The convention for naming TV programmes (typically of the 'shit' variety) has caused me some consternation. First, we had a programme, eg. You've Been Framed. Then, after it had been aired for a few times, it was deemed necessary by the CIC to announce any new series with a name change - eg. All New You've Been Framed.
The "All New" approach was adopted for a few programmes; YBF, as mentioned, plus Total Wipeout / All New Total Wipeout. However, there's been a shift, and it's messing things up. After who knows how many showings of Animals Do The Funniest Things, there's a listing this week for a programme called New Animals Do The Funniest Things.
Does this mean that only "New" animals do the funniest things (as opposed to 'old' ones not bothering to do anything funny)? In any event, the producers have tempered their claims by insisting that whilst "New" animals comply, not All new animals are up to the mark! So, technically speaking, the show should be called Some New Animals Do The Funniest Things. Would that then indicate that some of the content might not be new? Hmmmm . . .
So, in a quandary, I mused some more before concluding that the New v All New dilemma was all a bit superfluous because there's one factor that fucks everything. What is that factor? Simply three small letter in brackets - (rpt)
Yes, on Sunday, the New Animals Do The Funniest Things was in fact a repeat! So, there was nothing "NEW" about it! Really, the programme should have been called:
Old New Animals (But Not All Of Them) Do The Funniest Things
...
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Monday, 30 May 2011
30.5.11 Chicken
I played 'chicken' today, unintentionally. I was driving along, minding my own business and keeping an eye on the road. I noticed that at the pedestrian crossing ahead, there were a few people waiting for the lights to change. However, the 'red man' was doing his job and the main green lights gave the all clear for cars to keep going. Just as I approached the crossing, travelling at around 20mph, a lunatic whizzed out on to the road from the right. We were converging at right angles. I was doing around 20mph, the other party was doing 8mph. I say this, based on the machine not having been "chipped". My understanding is that electric wheelchairs are limited to 8mph.
The driver of the machine had no legs. He was rather overweight (if that still makes sense) and seemed oblivious to the fact that he was taking on a car in his mad dash to cross the road. I was, in effect, playing "chicken" with him. Considering he'd already lost two legs (wonder how!) I felt duty bound to slow abruptly, and we avoided a collision as expertly as a pair of pilots in the Red Arrows at a display. Totally bemused, I drove on whilst behind me, the legless wonder aimed for Argos.
Even though there would have been fifty witnesses to back up my view (unless they scattered at the first sign of a kerfuffle) I wonder just what reception I'd have got if I'd hit the wheelchair, and he'd toppled out like a bowling ball. I would have had to endure grief and trauma because of his selfish and stupid actions.
...
The driver of the machine had no legs. He was rather overweight (if that still makes sense) and seemed oblivious to the fact that he was taking on a car in his mad dash to cross the road. I was, in effect, playing "chicken" with him. Considering he'd already lost two legs (wonder how!) I felt duty bound to slow abruptly, and we avoided a collision as expertly as a pair of pilots in the Red Arrows at a display. Totally bemused, I drove on whilst behind me, the legless wonder aimed for Argos.
Even though there would have been fifty witnesses to back up my view (unless they scattered at the first sign of a kerfuffle) I wonder just what reception I'd have got if I'd hit the wheelchair, and he'd toppled out like a bowling ball. I would have had to endure grief and trauma because of his selfish and stupid actions.
...
30.5.11 Enigma
I would like to learn, by way of a comment from anyone "in-the-know", the purpose of the electrical double socket which is strategically placed on the ceiling of the Ryanair check-in hall at East Midlands Airport.
A power source thirty feet up in the middle of what is basically a small hangar is odd, to say the least!
...
A power source thirty feet up in the middle of what is basically a small hangar is odd, to say the least!
...
30.5.11 Pop to Op to Flop
I have seen the trailer for the forthcoming series [who commissioned another one??] of Pop Star to Opera Star.
[Please note by the way that I have kept the "Star" part as a separate word on purpose. No pissin' way can Operastar be a word while I'm alive. I considered begrudgingly putting Popstar as a single word, but erred on the side of - no, you cannot wear me down with continual use of shitty terms/names/concepts]
I for one will not be enduring anything that includes a singing Muppet. Nor will I be listening to the J woman whose ability stretches to making everything sound the same and unintelligible. I could do an equally impressive job by scratching a safety pin across all my old vinyl records - I am convinced the noise would be consistently horrible, pointless and abrasive.
For the existence of this show, I blame all people who waste their lives and money voting on shite.
...
[Please note by the way that I have kept the "Star" part as a separate word on purpose. No pissin' way can Operastar be a word while I'm alive. I considered begrudgingly putting Popstar as a single word, but erred on the side of - no, you cannot wear me down with continual use of shitty terms/names/concepts]
I for one will not be enduring anything that includes a singing Muppet. Nor will I be listening to the J woman whose ability stretches to making everything sound the same and unintelligible. I could do an equally impressive job by scratching a safety pin across all my old vinyl records - I am convinced the noise would be consistently horrible, pointless and abrasive.
For the existence of this show, I blame all people who waste their lives and money voting on shite.
...
30.5.11 Britain's Got Timing Issues
I cannot help but feel cheated that I am expected to devote 90 minutes of my life to see 8 acts each perform for less than or equal to 2 minutes. So, 15 minutes worth of "entertainment" is spread out like one knife-full of Stork Margarine over a whole loaf of bread. The end result - dissatisfaction (TV wise and most certainly food wise). We all know that the further 30 minutes allocated by ITV to the 'Results' programme is by default, 80% padding of the schedules, but for the main programme to have such sparse filling is ludicrous. Five advert breaks!
PS: I am quite sure that the person directing/producing had consumed six pints of Stella Artois this afternoon, because he/she seem to choose strange sequences of camera angles, and there were far too many long shots [long shots as in I could see fuck all, whatever the size of my TV, and not the long shot that was The Terminator].
...
PS: I am quite sure that the person directing/producing had consumed six pints of Stella Artois this afternoon, because he/she seem to choose strange sequences of camera angles, and there were far too many long shots [long shots as in I could see fuck all, whatever the size of my TV, and not the long shot that was The Terminator].
...
Friday, 27 May 2011
27.5.11 Newspaper Padding
What causes a newspaper editor to think we all need to read pathetic articles/features from which we gain nothing. It seems to me that there are spare pages in many newspapers, and rather than print something useful, idiots are commissioned to produce pointless articles. In Wednesday's Daily Express, we learned - "How to slash the cost of your home". This amazing piece of investigative journalism was so enlightening that I toyed with either slitting my wrists or eating my shoes, such was my level of despair. There were, before me, a few paragraphs that could have been typed by a chihuahua taking dictation from a chipmunk who was relaying the thoughts of a mentally challenged amoeba. Some of the key messages in each crappy paragraph were astounding. For example -
Mortgages
"Mortgage repayments are likely to be your biggest household expense."
"Find out if you can remortgage on a cheaper deal."
Council Tax
"This is another major household burden."
"If you are unemployed or on a low income, you may be eligible for help."
Household Insurance
"You can save money by shopping around for cheaper cover."
Avoid Cowboys
"Good tradesman [sic] don't come cheap, but using cowboy builders will be even more expensive."
"Word-of-mouth is the best way to find somebody you can trust, so ask your friends."
"It is worth getting two or three different quotes."
Household Appliances
"If you need a new TV or fridge, shop around."
Put Your Home To Work
"If you have a spare room, you could take in a lodger."
With photos, this feature took up a whole page and a few minutes of my life that I will never be able to reclaim. To one side, there was an associated piece on utility bills, and some of the wonderful statements within it were:
"Closing curtains at dusk to stop heat escaping, turning off lights, using a full load in your washing machine or dishwasher and only boiling as much water as you need could help cut your bills." [NO SHIT SHERLOCK!]
"If you are paying too much for your water, you are simply pouring money down the drain."
So, in summary, we can all save money by spending less. What a fucking revelation!
...
Mortgages
"Mortgage repayments are likely to be your biggest household expense."
"Find out if you can remortgage on a cheaper deal."
Council Tax
"This is another major household burden."
"If you are unemployed or on a low income, you may be eligible for help."
Household Insurance
"You can save money by shopping around for cheaper cover."
Avoid Cowboys
"Good tradesman [sic] don't come cheap, but using cowboy builders will be even more expensive."
"Word-of-mouth is the best way to find somebody you can trust, so ask your friends."
"It is worth getting two or three different quotes."
Household Appliances
"If you need a new TV or fridge, shop around."
Put Your Home To Work
"If you have a spare room, you could take in a lodger."
With photos, this feature took up a whole page and a few minutes of my life that I will never be able to reclaim. To one side, there was an associated piece on utility bills, and some of the wonderful statements within it were:
"Closing curtains at dusk to stop heat escaping, turning off lights, using a full load in your washing machine or dishwasher and only boiling as much water as you need could help cut your bills." [NO SHIT SHERLOCK!]
"If you are paying too much for your water, you are simply pouring money down the drain."
So, in summary, we can all save money by spending less. What a fucking revelation!
...
27.5.11 Pointless (No.13)
The warm air hand dryer in ASDA, Hamilton, Scotland
The noise of an outboard motor,
The effectiveness of a gnat's breath.
...
The noise of an outboard motor,
The effectiveness of a gnat's breath.
