28.4.14 HS2 - Common Sense Nil

I remain unconvinced that there is any sense or justification in spending billions of pounds on HS2.  First, let's look at the alleged time-saving benefits of the new facility, and see if things might stack up.

LONDON	Before	After HS2
(To/From)	Now	Phase 1	Phase 2
Birmingham	1:12	0:49	0:49
Manchester	1:58	1:40	1:08
Liverpool	2:01	1:50	1:36
Leeds	1:59	n/a	1:28
Sheffield	2:05	n/a	1:10
Newcastle	2:37	n/a	2:18
Edinburgh	4:00	n/a	3:39
Glasgow	4:08	4:00	3:37

The time saving for the three main destinations after phase one are 23 minutes for Birmingham, 18 minutes for Manchester, and 11 minutes for Liverpool. Now, call be a cunt, but I would say that these time savings are so fucking irrelevant that there is simply no point in spending billions and causing more disruption than a civil war!

Okay, so the benefits for Manchester are improved after the completion of the second phase, making a 50 minute difference (how the fuck, I've no idea) and Liverpool time-savers get 25 minutes of their lives to do more than sit on a train. All of this shite assumes that there is no carry-through of the threats to times after concerns about the environment - the ones that demand a slower service to reduce emissions/environmental damage/noise/pollution/rising damp.  

Now might be a good time to raise the issue of ticket prices.  I would guess that to travel on the HS2 line will be no bargain, and that tickets will be cuntingly and extortionately priced; why would it be any different?  So the real benefits are minimal.  Just like the M42 Toll, the price is high for the convenience of avoiding Birmingham, and whilst many people would no doubt very much like to avoid Birmingham, the £5.50 charge is a bit off-putting.  In the same way, a slightly longer trip at a cheaper rate is likely to appeal to many more people, especially as a few minutes saving is not exactly going to earn them anything.

All schemes are devoid of common sense, as part of the planning, the implementation, and in assessing outcomes.  So, there will be delays, leaves on the line, cunts on the track, and maintenance works, which will all slow things down.  The benefits will not be forthcoming at anything like the speed of the fucking train (when there's nothing causing a hold-up).

Anyone who lives within a mile of the proposed route is basically fucked for the next ten years minimum.  There will be compulsory purchase orders, and others who are even unluckier, where there is no requirement to take the house and land away from owners at a price, but simply massive disruption and inconvenience, while the value of their assets sinks lower than a whore's knickers.  Just as we are now well used to the "health and safety" excuse that's bandied about as justification for pretty much any nonsense, I fully expect the justification of stupid actions and unfair treatment to be "HS2". Heaven forbid there are reasons to quote H&S and HS2 together, because that sort of justification would allow just about anything to be done or not be done. It's all akin to being back in a world war, when "it's for the war effort" was pretty much all one had to say to ride rough over anything.  In the name of HS2, shit will be shovelled and spread everywhere.

The politicians will vote through the bills and push forward with the whole fiasco.  This white elephant of a scheme will make the Dome seem like a good-value bargain, seeing as it cost "only" £800million.  How can a country that's so badly off that it is cutting services all over the place, simultaneously consider spending what will most likely be £100,000,000,000 on rail travel? Have no doubt at all that the £43 billion (at 2011 costings) will turn into a MINIMUM of 2.5 times that, by the time it's all worked out.

Fucking unbelievable!

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27.4.14 Big Deal, Manchester United

Apparently it was all down to "pace and tempo".  I refer to the success by Manchester United.  I will completely avoid a debate on there being any fucking difference between 'pace' and 'tempo', especially when used by anyone in the footballing world, and instead challenge the "success" aspect of the game yesterday.

Ryan Giggs (left) with £300,000 per week Wayne Rooney

Manchester United played at home, against a team likely to get relegated, Norwich, whose away record is the worst in the Premier League.  Manchester United, with 40,000+ fans spurring the team on, after some exuberance and jubilation over the temporary appointment of Ryan Giggs, managed to win the game.  Big fucking deal!  The players seemed to decide that they would try to win the game yesterday (a rare attitude from most) and for that level of input by players whose weekly wages generally exceed most people's annual wages, we are encouraged to jump on surfboards and ride the wave of calls for Giggs to be appointed permanent manager?  Do me a favour.

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26.4.14 Comedy at the Co-operative

The quick visit to the Co-op for milk, papers and a lottery ticket was less speedy than I'd expected.  Dawdling old women provided the first obstacle, but once at the start of the first aisle, I veered left and sped up the parallel one towards the milk at the back of the store.  Inanimate objects then provided further obstacles - stupidly positions displays of shite that turned the wide aisle into two splinters of space, one of which was hogged by a twat restocking shelves.  I dodged an oncoming basket waver, and reached the milk.  The return journey was less fraught, until the sight of the queue dampened my spirits.

