car is one that proves beyond all doubt that the driver is in fact a wanker.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
2.11.10 Lollipop People
No, not people with long thin bodies and large sticky heads, but the peculiar people who wield coloured scaffolding poles with a circle on the top!
Let's start with the male/female split; the 'occupation' is rather dominated by women, and so it's the case that 95% of these people are Lollipop Ladies. I am not sure actually what the correct title is, but I am quite sure there's another name logged in officialdom - probably School Crossing Patrol Wardens, or some other cuntin' stupid title. Whatever - to be a Lollipop Person requires certain attributes. First, you need to have an ability to look like a bit of a cunt. Then you need to practise signalling in a stupidly overt/OTT way, with gestures that include feigned thanks to drivers who have stopped, exaggerated hand movements indicating that drivers should stop, and insincere waves to suggest a 'Thank You'. It's also vital that an air of superiority and power oozes from your orifices and skin, if you're to be a successful 'Little Hitler'.
Moving on now to the various approaches adopted by these creatures, in broad terms we have -
The Useless Cunt
This is the one who never ventures from the kerb unless there's already a break in the traffic during which Hannibal and his cuntin' troup of elephants could cross the road before a car got anywhere near them. She will simply wait for a space, while children 'back up' on the pavement, and then when it's all clear, step out to plant herself in the middle of the road for a few seconds. After smaller people (though rarely much smaller) have crossed, she'll withdraw to the side, with a feeble wave.
The Fuckin' Useless Cunt
This 'strain' of Lollipop Person is stationed at a fuckin' crossing!!!!!! She never even needs the cuntin' lollipop because in actual fact she's employed as a pissin' button pusher. The general approach is similar to 'The Useless Cunt' above, but with the added uselessness of relying on traffic lights to bring drivers to a stop. What the fuck?
The Cunt
This person maintains a fucked-up view of the world, and assumes that the predominantly yellow attire gives authority to laud it over the rest of us. This is the core of the whole 'service', and these people need to get a life. They hover at the roadside, and take extreme pleasure in deciding when they feel like stopping traffic, and how often. They will move to the middle of the road when it suits them, however regularly that may be. It is within their power to wait for road-crossers to gather/accumulate before fucking up the road; however, they will often make multiple efforts to bring traffic to a standstill. It is this strain that best displays the cuntish policy of 'excessive delay'. You know what I mean - loitering in the fucking road when it's so obvious that the road is clear and every person wanting to cross has long since reached a place where there is no threat to life. The Lollipop Cunt will affectedly provide a smile/sneer/grimace, taking ages to amble back to the cuntin' kerb, and during the process, deign to give a wave (almost 'regal' in some cases) to acknowledge that we're all getting on swimmingly and that together we've all helped little cuntin' Jimmy not die on his way to school!
There you have it, the truth. But I've not finished just yet. The final comments relate to the cost of this pointless industry. Most people will acknowledge that there are far too many cunts earning £16/day for two hour's work. In some locations, they appear every few hundred yards. There are so few deaths on the road prevented by 'Useless Cunts', 'Fuckin Useless Cunts' and 'Cunts' that the nation is possibly spending many, many, many millions of pounds to achieve precisely nothing.
In fact, I suspect there is a negative reaction that contributes to subsequent problems. It's the 'Hello Syndrome'. Lollipop Prats are well known for thinking they are appreciated by all, and form a valuable part of the tapestry of local communities. With this in mind, they proceed to wave at any passing cunt, as though a driver gives a fuck. This false sense of belonging displays the neediness of many Lollipop Twats and serves to annoy/distract drivers. In fact, it is not wrong to claim that they have the effect of moving humble drivers towards a state of road rage. Perhaps we all ought to start a movement whereby any wave from one of the three strains of Lollipop Person is met with a hand signal from a passing driver. There are three options; the 'wanker' action, the 'finger', and the rather more reserved 'V-sign'. Whatever signal is chosen, I sincerely think this is the way forward.
Let's start with the male/female split; the 'occupation' is rather dominated by women, and so it's the case that 95% of these people are Lollipop Ladies. I am not sure actually what the correct title is, but I am quite sure there's another name logged in officialdom - probably School Crossing Patrol Wardens, or some other cuntin' stupid title. Whatever - to be a Lollipop Person requires certain attributes. First, you need to have an ability to look like a bit of a cunt. Then you need to practise signalling in a stupidly overt/OTT way, with gestures that include feigned thanks to drivers who have stopped, exaggerated hand movements indicating that drivers should stop, and insincere waves to suggest a 'Thank You'. It's also vital that an air of superiority and power oozes from your orifices and skin, if you're to be a successful 'Little Hitler'.