...
Sunday, 22 May 2011
22.5.11 Kettling At Tesco
My local store has adopted strange tactics in the fight against something or other. Maybe it's shoplifting, maybe it's just for fun (?) but whatever the reasons, the change at the store entrance is pathetic and defies all logic. Akin to some sort of measure at 'border control', the two glass entrance doors (which were never marked as one for IN and one for OUT, but unofficially MAYHEM at both) were not in action on Saturday. After negotiating the slalom style outer entry (left or right through a glass conservatory getting tangled up with every other fucker coming, going or having a cigarette) I was confronted by a pallet of coal.
Now, I am no retail expert, but a shrink-wrapped pallet of coal blocking a door on a Saturday is unlikely to be of benefit to a retailer, first because it stops people coming and going, and second, the stuff wasn't even on sale. So, after my left-turn-then-full-turn-to-the-right-then-left-turn-then-sidestep-the-coal manoeuvre, I was able to try and get past those leaving the store, through the six-foot gap. The space available was obviously judged to be adequate by the CIC, each of whom has the IQ of a twig. The episode reminded me of an experience which was the subject of a previous post on this blog entitled 'Panic Room'.
[ CIC - Cunts In Charge ]
The other side of the main door was a security guard. He was loitering by the single functioning door. Actually, the door was not functioning at all. The automatic sliding mechanism was fixed at 'open' (thankfully) but the narrowness meant the entrance was a hindrance rather than a decent means of entry or escape. He must have been party to some strange decision that led to a pallet of coal blocking a door. His presence meant that he had the best view of the stupidity. Shoppers were being kettled.
To my left, further evidence of kettling was in the form of a snake style barrier, to help people queue for the cigarette kiosk. Kettling was clearly in mind in the first two aisles, where at the end of each, to one side, was a cage full of empty packaging. The seven-foot aisle was thus reduced at each end to a four-foot funnel. In the central aisle that ran through the whole store, the progress was akin to that of a ball bearing in a pinball machine - stupid baskets and point-of-sale shit was cluttering up the route. In summary, the whole fucking place was a cross between a layout for pinball and a crazy golf course. Then, to escape, you're hearded/kettled into a checkout lane, where Maud tests her skills by 'beeping' your stuff over a scanner and drip feeding shitty carrier bags. The most challenging aspect of her routine was to identify three beef tomatoes. [I don't mean by name or star sign, just that they were indeed the meaty variety].
I ran the gauntlet along the back of the checkouts. On this occasion I was not fucked from the right at any of the T-junctions by someone with an empty trolley eager to load it up with bagged goods. I was however stuffed by the progress being made by oncoming bods who wanted to get to the cafe/restaurant conveniently situated in the far corner making access tricky. I also nearly ran over a woman who stopped suddenly to check her receipt. The chicane at the end was a challenge, but I wriggled past the newspaper pod/island, and the edge of the massive display of lager and loo rolls on pallets (!) just to be stumped by a tsunami of humans coming at me through the single door. I resisted the urge to dump my trolley, kick the security guard in the nuts and climb over the coal, and instead adopted the approach of a salmon going upstream.
Leaving the car park, I followed the one-way system (unlike some cunts) and escaped. The level of kettling was phenomenal. If it doesn't improve, then next week I am going to fill a couple of trolleys and then abandon them, go out and then come back in to do the same. I reckon that might be enough to tip the balance and cause gridlock.
...
Now, I am no retail expert, but a shrink-wrapped pallet of coal blocking a door on a Saturday is unlikely to be of benefit to a retailer, first because it stops people coming and going, and second, the stuff wasn't even on sale. So, after my left-turn-then-full-turn-to-the-right-then-left-turn-then-sidestep-the-coal manoeuvre, I was able to try and get past those leaving the store, through the six-foot gap. The space available was obviously judged to be adequate by the CIC, each of whom has the IQ of a twig. The episode reminded me of an experience which was the subject of a previous post on this blog entitled 'Panic Room'.
[ CIC - Cunts In Charge ]
The other side of the main door was a security guard. He was loitering by the single functioning door. Actually, the door was not functioning at all. The automatic sliding mechanism was fixed at 'open' (thankfully) but the narrowness meant the entrance was a hindrance rather than a decent means of entry or escape. He must have been party to some strange decision that led to a pallet of coal blocking a door. His presence meant that he had the best view of the stupidity. Shoppers were being kettled.
To my left, further evidence of kettling was in the form of a snake style barrier, to help people queue for the cigarette kiosk. Kettling was clearly in mind in the first two aisles, where at the end of each, to one side, was a cage full of empty packaging. The seven-foot aisle was thus reduced at each end to a four-foot funnel. In the central aisle that ran through the whole store, the progress was akin to that of a ball bearing in a pinball machine - stupid baskets and point-of-sale shit was cluttering up the route. In summary, the whole fucking place was a cross between a layout for pinball and a crazy golf course. Then, to escape, you're hearded/kettled into a checkout lane, where Maud tests her skills by 'beeping' your stuff over a scanner and drip feeding shitty carrier bags. The most challenging aspect of her routine was to identify three beef tomatoes. [I don't mean by name or star sign, just that they were indeed the meaty variety].
I ran the gauntlet along the back of the checkouts. On this occasion I was not fucked from the right at any of the T-junctions by someone with an empty trolley eager to load it up with bagged goods. I was however stuffed by the progress being made by oncoming bods who wanted to get to the cafe/restaurant conveniently situated in the far corner making access tricky. I also nearly ran over a woman who stopped suddenly to check her receipt. The chicane at the end was a challenge, but I wriggled past the newspaper pod/island, and the edge of the massive display of lager and loo rolls on pallets (!) just to be stumped by a tsunami of humans coming at me through the single door. I resisted the urge to dump my trolley, kick the security guard in the nuts and climb over the coal, and instead adopted the approach of a salmon going upstream.
Leaving the car park, I followed the one-way system (unlike some cunts) and escaped. The level of kettling was phenomenal. If it doesn't improve, then next week I am going to fill a couple of trolleys and then abandon them, go out and then come back in to do the same. I reckon that might be enough to tip the balance and cause gridlock.
...
22.5.11 Caravans & Skips
I have no real point to make about caravans being towed around the country; all that can be said on the subject has been said already. If people want to tow them around, stop, live in them for a bit, and then tow them back home, that's up to them. Not really my cup of tea.
I do however have a concern regarding those who choose to own one, relating to the suitability (or not) of their fixed homes/property. I am quite sure it is at best 'mildly annoying' and at worst 'fucking aggravating' to have a massive caravan stuck in one of your neighbour's driveways. For both neighbours to have a caravan parked in the drive would be bad luck, or more accurately, cuntin crap. But having a driveway gives one a right to park stuff without any real comeback. What's a lot more challenging is the situation for those living in terraced accommodation.
Today, taking a short cut (to avoid a queue at a junction) I took a couple of turns along side roads, where the properties were predominantly terraced houses, with either no front garden, or a very small effort squashed between the path and the front door. At a tight junction, I saw a caravan to my left and also one up ahead of me. These very large containers were parked on the road, amongst the cars lining each road. Every available space was taken up, the caravans occupying more space than any car. If I lived on a terraced road, I would not be chuffed if a neighbour parked a twenty-foot tin box outside my front door!
What makes it worse is that these tin boxes are on the road without any road tax. How can it be right that a massive caravan is purchased by someone who has no space for it on their property, and resorts to leaving it on the highway taking up loads of space, causing a nuisance. At the same time, if any resident needs a skip (which would occupy about half the floor space and be half the height based on what I observed today) then a permit would be required. My local council insists on all sorts of restrictions about how and where to position a skip, including notes on traffic cones and lighting. A permit costs £15 for 2 weeks and £10 per subsequent week.
So, park a caravan [ 20 x 6 x 8 feet = 960 cubic feet ] for a year on the road, and pay nothing. Position an 8 cubic yard skip [ 216 cubic feet ] which is less than a quarter of the size on the road, and pay £515 per year. It is perhaps totally coincidental that one of the caravans I looked at seemed no more homely than a skip. In fact, it could perhaps be used as a working skip, to transport people's shit to a waste site - and no permit would be required.
PS: People commonly mention the term "skip it" to mean throw it away; how do you skip a skip?
...
I do however have a concern regarding those who choose to own one, relating to the suitability (or not) of their fixed homes/property. I am quite sure it is at best 'mildly annoying' and at worst 'fucking aggravating' to have a massive caravan stuck in one of your neighbour's driveways. For both neighbours to have a caravan parked in the drive would be bad luck, or more accurately, cuntin crap. But having a driveway gives one a right to park stuff without any real comeback. What's a lot more challenging is the situation for those living in terraced accommodation.
Today, taking a short cut (to avoid a queue at a junction) I took a couple of turns along side roads, where the properties were predominantly terraced houses, with either no front garden, or a very small effort squashed between the path and the front door. At a tight junction, I saw a caravan to my left and also one up ahead of me. These very large containers were parked on the road, amongst the cars lining each road. Every available space was taken up, the caravans occupying more space than any car. If I lived on a terraced road, I would not be chuffed if a neighbour parked a twenty-foot tin box outside my front door!
What makes it worse is that these tin boxes are on the road without any road tax. How can it be right that a massive caravan is purchased by someone who has no space for it on their property, and resorts to leaving it on the highway taking up loads of space, causing a nuisance. At the same time, if any resident needs a skip (which would occupy about half the floor space and be half the height based on what I observed today) then a permit would be required. My local council insists on all sorts of restrictions about how and where to position a skip, including notes on traffic cones and lighting. A permit costs £15 for 2 weeks and £10 per subsequent week.
So, park a caravan [ 20 x 6 x 8 feet = 960 cubic feet ] for a year on the road, and pay nothing. Position an 8 cubic yard skip [ 216 cubic feet ] which is less than a quarter of the size on the road, and pay £515 per year. It is perhaps totally coincidental that one of the caravans I looked at seemed no more homely than a skip. In fact, it could perhaps be used as a working skip, to transport people's shit to a waste site - and no permit would be required.
PS: People commonly mention the term "skip it" to mean throw it away; how do you skip a skip?
...
Thursday, 19 May 2011
19.5.11 Holiday Inn Bolton
The restaurant was not overly busy. I was shown a table, next to two small white-haired, severe looking, old, tiny, Scottish women. When the Boddingtons arrived [for me, not them] I asked for the 'Mixed Grill, steak medium-rare'. I did not adopt the phraseology of the woman two tables away who had just used multiple "can I get" questions at the waitress. This style of ordering annoys me. It's as though a load of food is coming anyway, and the hungry woman wanted first dibs on what she could be allocated. Instead, I adopted the approach of there's no food coming my way unless I actually order it, so I used the "I'd like" ordering method. My waiter left, and I started to read the paper.
The two gnomes dithered over a menu, considering what to have. Tea was the easy part, and soup seemed not too taxing a decision. However, the 6-stone gerbils decided to ask for scones, which were not on the menu. So a minute later, the waiter left to see "what chef could do"; sounded like Fawlty Towers to me.
Unsurprised, I heard a waitress (shortly after) imparting the news - "unfortunately there are no scones today, but we have some desserts that might be of interest" (although I also caught the interesting phrase, "the Cheesecake is Madagascan Vanilla rather than the Chocolate noted on page two"). She then handed over the same menu the gerbils were pouring over when I first sat down. They decided on just the tea and the soup.
I waited for over 30 minutes for food, which was pathetic. I should have known better than to expect speedy service, after my visit on 3rd February had involved a wait long enough to have played two games of snooker. Next to me, the two white-haired gerbils exchanged such limited dialogue that I wondered if their tongues had been removed. It was like the script from 2001: A Space Odyssey (for those of you who are aware that fuck all's said).
The waiter walked in at almost half-an-hour into the ordeal, and stood in the middle of the restaurant achieving nothing, and looking in my direction. I held out my arms and hands to the side with a sort of shrug, to indicate: "What the fuck is going on here - where's my cuntin' food". [I pride myself with being able to say so much with a tiny gesture.] "It's just coming, it's being assembled now." Assembled!!! Had I ordered some sort of fucking Airfix Kit? The chef was either playing Jenga with the components of the mixed grill, or gluing bits together, or creating a Tracey Emin concoction that I'd prefer not to see, let alone eat.
The food came. It was okay. The sausage (that's right, singular) was not Award Winning so the Holiday Inn must have changed supplier, but let's not get into that again/now. The speediness of service was rarer than the medium-rare steak element of the mixed grill, but overall, the food was edible.
I left after signing the bill, ten minutes after the soup-eaters, who no doubt went to run in a wheel and nestle in cotton wool that matched their hair. All I can say in summary is: do not eat at the Holiday Inn Bolton, unless you have time to spare, because the service is slow.
...
The two gnomes dithered over a menu, considering what to have. Tea was the easy part, and soup seemed not too taxing a decision. However, the 6-stone gerbils decided to ask for scones, which were not on the menu. So a minute later, the waiter left to see "what chef could do"; sounded like Fawlty Towers to me.
Unsurprised, I heard a waitress (shortly after) imparting the news - "unfortunately there are no scones today, but we have some desserts that might be of interest" (although I also caught the interesting phrase, "the Cheesecake is Madagascan Vanilla rather than the Chocolate noted on page two"). She then handed over the same menu the gerbils were pouring over when I first sat down. They decided on just the tea and the soup.
I waited for over 30 minutes for food, which was pathetic. I should have known better than to expect speedy service, after my visit on 3rd February had involved a wait long enough to have played two games of snooker. Next to me, the two white-haired gerbils exchanged such limited dialogue that I wondered if their tongues had been removed. It was like the script from 2001: A Space Odyssey (for those of you who are aware that fuck all's said).
The waiter walked in at almost half-an-hour into the ordeal, and stood in the middle of the restaurant achieving nothing, and looking in my direction. I held out my arms and hands to the side with a sort of shrug, to indicate: "What the fuck is going on here - where's my cuntin' food". [I pride myself with being able to say so much with a tiny gesture.] "It's just coming, it's being assembled now." Assembled!!! Had I ordered some sort of fucking Airfix Kit? The chef was either playing Jenga with the components of the mixed grill, or gluing bits together, or creating a Tracey Emin concoction that I'd prefer not to see, let alone eat.
The food came. It was okay. The sausage (that's right, singular) was not Award Winning so the Holiday Inn must have changed supplier, but let's not get into that again/now. The speediness of service was rarer than the medium-rare steak element of the mixed grill, but overall, the food was edible.
I left after signing the bill, ten minutes after the soup-eaters, who no doubt went to run in a wheel and nestle in cotton wool that matched their hair. All I can say in summary is: do not eat at the Holiday Inn Bolton, unless you have time to spare, because the service is slow.
...
19.5.11 Travel Size
Tesco - "Every Little Helps". The Little certainly does help, regarding profit levels for the retailer that seems to profess to be the people's champion. Browsing the shelves the other day, I came across a section devoted entirely to supplies for customers from Lilliput. I jest of course; the items on display were being marketing to us as 'travel size' although the pro-rata prices were not so much small as fucking outrageous. No doubt playing to the ludicrous airline policies of the day, Tesco is marketing handy amounts of stuff in miniature bottles/tubes, so that we might fly with them to Spain without blowing up a plane.
On a recent trip, a family member put a small amount of Clarins cleanser into a small empty plastic bottle, to conform with twattish guidelines limiting liquids to 100ml. This was a sensible approach, and the bottle cost 32 pence. To my horror, Tesco sells two small plastic bottles with nothing in at £1.89!!!!!
As it happened, I had just purchased some shaving gel. My selection some five minutes earlier had been:
Nivea For Men - Sensitive Shaving Gel 200ml @ £1.45
Now, the item was on offer (half price) but nevertheless, the miniature version (50ml) in the travel section was being sold for £1.79. So the large one is going for £7.25 per litre, and the small one for £35.80 per litre.
Pretty much 5 times the price for the convenience of going small. Now I have heard of "would you like to go large" from the nauseating McDonalds people, but I've never heard of "would you like to go small", and certainly not at 5x the price rather than 30p extra!!!
The 'travel shelves' were full of similarly sized potions, lotions, creams and other substances, all at rip-off prices for fuck all. I stuck with my big can of gel, and did not succumb to the temptation to pay five times as much, on the basis that I could fly with confidence without qualifying as a terrorist. A close shave for all concerned.
...
On a recent trip, a family member put a small amount of Clarins cleanser into a small empty plastic bottle, to conform with twattish guidelines limiting liquids to 100ml. This was a sensible approach, and the bottle cost 32 pence. To my horror, Tesco sells two small plastic bottles with nothing in at £1.89!!!!!
As it happened, I had just purchased some shaving gel. My selection some five minutes earlier had been:
Nivea For Men - Sensitive Shaving Gel 200ml @ £1.45
Now, the item was on offer (half price) but nevertheless, the miniature version (50ml) in the travel section was being sold for £1.79. So the large one is going for £7.25 per litre, and the small one for £35.80 per litre.
Pretty much 5 times the price for the convenience of going small. Now I have heard of "would you like to go large" from the nauseating McDonalds people, but I've never heard of "would you like to go small", and certainly not at 5x the price rather than 30p extra!!!
The 'travel shelves' were full of similarly sized potions, lotions, creams and other substances, all at rip-off prices for fuck all. I stuck with my big can of gel, and did not succumb to the temptation to pay five times as much, on the basis that I could fly with confidence without qualifying as a terrorist. A close shave for all concerned.
...
Monday, 16 May 2011
16.5.11 Television at 9pm
What a truly shit choice for television viewing tonight. The options for 9.00pm seem rather odd.
BBC1 = The Street That Cut Everything
A street in Preston has basically told the council to fuck off for six weeks, and will be self sufficient while not paying council tax. What a brilliant idea. Seeing as I quite often have to drive a 16-mile round trip to the tip, I wouldn't mind doing it to save £44 per week council tax! Let's face it, that's the only pissin' thing the council does (fortnightly) as long as you put out the bin at the correct time, put it in the right place, make sure the lid is closed, and that the bin contains the right sort of rubbish.
BBC2 = Children's Craniofacial Surgery
What bright spark at the beeb thought that this would pass for entertainment? What next - "OAP's Barium Meals"? "Incontinence Across the Continents"? "The Sexuality of Bi-Polar Bi Polar Bears"?