Moving on now to the various approaches adopted by these creatures, in broad terms we have -
The Useless Cunt
This is the one who never ventures from the kerb unless there's already a break in the traffic during which Hannibal and his cuntin' troup of elephants could cross the road before a car got anywhere near them. She will simply wait for a space, while children 'back up' on the pavement, and then when it's all clear, step out to plant herself in the middle of the road for a few seconds. After smaller people (though rarely much smaller) have crossed, she'll withdraw to the side, with a feeble wave.
The Fuckin' Useless Cunt
This 'strain' of Lollipop Person is stationed at a fuckin' crossing!!!!!! She never even needs the cuntin' lollipop because in actual fact she's employed as a pissin' button pusher. The general approach is similar to 'The Useless Cunt' above, but with the added uselessness of relying on traffic lights to bring drivers to a stop. What the fuck?
The Cunt
This person maintains a fucked-up view of the world, and assumes that the predominantly yellow attire gives authority to laud it over the rest of us. This is the core of the whole 'service', and these people need to get a life. They hover at the roadside, and take extreme pleasure in deciding when they feel like stopping traffic, and how often. They will move to the middle of the road when it suits them, however regularly that may be. It is within their power to wait for road-crossers to gather/accumulate before fucking up the road; however, they will often make multiple efforts to bring traffic to a standstill. It is this strain that best displays the cuntish policy of 'excessive delay'. You know what I mean - loitering in the fucking road when it's so obvious that the road is clear and every person wanting to cross has long since reached a place where there is no threat to life. The Lollipop Cunt will affectedly provide a smile/sneer/grimace, taking ages to amble back to the cuntin' kerb, and during the process, deign to give a wave (almost 'regal' in some cases) to acknowledge that we're all getting on swimmingly and that together we've all helped little cuntin' Jimmy not die on his way to school!
There you have it, the truth. But I've not finished just yet. The final comments relate to the cost of this pointless industry. Most people will acknowledge that there are far too many cunts earning £16/day for two hour's work. In some locations, they appear every few hundred yards. There are so few deaths on the road prevented by 'Useless Cunts', 'Fuckin Useless Cunts' and 'Cunts' that the nation is possibly spending many, many, many millions of pounds to achieve precisely nothing.
In fact, I suspect there is a negative reaction that contributes to subsequent problems. It's the 'Hello Syndrome'. Lollipop Prats are well known for thinking they are appreciated by all, and form a valuable part of the tapestry of local communities. With this in mind, they proceed to wave at any passing cunt, as though a driver gives a fuck. This false sense of belonging displays the neediness of many Lollipop Twats and serves to annoy/distract drivers. In fact, it is not wrong to claim that they have the effect of moving humble drivers towards a state of road rage. Perhaps we all ought to start a movement whereby any wave from one of the three strains of Lollipop Person is met with a hand signal from a passing driver. There are three options; the 'wanker' action, the 'finger', and the rather more reserved 'V-sign'. Whatever signal is chosen, I sincerely think this is the way forward.
Monday, 1 November 2010
1.11.10 Weight A Minute
Watch out for weird weights, as the cunts in charge of marketing fuck with our minds and con us on the sly. Prices may go up to give manufacturers and retailers more profit, although probably more likely is that the weight of the thing you're buying is a bit less than you thought. Worse, the two approaches are not mutually exclusive!
Let us take the humble Milky Way, 'the snack you can eat between meals without ruining your appetite'. It's no cuntin' wonder it doesn't ruin your appetite! There's fuck all left of it! The declared weight of the 'snack' is an amazing 21.9g
Has that sunk in? That's right, not 20g or 25g, and most certainly not as big as it used to be, but a fuckin' stupid 21.9 grams of non-filling, non-healthy fluff not so much wrapped in chocolate, but skimmed in a sliver of fat-reduced, tasteless brown stuff, for which the cunts now expect 22 pence. Anyway, back to the weight issue; how and why was it decided that a unit of Milky Way would be 21.9 grams? Now, you actually get less than one fuckin' gram for a penny.
Curly Wurly - 26 grams. We all know of course that 26 is a number of great significance, and appears as a standard measure in many spheres; let me think - yes, it's the number of weeks in half a year, it's half a deck of cards, it's the IQ of the cunt who decided a Milky Way needed to be 21.9g.