ITV1 = Strangeways
A focus on the prison's healthcare unit. David claims to be disabled and needing a wheelchair, but experts say he can walk. Well fuck me - riveting! ITV certainly has strange ways of deciding what's entertaining.
Channel 4 = Gordon's Great Escape
Gordon Ramsay visits Vietnam, where he samples a snake heart that's still beating, barbecued duck (that's no longer quacking, I assume) and a squid caught in a basket (makes a change from the chicken, I suppose). He then hosts a pork dinner for connoisseurs, whatever that means. I translate that as 'cooks sausages for cunts'. All of this is totally unnecessary, gratuitous, pointless, uninteresting and crass. We cannot seem to escape Gordon wherever he goes or whatever he does. Shouldn't he be in hell or a fucking kitchen somewhere, out of sight (and earshot)?
Channel 5 = The Hotel Inspector
Not worth more than these seven words.
R.I.P Terrestrial Television
...
BBC1 = The Street That Cut Everything
A street in Preston has basically told the council to fuck off for six weeks, and will be self sufficient while not paying council tax. What a brilliant idea. Seeing as I quite often have to drive a 16-mile round trip to the tip, I wouldn't mind doing it to save £44 per week council tax! Let's face it, that's the only pissin' thing the council does (fortnightly) as long as you put out the bin at the correct time, put it in the right place, make sure the lid is closed, and that the bin contains the right sort of rubbish.
BBC2 = Children's Craniofacial Surgery
What bright spark at the beeb thought that this would pass for entertainment? What next - "OAP's Barium Meals"? "Incontinence Across the Continents"? "The Sexuality of Bi-Polar Bi Polar Bears"?
ITV1 = Strangeways
A focus on the prison's healthcare unit. David claims to be disabled and needing a wheelchair, but experts say he can walk. Well fuck me - riveting! ITV certainly has strange ways of deciding what's entertaining.
Channel 4 = Gordon's Great Escape
Gordon Ramsay visits Vietnam, where he samples a snake heart that's still beating, barbecued duck (that's no longer quacking, I assume) and a squid caught in a basket (makes a change from the chicken, I suppose). He then hosts a pork dinner for connoisseurs, whatever that means. I translate that as 'cooks sausages for cunts'. All of this is totally unnecessary, gratuitous, pointless, uninteresting and crass. We cannot seem to escape Gordon wherever he goes or whatever he does. Shouldn't he be in hell or a fucking kitchen somewhere, out of sight (and earshot)?
Channel 5 = The Hotel Inspector
Not worth more than these seven words.
R.I.P Terrestrial Television
...
Sunday, 15 May 2011
15.5.11 South West Trains
Absolutely disgraceful! The cuntish behaviour of South West Trains beggars belief! A Stationmaster went on to the tracks to remove a shopping trolley that was left there by yobs. Acting responsibly (and exactly how we would all hope someone with 27 years of service would act in such circumstances) he of course prevented an accident. What is the fucking point of having a Stationmaster and relying on him to oversee the service if it appears he is supposed to watch and do nothing? Apparently he should not have removed it because it was a breach of Health & Safety rules - well so is leaving a shopping trolley on the line!!
So, here we have a classic situation. The arseholes of the world, along with the cheats, scroungers, the complete cunts, the thugs, the ASBO magnets and the dregs of society all seem to be allowed to get away with anything and behave how they like with no comeback. Institutional acceptance that this is just how it is, means that we all have to be unsurprised when shit happens. Meanwhile, an upstanding member of the community tries his very best to help the public and his employers, yet gets heavily penalised (fucked over, basically) because the country is up its own arse.
What would have happened if there was a small level crossing next to the station, and instead of a trolley being left on the line, a car had stalled and was stranded. Is South West Trains saying that it should be left there because to move it would be breaching H&S rules? Logic says that must be the case. So, in conclusion, readers, don't travel on South West Trains. By default, the company is encouraging staff to avoid going on to the track at any time, whatever the circumstances - even to prevent an accident. So, remember this if you do decide to catch a South West Train; while you're doing 120mph, there could well be a car across the line waiting to derail you, and anyone who dares try to move it will suffer consequences. It's clearly preferable that there is carnage and multiple deaths in line with Health & Safety rules.
QED
...
So, here we have a classic situation. The arseholes of the world, along with the cheats, scroungers, the complete cunts, the thugs, the ASBO magnets and the dregs of society all seem to be allowed to get away with anything and behave how they like with no comeback. Institutional acceptance that this is just how it is, means that we all have to be unsurprised when shit happens. Meanwhile, an upstanding member of the community tries his very best to help the public and his employers, yet gets heavily penalised (fucked over, basically) because the country is up its own arse.
What would have happened if there was a small level crossing next to the station, and instead of a trolley being left on the line, a car had stalled and was stranded. Is South West Trains saying that it should be left there because to move it would be breaching H&S rules? Logic says that must be the case. So, in conclusion, readers, don't travel on South West Trains. By default, the company is encouraging staff to avoid going on to the track at any time, whatever the circumstances - even to prevent an accident. So, remember this if you do decide to catch a South West Train; while you're doing 120mph, there could well be a car across the line waiting to derail you, and anyone who dares try to move it will suffer consequences. It's clearly preferable that there is carnage and multiple deaths in line with Health & Safety rules.
QED
...
14.5.11 Peanuts, Cake & Chicken
Act I Scene I
Mountain restaurant, Gran Canaria, waiting for drinks to arrive.
Mrs MWSC: "I love salted almonds"
Daughter-in-law: "I prefer it when they're not salted"
TMWSC: "I prefer it when they're not almonds"
Act I Scene II
Mountain restaurant, Gran Canaria, watching cake consumption at next table.
Mrs MWSC: "I don't want to say what they're eating as H will want some"
Daughter-in-law: "Can't you say it out loud in a different language?"
Son-of-MWSC: "No, he knows helado"
Daughter-in-law: "What about spelling it in a different language, so it's a secret code?"
TMWSC: "Like G.A.L.L.E.T.A ?
Mrs MWSC: "What?"
TMWSC: "G.A.L.L.E.T.A. Galleta?"
Mrs MWSC: "What?"
TMWSC: "Spanish biscuit!!! I was sure I'd spelt it right!"
Mrs MWSC: "Oh, yes, sorry you did. I just didn't understand you for a minute, for some reason"
One minute later, when discussing what we would be eating in a couple of hours time
TMWSC: "We could always have a thing at the thing"
Mrs MWSC: "Yes, we could do"
Daughter-in-law: "A what? How do you know what that means?"
Mrs MWSC: "I just do"
TMWSC: "A buffet at the apartments; she can understand a thing at the thing, but not a proper word that I also spell out correctly!"
Act I Scene III
Just before leaving the mountain restaurant, Gran Canaria, a chicken crosses the road and approaches the table
Son-of-MWSC: "There's a chicken coming"
TMWSC: "I haven't ordered one (?)"
Mrs MWSC: "I've never seen a chicken actually cross the road before, and not on a zebra crossing!"
Chicken: Nods, and walks away
...
Mountain restaurant, Gran Canaria, waiting for drinks to arrive.
Mrs MWSC: "I love salted almonds"
Daughter-in-law: "I prefer it when they're not salted"
TMWSC: "I prefer it when they're not almonds"
Act I Scene II
Mountain restaurant, Gran Canaria, watching cake consumption at next table.
Mrs MWSC: "I don't want to say what they're eating as H will want some"
Daughter-in-law: "Can't you say it out loud in a different language?"
Son-of-MWSC: "No, he knows helado"
Daughter-in-law: "What about spelling it in a different language, so it's a secret code?"
TMWSC: "Like G.A.L.L.E.T.A ?
Mrs MWSC: "What?"
TMWSC: "G.A.L.L.E.T.A. Galleta?"
Mrs MWSC: "What?"
TMWSC: "Spanish biscuit!!! I was sure I'd spelt it right!"
Mrs MWSC: "Oh, yes, sorry you did. I just didn't understand you for a minute, for some reason"
One minute later, when discussing what we would be eating in a couple of hours time
TMWSC: "We could always have a thing at the thing"
Mrs MWSC: "Yes, we could do"
Daughter-in-law: "A what? How do you know what that means?"
Mrs MWSC: "I just do"
TMWSC: "A buffet at the apartments; she can understand a thing at the thing, but not a proper word that I also spell out correctly!"
Act I Scene III
Just before leaving the mountain restaurant, Gran Canaria, a chicken crosses the road and approaches the table
Son-of-MWSC: "There's a chicken coming"
TMWSC: "I haven't ordered one (?)"
Mrs MWSC: "I've never seen a chicken actually cross the road before, and not on a zebra crossing!"
Chicken: Nods, and walks away
...
Saturday, 14 May 2011
14.5.11 Ryanair
I will forgive Ryanair for the relentlessness with which the onboard staff touted the snacks, drinks, gifts etc. and I forgive them for the ludicrous length of the 'bag drop' queue before we ever got near the fucking aeroplane. I will never forgive the two cunts who were stationed at the boarding gate!
A woman was checking boarding cards (A4 sheets of paper these days) against passports. She was unable to multi-task, and insisted that for our party of five, each passport and A4 sheet had to be paired up, so she could make sure we were not international terrorists trying to sneak on board and fuck Ryanair by blowing up a plane in protest over the outrageous cup-a-soup cost (3.60 Euros). We obliged after considering that her ability to play 'snap' had one her the job, and she'd never progressed to the 'Simple Simon' game where sequences had to be remembered. Past her loitered the two cunts; one was limping around, using a stick. She instantly reminded me of 'Herr Flick' from 'Allo 'Allo. This officious bitch was on a mission to offend anything that had the nerve to breathe, and that included us!
I was first to run the gauntlet, and was directed by Bitch 1 towards the frame which measures hand luggage. Bitch 2 was a smaller woman who sat next to the frame, adding nothing to the capabilities of the universe. She observed the luggage that was put into the frame upon the direction of Herr Flick. I put my case in, and it fitted perfectly, as I knew it would. I was carrying a smaller bag as well, to save my youngest son carrying it. Bitch 2 insisted I put the other bag (which was so obviously smaller) into the frame as well - pointless. But then she stopped me from proceeding, as I was carrying a bag for someone else [my son who has enough to deal with in suffering the Ryanair fucking systems and his autism, the former being the greater handicap] and insisted that I leave the bag behind. As I hung around for my family to follow the same process, I was amazed that Bitch 1 and Bitch 2 expected us to put two more bags into the frame, when they were IDENTICAL to the first one. I pointed this out but was met with two cuntin' ignorant cunts who insisted that we co-operate.
My wife mentioned (at 88 decibels) that "this is fuckin stupid" as we checked the further two bags of the same design/size, along with a further smaller bag. "TMWSC Junior" (like his father) was vocal, stating to Bitch 2, "what do you know, it fucking fits, like the last one" with a sarcastic/shocked expression. He also came out with: "Do you know what, luv, you've got crackin' people skills". I don't believe the Bitch had any idea that he was taking the piss. Meanwhile, my wife was being told to move on with a "you go" order, and leave our son to manage on his own. "How dare you!" and other comments came from Mrs TMWSC.
The walk from the gate to the aeroplane provided as all with an opportunity to let off steam, after the absolutely outrageous treatment from two complete cunts employed by Ryanair. We all swore to get it out of our systems before boarding. The real issue was that there's no way of winning in such circumstances. To create a scene would have risked us being banned from flying. So, all I can do is highlight that there are two cunts at East Midlands Airport who deserve to be dipped in something acidic. If you ever have a choice, then choose another airline.
By the way, apparently it's vital that when there's the slightest chance of the tiniest level of turbulence, everyone has to sit down and fasten his/her seatbelt - without exception. At the very same time, it's perfectly fine for trolley dollies to wander around selling overpriced scalding hot coffee. You can drink and/or be scalded, but you cannot have a piss.
...
A woman was checking boarding cards (A4 sheets of paper these days) against passports. She was unable to multi-task, and insisted that for our party of five, each passport and A4 sheet had to be paired up, so she could make sure we were not international terrorists trying to sneak on board and fuck Ryanair by blowing up a plane in protest over the outrageous cup-a-soup cost (3.60 Euros). We obliged after considering that her ability to play 'snap' had one her the job, and she'd never progressed to the 'Simple Simon' game where sequences had to be remembered. Past her loitered the two cunts; one was limping around, using a stick. She instantly reminded me of 'Herr Flick' from 'Allo 'Allo. This officious bitch was on a mission to offend anything that had the nerve to breathe, and that included us!
I was first to run the gauntlet, and was directed by Bitch 1 towards the frame which measures hand luggage. Bitch 2 was a smaller woman who sat next to the frame, adding nothing to the capabilities of the universe. She observed the luggage that was put into the frame upon the direction of Herr Flick. I put my case in, and it fitted perfectly, as I knew it would. I was carrying a smaller bag as well, to save my youngest son carrying it. Bitch 2 insisted I put the other bag (which was so obviously smaller) into the frame as well - pointless. But then she stopped me from proceeding, as I was carrying a bag for someone else [my son who has enough to deal with in suffering the Ryanair fucking systems and his autism, the former being the greater handicap] and insisted that I leave the bag behind. As I hung around for my family to follow the same process, I was amazed that Bitch 1 and Bitch 2 expected us to put two more bags into the frame, when they were IDENTICAL to the first one. I pointed this out but was met with two cuntin' ignorant cunts who insisted that we co-operate.
My wife mentioned (at 88 decibels) that "this is fuckin stupid" as we checked the further two bags of the same design/size, along with a further smaller bag. "TMWSC Junior" (like his father) was vocal, stating to Bitch 2, "what do you know, it fucking fits, like the last one" with a sarcastic/shocked expression. He also came out with: "Do you know what, luv, you've got crackin' people skills". I don't believe the Bitch had any idea that he was taking the piss. Meanwhile, my wife was being told to move on with a "you go" order, and leave our son to manage on his own. "How dare you!" and other comments came from Mrs TMWSC.
The walk from the gate to the aeroplane provided as all with an opportunity to let off steam, after the absolutely outrageous treatment from two complete cunts employed by Ryanair. We all swore to get it out of our systems before boarding. The real issue was that there's no way of winning in such circumstances. To create a scene would have risked us being banned from flying. So, all I can do is highlight that there are two cunts at East Midlands Airport who deserve to be dipped in something acidic. If you ever have a choice, then choose another airline.
By the way, apparently it's vital that when there's the slightest chance of the tiniest level of turbulence, everyone has to sit down and fasten his/her seatbelt - without exception. At the very same time, it's perfectly fine for trolley dollies to wander around selling overpriced scalding hot coffee. You can drink and/or be scalded, but you cannot have a piss.
...
14.5.11 Mugs
'TMWSC Junior' was, whilst on holiday, making some tea for us all, late one morning. The self-catering apartment (within which we were all loafing about) was kitted out with four cups and saucers. Now, why anyone setting up apartments still thinks that cups are preferable to mugs is beyond me. The kettle boiled, and let off the familiar burning smell that prompted me momentarily to consider reporting it to Reception.
"These cups are pitiful. You hardly tilt the kettle and the cup's full!"
Junior was of course referring to the fact that the cups held no more than four mouthfuls (something he was soon able to prove with a quite straightforward demonstration). The saucers resided (still) in the cupboard, as they were pointless.
"I like the fact that the milk's called Sandra", he said. There was nothing to say in response to this; as brand names go, it was a peculiar choice.
"Right, how many sugars go in these thimbles?"
The cups sat on the worktop, awaiting sugar input, and I chipped in with a reply for two of the cups; "Two heaps".
This caused an exclamation of incredulity from Junior (and his fiancee) and cries of "How much?" and "What?" filled the room and terrace. It appeared to me that I'd somehow uttered something truly outrageous. In their eyes, my utterance was actually outrageous, what with the smallness of the cups suggesting a lower level of sugar would be more suitable.
I then suggested he put one spoonful in each cup and let us each top up the sugar to the desired level.
"No, there's no point in that. It's like when a waiter puts down a tall glass, pours an inch of drink into it and then puts the bottle down next to it. There's no point in that; the waiter might as well fill the glass, or just leave it empty and put both things down in front of you."
I completely agreed with his comment and logic, delivered without any swearing, although with a definite level of affront. The next manoeuvre was to take two cups out to the terrace (those requiring no sugar top-up).
"I can't hold these cups!"
The holes in the handles where fingers are supposed to go were of course only big enough for the forefinger, or for any digit owned by a four-year-old.
"What are you supposed to do?" asked Junior.
The answer of course . . . . . . . . Mugs.
...
"These cups are pitiful. You hardly tilt the kettle and the cup's full!"
Junior was of course referring to the fact that the cups held no more than four mouthfuls (something he was soon able to prove with a quite straightforward demonstration). The saucers resided (still) in the cupboard, as they were pointless.
"I like the fact that the milk's called Sandra", he said. There was nothing to say in response to this; as brand names go, it was a peculiar choice.
"Right, how many sugars go in these thimbles?"
The cups sat on the worktop, awaiting sugar input, and I chipped in with a reply for two of the cups; "Two heaps".
This caused an exclamation of incredulity from Junior (and his fiancee) and cries of "How much?" and "What?" filled the room and terrace. It appeared to me that I'd somehow uttered something truly outrageous. In their eyes, my utterance was actually outrageous, what with the smallness of the cups suggesting a lower level of sugar would be more suitable.
I then suggested he put one spoonful in each cup and let us each top up the sugar to the desired level.
"No, there's no point in that. It's like when a waiter puts down a tall glass, pours an inch of drink into it and then puts the bottle down next to it. There's no point in that; the waiter might as well fill the glass, or just leave it empty and put both things down in front of you."
I completely agreed with his comment and logic, delivered without any swearing, although with a definite level of affront. The next manoeuvre was to take two cups out to the terrace (those requiring no sugar top-up).
"I can't hold these cups!"
The holes in the handles where fingers are supposed to go were of course only big enough for the forefinger, or for any digit owned by a four-year-old.
"What are you supposed to do?" asked Junior.
The answer of course . . . . . . . . Mugs.
...
Monday, 9 May 2011
9.5.11 Enlightenment
In the restaurant last Friday night, we had the misfortune to stumble across a live act. A couple of old blokes were on a small stage at the far end, engaged in a karaoke session - so a bit like the Pet Shop Boys, then. I jest, of course; the music was a selection of oldies, such as "Sweet Caroline", "I Just Called To Say I Love You", and "Bye Bye Love". All were being completely murdered.