It's not just confectionary, of course. A carton of mince at 730g, gammon at 1.1kg ??? 4 slices of ham at £1.50 or 10 slices for £3.00. At face value, this suggests that the larger pack offers two-and-a-half times as much for just twice the price - but NO. Closer inspection reveals the 4 slices weigh 140g, 35g per slice. But the larger pack is 300g, so just 30g per slice. So, it's NOT two extra slices free by buying the larger packet, it's 20g, so not even two thirds of a slice. Mind games!
Beware - look at the weights.
Let us take the humble Milky Way, 'the snack you can eat between meals without ruining your appetite'. It's no cuntin' wonder it doesn't ruin your appetite! There's fuck all left of it! The declared weight of the 'snack' is an amazing 21.9g
Has that sunk in? That's right, not 20g or 25g, and most certainly not as big as it used to be, but a fuckin' stupid 21.9 grams of non-filling, non-healthy fluff not so much wrapped in chocolate, but skimmed in a sliver of fat-reduced, tasteless brown stuff, for which the cunts now expect 22 pence. Anyway, back to the weight issue; how and why was it decided that a unit of Milky Way would be 21.9 grams? Now, you actually get less than one fuckin' gram for a penny.
Curly Wurly - 26 grams. We all know of course that 26 is a number of great significance, and appears as a standard measure in many spheres; let me think - yes, it's the number of weeks in half a year, it's half a deck of cards, it's the IQ of the cunt who decided a Milky Way needed to be 21.9g.
It's not just confectionary, of course. A carton of mince at 730g, gammon at 1.1kg ??? 4 slices of ham at £1.50 or 10 slices for £3.00. At face value, this suggests that the larger pack offers two-and-a-half times as much for just twice the price - but NO. Closer inspection reveals the 4 slices weigh 140g, 35g per slice. But the larger pack is 300g, so just 30g per slice. So, it's NOT two extra slices free by buying the larger packet, it's 20g, so not even two thirds of a slice. Mind games!
Beware - look at the weights.
1.11.10 Council Madness
Friday is my bin collection day, alternating each week between recyclable stuff and normal waste. Last Friday, the normal waste collection was not made by the useless shits. I left the bins out on Saturday (as did the neighbour) in case there was a 'catching up' exercise in place. No, there was not. I completed the on-line form for missed collections on Saturday evening. My expectation was that today, Monday, there would be a collection made or confirmation that the matter is in hand, probably for a collection tomorrow.
Why am I dumbfounded, annoyed but not actually surprised? Simple - at 9.10am, a large bin wagon pulled up alongside the house, to empty the single wheelie bin put out by the local council office opposite. I stepped outside to ask the driver about emptying three more bins missed on Friday. After a civil but pointless exchange, lasting 2 minutes (in which time he could have emptied the three bins) the driver said he couldn't do it as it wasn't his job. The useless fuck did however say he'd radio through to see. He got in and drove off, and I realised that rather than radio for authorisation to empty 3 cuntin' bins, he was simply going to let them know I was still waiting etc.
The council cunts have no fuckin' clue about how to work efficiently, rectify problems or organise shit! It now seems that a special journey is to be made today or tomorrow, to come and collect the rubbish - how fuckin' stupid is that! If this is typical of the working practices adopted by councils around the country, then if just one bin collection is missed per year for just a tenth of them, and a special journey is needed at (conservative) £20 for wages and fuel for each one, then £50,000,000 is being thrown away! (But not collected, of course.)
Why am I dumbfounded, annoyed but not actually surprised? Simple - at 9.10am, a large bin wagon pulled up alongside the house, to empty the single wheelie bin put out by the local council office opposite. I stepped outside to ask the driver about emptying three more bins missed on Friday. After a civil but pointless exchange, lasting 2 minutes (in which time he could have emptied the three bins) the driver said he couldn't do it as it wasn't his job. The useless fuck did however say he'd radio through to see. He got in and drove off, and I realised that rather than radio for authorisation to empty 3 cuntin' bins, he was simply going to let them know I was still waiting etc.
The council cunts have no fuckin' clue about how to work efficiently, rectify problems or organise shit! It now seems that a special journey is to be made today or tomorrow, to come and collect the rubbish - how fuckin' stupid is that! If this is typical of the working practices adopted by councils around the country, then if just one bin collection is missed per year for just a tenth of them, and a special journey is needed at (conservative) £20 for wages and fuel for each one, then £50,000,000 is being thrown away! (But not collected, of course.)
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