A guy who was sitting alone, just a couple of tables away, was tapping the table in time with the noise, and getting rather enthusiastic. The OTT clapping at the end of each song was becoming more nauseating than the singing. The keyboard player then took the lead while the supposed singer of the pair took a short break from "performing". Seconds later I exclaimed that the Clapper had left, but no, he'd stood up and joined the singer a few feet away. Obviously the old git was glad of the attention from the fan, who was no doubt demented and putting in a request for some diabolical tune.
Two nights earlier I'd described as a "Habitat curtain" an ice cream dessert which was layers of various shades of brown and cream, in a glass. The singer was not wearing a Habitat curtain, I announced, but was in fact wearing a Wilko shower curtain. His shirt was black, grey and white, in a weird block-type pattern.
Our guess regarding Clapper's request was proved correct, because Wilko proceeded to sing a peculiar song with great passion, reading from his karaoke screen. Clapper was going like them (the Clappers) and tapping profusely while getting quite animated. He then stood and was moved by a waiter to a table very much closer to the performers, where he started to clap in the style of "Manuel" (from Fawlty Towers) with a flourish which suggested he might suddenly turn a shade of Flamenco!!!
A couple of minutes later, four blokes joined Clapper at his new table. Then, he got up and sauntered over to another table, where he asked a woman of indeterminate age to dance. She accepted the invitation, and they were at it for a while, until the instrumental of "Tulips From Amsterdam" seemed to kill the mood, and they split. The barrel organ music rumbled on, to produce the direst dirge imaginable.
Hilarious!!! Five minutes later I was looking across the restaurant towards the stage, where the keyboard player was doing nothing and achieving even less. To the right and set back a bit, was a curtain which suddenly moved, opened with a wild flourish and a swishing noise that travelled easily to my ears, bypassing the other musical noise. Out stepped Wilko, from a cubicle (or it should really have been a shower, bearing in mind the shower-curtain shirt!). His flamboyance was met with no reaction from anyone, and who knows what he was up to.
"And I said to myself, what a wonderful world" was slurred by the keyboard player, who was having another go at singing. The outcome was similar to when I used to play my mum's 45rpm vinyl singles at 33rpm. "Red roses too" was more like an elongated "Tiramisu".
As they finished up, I wondered if the last track was from Simon & Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence. But it wasn't that; no, it was the clearest, purest dose of peace and quiet, and provided true enlightenment.
It was the sound of one hand clapping.
...
A guy who was sitting alone, just a couple of tables away, was tapping the table in time with the noise, and getting rather enthusiastic. The OTT clapping at the end of each song was becoming more nauseating than the singing. The keyboard player then took the lead while the supposed singer of the pair took a short break from "performing". Seconds later I exclaimed that the Clapper had left, but no, he'd stood up and joined the singer a few feet away. Obviously the old git was glad of the attention from the fan, who was no doubt demented and putting in a request for some diabolical tune.
Two nights earlier I'd described as a "Habitat curtain" an ice cream dessert which was layers of various shades of brown and cream, in a glass. The singer was not wearing a Habitat curtain, I announced, but was in fact wearing a Wilko shower curtain. His shirt was black, grey and white, in a weird block-type pattern.
Our guess regarding Clapper's request was proved correct, because Wilko proceeded to sing a peculiar song with great passion, reading from his karaoke screen. Clapper was going like them (the Clappers) and tapping profusely while getting quite animated. He then stood and was moved by a waiter to a table very much closer to the performers, where he started to clap in the style of "Manuel" (from Fawlty Towers) with a flourish which suggested he might suddenly turn a shade of Flamenco!!!
A couple of minutes later, four blokes joined Clapper at his new table. Then, he got up and sauntered over to another table, where he asked a woman of indeterminate age to dance. She accepted the invitation, and they were at it for a while, until the instrumental of "Tulips From Amsterdam" seemed to kill the mood, and they split. The barrel organ music rumbled on, to produce the direst dirge imaginable.
Hilarious!!! Five minutes later I was looking across the restaurant towards the stage, where the keyboard player was doing nothing and achieving even less. To the right and set back a bit, was a curtain which suddenly moved, opened with a wild flourish and a swishing noise that travelled easily to my ears, bypassing the other musical noise. Out stepped Wilko, from a cubicle (or it should really have been a shower, bearing in mind the shower-curtain shirt!). His flamboyance was met with no reaction from anyone, and who knows what he was up to.
"And I said to myself, what a wonderful world" was slurred by the keyboard player, who was having another go at singing. The outcome was similar to when I used to play my mum's 45rpm vinyl singles at 33rpm. "Red roses too" was more like an elongated "Tiramisu".
As they finished up, I wondered if the last track was from Simon & Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence. But it wasn't that; no, it was the clearest, purest dose of peace and quiet, and provided true enlightenment.
It was the sound of one hand clapping.
...
Thursday, 5 May 2011
5.5.11 Waterworld
It was a fairly brief visit, but I was able to experience the wondrous effects of water jets, and do so at the very reasonable rate of twenty nine pounds. I cannot say I am too fond of water generally. Yes, I do drink the stuff [in both its natural form and after it has found its way into a can of Carlsberg after being tweaked according to a Danish recipe and a fermenting process that involves hops] and I wash in it, but I only really have a swim when on holiday. My Waterworld experience was interesting, and in fact totally unexpected.
The first burst of water came from a tap which was obviously designed to dispense water in blasts; after fooling me for a few seconds by refusing to provide even a drip, it then released air and water with one almighty whoosh. Once in a blue moon, I go to the petrol station to get air and water for the car. Of the four natural elements, I find these two are the most appropriate for helping cars to perform properly, and I have never found much use for earth and fire - not that petrol stations bother with them anyway. Back to the point; water and air are dispensed separately - except at Waterworld.
My second experience was much a repeat of the first, but I was first lulled into a false sense of security and wellbeing. Although the water was either "off" or "on-at-full-blast", it seemed constant in its dual approach. But after less than two minutes, it dried up instantly. The supply held its metaphorical breath, and then sneezed like fuck (so to speak) blasting me with a shower of water.
Would I recommend Waterworld to others? No, not really. Instead, I'd prefer to warn others to avoid this so-called attraction, situated conveniently close to East Midlands Airport. So if you have any sense, then give it a miss; the details are -
Travelodge
Donnington Services
Junction 24, M1
The taps and showers have minds of their own.
...
The first burst of water came from a tap which was obviously designed to dispense water in blasts; after fooling me for a few seconds by refusing to provide even a drip, it then released air and water with one almighty whoosh. Once in a blue moon, I go to the petrol station to get air and water for the car. Of the four natural elements, I find these two are the most appropriate for helping cars to perform properly, and I have never found much use for earth and fire - not that petrol stations bother with them anyway. Back to the point; water and air are dispensed separately - except at Waterworld.
My second experience was much a repeat of the first, but I was first lulled into a false sense of security and wellbeing. Although the water was either "off" or "on-at-full-blast", it seemed constant in its dual approach. But after less than two minutes, it dried up instantly. The supply held its metaphorical breath, and then sneezed like fuck (so to speak) blasting me with a shower of water.
Would I recommend Waterworld to others? No, not really. Instead, I'd prefer to warn others to avoid this so-called attraction, situated conveniently close to East Midlands Airport. So if you have any sense, then give it a miss; the details are -
Travelodge
Donnington Services
Junction 24, M1
The taps and showers have minds of their own.
...
Monday, 2 May 2011
2.5.11 Football Referees
Whether the ball crosses the line or not is clearly of some importance, and it's disappointing when there's the occasional mistake made - though not really surprising. However, let's take a step back and consider how the modern game is played, and it highlights what a mess the game is in.
In the old days, the referee would for ninety minutes do his best to provide an impartial service to the players, making honest decisions on what circumstances presented themselves as he ran around the pitch. There existed a degree of sportsmanship amongst the players themselves, and whilst referees undoubtedly made mistakes (as do players all the time) he would generally enforce a decent standard of fair play for all - a level playing field, in fact. It is this last point regarding 'fair play' that needs expanding upon.
There is now no real concept of fair play, because it's all about 'what you can get away with'. Dress it up as 'gamesmanship' if you like, but it's still at the very best 'unsportsmanlike' and at its worst, plain 'cheating'. So, every week, hundreds of thousands of people go to watch a game, to cheer and to create hostility, as they watch two teams of cheats (and often cheating thugs) have it out with each other. Both teams are out to con the referee. They don't admit this, but there is no disputing it.
Now, there are of course many decent players, players who like to play fairly and honourably. The problem is that any squad will contain others who will pull a fast one at the drop of a hat. So, the team as a whole is tainted. The money at stake in football means that by fair means or foul, teams want (and need) to win. So, managers routinely bemoan their fates when they feel they have lost out to poor refereeing decisions, but seem only vaguely interested when it comes to properly acknowledging that their teams are occasionally lucky fuckers when, say, they were awarded a penalty erroneously.
"It evens itself out over the season" is utter bollocks. In that case, the ref might as well toss a coin rather than make any decisions. If it evens itself out, why get so het up then when one decision works against you?
Back to the main point; players con referees, moan at referees, intimidate referees and act like spoilt kids if they don't get their way. It is unsurprising, then, that refereeing decisions are examined in minute detail. If a ref gets most things right in a game, then "he had a good game" is bandied around, with nods of approval from the analysts'/pundits' bench - as if the result of any game comes in three parts [Liverpool 3, Wigan 3, Ref 2]. If the ref has a supposed poor game, it has come about for one of two reasons, or a mixture of the two:
1 - He seemed to forget all training he ever received, looked the other way at crucial points, had a bet on with Bet365 or somehow conned all the many assessors who over many years deemed his talents sufficiently good to mean refereeing at the top level. In summary, Dr Jekyll became Mr Hyde.
2 - The antics and conning and moaning and bickering and cheating and diving and simulating and gesticulating and rolling around of players served to assist the referee in not quite being able to determine the truth in all situations.
In general, the players deserve no more or less than the standards they themselves live up to. Until players and managers all acknowledge this, and agree that their teams [and businesses / PLCs] are corporately responsible for the mess that means a stroppy twat earning £100k per week can have a tantrum if a ref shows him a yellow card (for cheating) then we're all doomed. To introduce 'goal line technology', the favourite talking point of the weekend, would mean that one small aspect of the game is taken out of the realm of the referee, and put into an adjudication process. This is because we obviously cannot trust a referee because he's more of a scheming, cheating fucker than the players???? Okay, so the players need to know the truth, do they? In that case, there would simply be further calls for technology, because every penalty decision would soon be classed as important enough to warrant a hold-up of play, whilst replays were studied. So that's ball-over-the-line and penalty scenarios taken care of. What about violent conduct - you know, elbow in the face, Rooney style? That would have to warrant a reply. Then, the winning goal was offside and the linesman was unzipping his sleeping bag when the ball was kicked! Again, replay required. So, what's the point of having a referee then?
The conclusion has to be, then, that we introduce technology across the board, and ensure that the WHOLE game is properly managed, and that rules are properly enforced - as a machine or robot would operate. If that is the conclusion, then this would of course mean that every shirt-pull, hold, tug, kick, attempted kick, punch etc is necessarily assessed, along with the language used. So, telling the ref to "Fuck Off" would mean an instant red card [as per the rules] as would telling the ref he's a cheating fucker. "No way, no way, I never touched him" would mean an instant yellow card being show [as per the rules]. The modern players would never cope, games would be abandoned, and the 90 minutes of a game would stretch over about 135 with all the hold ups.
So, if the players want to shout at the ref, call him a cunt, dispute pretty much everything he does, appeal for everything as if lives depended on the outcome, and cheat, then they must be prepared to accept that the saviour of 'technology' will mean consequences for them. We will know not just whether a ball crosses a line, but that they dived to get a penalty, that the elbow never made contact, that they spat on an opponent's shirt, that they squeezed the odd testicle, that in the celebration, two of them used tongues, and that 2 players encroached into the penalty area at the last penalty on each of the seven times it was taken before on the eighth required attempt, it was hit over the bar by the tired player.
You see, there is no answer. Goal line technology is a minor element of an overall crisis in the modern game, created not by referees, but by the players themselves. There is little honour or decency left in the game, certainly at the top level. There is generally more as you look down the leagues, although everyone takes a lead from those at the top - so it's at the top that the rot has got to stop. When 4 players run up to the ref and shout at him, waving fingers, and disagreeing with the decision, the ref should put all four names in his book after four flashes of yellow. That ref would earn respect - temporarily. After the game, the managers would say the game was spoilt by the ref, and the establishment would turn its back on him. Referees apparently 'spoil' games quite often; players apparent never actually 'spoil' a game. Ha!
A fellow blogger recently highlighted the difficulty of deciding at what level of football goal line technology would apply, if introduced. There's more to football than the Premiership. Does everyone else playing the game deserve less? I would actually argue against the technology, and be in favour of better discipline and higher fines/penalties across the game - starting at the top. Let's get some standards back into football before it's too late - though it might already be an impossibility. The authorities are corrupt because the vested interests of so many individuals and of 'big business' are linked with the organising bodies.
In summary, the Premiership deserves every bit of controversy it gets, because 95% of all problems and issues are self-inflicted. Many players are, by and large, greedy overpaid people. Even the honourable are caught up in a no win situation, so have to conform, in the best interests of the team they play for. Did the ball cross the line? Who really cares, it evens itself out over a season, apparently. Heads I win, Tails you lose. And anyway, technology shows that on the first goal attempt where the ball hit the crossbar, the free kick should have been retaken anyway, because the wall was not 10 yards back, but 9 yards, 7 inches. "Those five inches denied my player the chance to allow the ball to dip and creep under the bar - that would have changed the rest of the game", I hear the manager say in a future post-match chat.
...
In the old days, the referee would for ninety minutes do his best to provide an impartial service to the players, making honest decisions on what circumstances presented themselves as he ran around the pitch. There existed a degree of sportsmanship amongst the players themselves, and whilst referees undoubtedly made mistakes (as do players all the time) he would generally enforce a decent standard of fair play for all - a level playing field, in fact. It is this last point regarding 'fair play' that needs expanding upon.
There is now no real concept of fair play, because it's all about 'what you can get away with'. Dress it up as 'gamesmanship' if you like, but it's still at the very best 'unsportsmanlike' and at its worst, plain 'cheating'. So, every week, hundreds of thousands of people go to watch a game, to cheer and to create hostility, as they watch two teams of cheats (and often cheating thugs) have it out with each other. Both teams are out to con the referee. They don't admit this, but there is no disputing it.
Now, there are of course many decent players, players who like to play fairly and honourably. The problem is that any squad will contain others who will pull a fast one at the drop of a hat. So, the team as a whole is tainted. The money at stake in football means that by fair means or foul, teams want (and need) to win. So, managers routinely bemoan their fates when they feel they have lost out to poor refereeing decisions, but seem only vaguely interested when it comes to properly acknowledging that their teams are occasionally lucky fuckers when, say, they were awarded a penalty erroneously.
"It evens itself out over the season" is utter bollocks. In that case, the ref might as well toss a coin rather than make any decisions. If it evens itself out, why get so het up then when one decision works against you?
Back to the main point; players con referees, moan at referees, intimidate referees and act like spoilt kids if they don't get their way. It is unsurprising, then, that refereeing decisions are examined in minute detail. If a ref gets most things right in a game, then "he had a good game" is bandied around, with nods of approval from the analysts'/pundits' bench - as if the result of any game comes in three parts [Liverpool 3, Wigan 3, Ref 2]. If the ref has a supposed poor game, it has come about for one of two reasons, or a mixture of the two:
1 - He seemed to forget all training he ever received, looked the other way at crucial points, had a bet on with Bet365 or somehow conned all the many assessors who over many years deemed his talents sufficiently good to mean refereeing at the top level. In summary, Dr Jekyll became Mr Hyde.
2 - The antics and conning and moaning and bickering and cheating and diving and simulating and gesticulating and rolling around of players served to assist the referee in not quite being able to determine the truth in all situations.
In general, the players deserve no more or less than the standards they themselves live up to. Until players and managers all acknowledge this, and agree that their teams [and businesses / PLCs] are corporately responsible for the mess that means a stroppy twat earning £100k per week can have a tantrum if a ref shows him a yellow card (for cheating) then we're all doomed. To introduce 'goal line technology', the favourite talking point of the weekend, would mean that one small aspect of the game is taken out of the realm of the referee, and put into an adjudication process. This is because we obviously cannot trust a referee because he's more of a scheming, cheating fucker than the players???? Okay, so the players need to know the truth, do they? In that case, there would simply be further calls for technology, because every penalty decision would soon be classed as important enough to warrant a hold-up of play, whilst replays were studied. So that's ball-over-the-line and penalty scenarios taken care of. What about violent conduct - you know, elbow in the face, Rooney style? That would have to warrant a reply. Then, the winning goal was offside and the linesman was unzipping his sleeping bag when the ball was kicked! Again, replay required. So, what's the point of having a referee then?
The conclusion has to be, then, that we introduce technology across the board, and ensure that the WHOLE game is properly managed, and that rules are properly enforced - as a machine or robot would operate. If that is the conclusion, then this would of course mean that every shirt-pull, hold, tug, kick, attempted kick, punch etc is necessarily assessed, along with the language used. So, telling the ref to "Fuck Off" would mean an instant red card [as per the rules] as would telling the ref he's a cheating fucker. "No way, no way, I never touched him" would mean an instant yellow card being show [as per the rules]. The modern players would never cope, games would be abandoned, and the 90 minutes of a game would stretch over about 135 with all the hold ups.
So, if the players want to shout at the ref, call him a cunt, dispute pretty much everything he does, appeal for everything as if lives depended on the outcome, and cheat, then they must be prepared to accept that the saviour of 'technology' will mean consequences for them. We will know not just whether a ball crosses a line, but that they dived to get a penalty, that the elbow never made contact, that they spat on an opponent's shirt, that they squeezed the odd testicle, that in the celebration, two of them used tongues, and that 2 players encroached into the penalty area at the last penalty on each of the seven times it was taken before on the eighth required attempt, it was hit over the bar by the tired player.
You see, there is no answer. Goal line technology is a minor element of an overall crisis in the modern game, created not by referees, but by the players themselves. There is little honour or decency left in the game, certainly at the top level. There is generally more as you look down the leagues, although everyone takes a lead from those at the top - so it's at the top that the rot has got to stop. When 4 players run up to the ref and shout at him, waving fingers, and disagreeing with the decision, the ref should put all four names in his book after four flashes of yellow. That ref would earn respect - temporarily. After the game, the managers would say the game was spoilt by the ref, and the establishment would turn its back on him. Referees apparently 'spoil' games quite often; players apparent never actually 'spoil' a game. Ha!
A fellow blogger recently highlighted the difficulty of deciding at what level of football goal line technology would apply, if introduced. There's more to football than the Premiership. Does everyone else playing the game deserve less? I would actually argue against the technology, and be in favour of better discipline and higher fines/penalties across the game - starting at the top. Let's get some standards back into football before it's too late - though it might already be an impossibility. The authorities are corrupt because the vested interests of so many individuals and of 'big business' are linked with the organising bodies.
In summary, the Premiership deserves every bit of controversy it gets, because 95% of all problems and issues are self-inflicted. Many players are, by and large, greedy overpaid people. Even the honourable are caught up in a no win situation, so have to conform, in the best interests of the team they play for. Did the ball cross the line? Who really cares, it evens itself out over a season, apparently. Heads I win, Tails you lose. And anyway, technology shows that on the first goal attempt where the ball hit the crossbar, the free kick should have been retaken anyway, because the wall was not 10 yards back, but 9 yards, 7 inches. "Those five inches denied my player the chance to allow the ball to dip and creep under the bar - that would have changed the rest of the game", I hear the manager say in a future post-match chat.
...
1.5.11 Pointless (No.11)
Sinitta
Get a life, please, luv . . . . . .
Can you please stop talking about Simon Cowell - apparently that's all you can do, but please take up a hobby or something, so you have a new focus. Looking good for your age is not reason enough for me to forgive your tiresome input.
...
Get a life, please, luv . . . . . .
Can you please stop talking about Simon Cowell - apparently that's all you can do, but please take up a hobby or something, so you have a new focus. Looking good for your age is not reason enough for me to forgive your tiresome input.
...
Sunday, 1 May 2011
1.5.11 Royal Wedding
Have you ever sidled up to a fish tank, perhaps in a public building or a company reception area, and spent a few minutes looking at the assortment of tropical fish moving around slowly, blissfully ignorant of the wider world. If you do so, there's a fair chance that within any tank holding more than a dozen fish, there are two which stand out from the rest. They will be a funny pair of misfits, often slightly larger than the rest, and typically rather odd looking. You will find yourself transfixed, and your eyes will be drawn to them. When you switch to try and take in the other fish around then, you'll find you cannot ignore the two oddities and somehow your eyes will have returned to the two special fish in a few seconds.
The Royal Wedding was quite entertaining, and most seem to agree that it was a great success. I must say that overall, it was indeed pretty good, as these things go. The greatest interest came from people watching, albeit via TV pictures rather than actual presence. Victoria Beckham's hat was a joke - like her hair extensions, come to that. And her shoes - well, I won't waste my time. People emerged from the Abbey on to the pavement, and this provided a source of mild amusement, as the slightly dazed guests (most of whom would have seen bugger all of the service) looked a bit lost. I saw an older woman [similar in looks to the one on Eastenders, who was Kat Slater's mum - try to avoid the programme, and have been successful for a long long time now] wearing what closely resembled a bog brush for a hat. A 'Top Shop' girl emerged, holding a mobile to her ear, after going cold turkey on the communications front for a couple of hours. And of course, the queen impersonated a lemon Bon-Bon, and from her expression, had sucked one for the service and cut the roof of her mouth - that, or Prince Harry had secretly switched her 2oz portion for sweet and sours.
Zara Phillips was able to pick up Al Jazeera via the satellite dish that masqueraded as her hat. However, a relative of hers went one better, and was able to pick up alien transmissions from the radar station that served as her own adornment - it cannot be called a hat, because it was more of an intergalactic symbol (or perhaps an updated squiggle for the artist formerly known as Prince). I refer of course to one of the two fish.
I wish Kate and William well (not that they'll give a hoot about that) and it was nice to have a day off work. They will lead privileged lives whatever the global economic conditions, and their images and goings-on will fill newspapers and magazines for ever. The shame, however, is that instead of having a bit of real interest in the monarchy, with William and Kate in the hot seats, we have to endure more dire, dusty tosh as the incumbent totters towards her last days. I say this with no animosity at all, and it can't be that long now anyway. No, the really painful prospect is the 'filling' between Liz & Phil, and the youngsters William & Kate. I refer of course to the pointless filling that will be Charles and Camilla. Their joint presence at the top of the tree will disappoint, annoy, test and tarnish any good feeling. We will have to endure more old-style pompous rubbish from the deranged Charlie, who will force us to have to put up with the hanger-on at his side, guffawing and nodding, and imitating the lunatic great aunt that you know is in your family somewhere, but thankfully hasn't shown up for twenty years.
So the Royal Wedding was generally well received, and we now all look forward to who knows what. In the meantime, let it not be said that TMWSC gave insufficient attention to the tropical fish. I felt I was looking at a fish tank while watching TV, when I saw two slightly over-sized, strange looking fish, slowly moving, and adopting perplexed/vacant expressions. One was a peculiar shape, pale blue, and slightly disproportionate. The other looked a bit manic, and I got a sense that there might be blood in the water. The bulging eyes suggested an alertness, but this was actually the complete opposite of reality, as tests have proven that between the gills, these creature have little but a buoyancy aid. The one that looked 'nude' in colour came with a strange growth on top; as mentioned already, it resembled a strange radar device, and it could have been a 'tag'. Whether Ben Fogle had set up a wildlife monitoring project in the area is something still to be verified.
Beatrice and Eugenie stole the show, and looked like they were auditioning to play strange new Roald Dahl characters. The ludicrous amounts of money spent by guests on dresses and hats was never more wasted than on this pair. I have previously labelled them 'Pointless' in this blog, and nothing has changed (nor will it, ever).
...
The Royal Wedding was quite entertaining, and most seem to agree that it was a great success. I must say that overall, it was indeed pretty good, as these things go. The greatest interest came from people watching, albeit via TV pictures rather than actual presence. Victoria Beckham's hat was a joke - like her hair extensions, come to that. And her shoes - well, I won't waste my time. People emerged from the Abbey on to the pavement, and this provided a source of mild amusement, as the slightly dazed guests (most of whom would have seen bugger all of the service) looked a bit lost. I saw an older woman [similar in looks to the one on Eastenders, who was Kat Slater's mum - try to avoid the programme, and have been successful for a long long time now] wearing what closely resembled a bog brush for a hat. A 'Top Shop' girl emerged, holding a mobile to her ear, after going cold turkey on the communications front for a couple of hours. And of course, the queen impersonated a lemon Bon-Bon, and from her expression, had sucked one for the service and cut the roof of her mouth - that, or Prince Harry had secretly switched her 2oz portion for sweet and sours.
Zara Phillips was able to pick up Al Jazeera via the satellite dish that masqueraded as her hat. However, a relative of hers went one better, and was able to pick up alien transmissions from the radar station that served as her own adornment - it cannot be called a hat, because it was more of an intergalactic symbol (or perhaps an updated squiggle for the artist formerly known as Prince). I refer of course to one of the two fish.
I wish Kate and William well (not that they'll give a hoot about that) and it was nice to have a day off work. They will lead privileged lives whatever the global economic conditions, and their images and goings-on will fill newspapers and magazines for ever. The shame, however, is that instead of having a bit of real interest in the monarchy, with William and Kate in the hot seats, we have to endure more dire, dusty tosh as the incumbent totters towards her last days. I say this with no animosity at all, and it can't be that long now anyway. No, the really painful prospect is the 'filling' between Liz & Phil, and the youngsters William & Kate. I refer of course to the pointless filling that will be Charles and Camilla. Their joint presence at the top of the tree will disappoint, annoy, test and tarnish any good feeling. We will have to endure more old-style pompous rubbish from the deranged Charlie, who will force us to have to put up with the hanger-on at his side, guffawing and nodding, and imitating the lunatic great aunt that you know is in your family somewhere, but thankfully hasn't shown up for twenty years.
So the Royal Wedding was generally well received, and we now all look forward to who knows what. In the meantime, let it not be said that TMWSC gave insufficient attention to the tropical fish. I felt I was looking at a fish tank while watching TV, when I saw two slightly over-sized, strange looking fish, slowly moving, and adopting perplexed/vacant expressions. One was a peculiar shape, pale blue, and slightly disproportionate. The other looked a bit manic, and I got a sense that there might be blood in the water. The bulging eyes suggested an alertness, but this was actually the complete opposite of reality, as tests have proven that between the gills, these creature have little but a buoyancy aid. The one that looked 'nude' in colour came with a strange growth on top; as mentioned already, it resembled a strange radar device, and it could have been a 'tag'. Whether Ben Fogle had set up a wildlife monitoring project in the area is something still to be verified.
Beatrice and Eugenie stole the show, and looked like they were auditioning to play strange new Roald Dahl characters. The ludicrous amounts of money spent by guests on dresses and hats was never more wasted than on this pair. I have previously labelled them 'Pointless' in this blog, and nothing has changed (nor will it, ever).
...
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