Struggling on her own at one of the two kiosk tills was "Olive" - a worker so reminiscent of the character from On The Buses that I'd swear she was a reincarnation.  My dampened spirits were fucking soaked through when my ears were assaulted by a loud cunt behind me.  Two blokes and a woman had joined the queue behind me, and were unimpressed with its length.  The shorter man of about fifty was the noisy cunt.  His mission seemed to be as loud as possible and make sure everyone in the shop count hear every syllable.  He succeeded.  It seemed he'd been away (fuck knows where - he missed out that bit) and hadn't yet been to bed; it was 11.20am.  He was apparently "living a rock'n'roll lifestyle".  Twat.  "I haven't had any sleep - I haven't even had a pint yet," he announced, drowning out the sound of a fighter jet passing overhead.  [I made that bit up]

The shelf-stacker took up his position at one of the checkout lanes, to provide relief for Olive.  The relief was actually for ME, seeing as it allowed the noisy cunt to pay and go rather more quickly.  Thank God he didn't want a lottery ticket, requiring him to wait for Olive to conduct affairs.

Behind me was a small, old woman, one of the little obstacles who'd caught up by this stage.  She seemed intent on trying to nudge me forward, even though there was nowhere for me to go.  Talk about invading personal space! As the chap in front of me departed, I stepped forward and awaited input from the enigma that is Olive.  She scanned the milk and place it in a carrier bag for me, showing initiative and helpfulness.  She then undid all that good work with her unusual approach to dealing with newspapers.

The Saturday editions of the Daily Mail and The Sun are enhanced through the inclusion of television guides for the week ahead, and hampered with the extras which generally consider of leaflets and mini-catalogues for various companies touting comfy clothing for old folk, Argos special offers, offers for seeds or sofa flyers.  This week was no exception, and the extra padding served to strengthen the newspapers.  Olive saw this (or should that be felt) as a challenge, and proceeded with efforts to bend the combined mass of paper in half, against the spine.  I am quite sure that every paperback every read by Olive is a victim of abuse, with a broken spine and bent corners.  The counter served her as a back-stop, as she leaned into the manoeuvre and downwards on to the counter, attempting to unnecessarily bend the cunting fuck out of today's news and this week's TV.

She relented as I asked for a lottery ticket, and as I took from her the papers, she pissed about with the ticket machine.  I allowed the newspapers' chemical bonds to adopt their former positions, and order was restores as a simply lengthways fold before a slip under my left arm brought peace and harmony to the Co-op.  Not as much restoring to harmony as the contribution of the noisy cunt, who'd left the shop as I was watching Olive's origami demonstration. Through the window I saw him cross the road in a fashion that defies explanation.  Sadly no passing joyrider was around to flick him into the gutter, and he entered a pub opposite, no doubt anxious to 'entertain' people who have nothing better to do than listen, sup beer at 11.24am, and pray for noisier fighter jets.  This bloke makes Fred Elliott seem like the Horse Whisperer!

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26.4.14 Assange - Disgraceful State of Affairs

Assange Lunacy

It seems that so far we have, via our taxes, spent £6million on watching Julian Assange.  He's been holed up in the Ecuadorian Embassy since June 2012. The daily cost is supposedly £11,000.  I find this fucking baffling.  He is a wanted man in a couple of countries, yet it is British taxpayers who are forced to waste money watching the bloke.  I volunteer my services for the task - together with a couple of mates, I reckon I could save the country a load of money.  £500 per night for a nice hotel and meals, for me and two mates, and a £500 per day fee each - so, £2,000 per day.  Surely that would save £9,000 per day or am I being silly?

Meanwhile an 11-year-old boy called Max, who has more than 110 seizures per day because of his rare form of epilepsy, is hoping his parents can raise £65,000 for treatment in the USA - seeing as there's fuck all of use available in the UK.  Surely just one fucking copper could stand outside the front door of the Ecuadorian Embassy for a couple of weeks, to pay for his treatment?

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26.4.14 Double Yellow Lines

Double Yellow Lines (DYL)

They mean very little, in most parts of the country.  Unless you're in a city, and/or there are wardens about as part of daily life (making a fortune) then there's little chance of anything being done about drivers who simply decide they can, and will, stop to shop.

Co-operative stores seem to be a magnet for those in desperate need of a short stay on DYL without any fear of receiving a fine.  I suppose one could argue that they are imposing a fine upon themselves via the exorbitant prices charged by the Co-operative ["Not that good with food"] stores, but that's another subject altogether.  Sadly, Co-ops often have cash point machines alongside (or inside) and this is an added attraction to the parking hazard creation scheme.

Double (Yellow) Standards

I see in the paper that the police force in Nottinghamshire has had to confirm that advice" has been given to staff who decided to take the piss, as in the above picture.  This is hardly news, though.  In fact, it is the case that in most areas of the country, the police have no interest in or responsibility for parking, and that Councils alone are charged with keeping good order in that regard. Ludicrously, a local council worker in a hi-vis jacket could give a copper a ticket, while a (traffic) copper could only do so if the vehicle could be assessed as 'causing an obstruction'.

Yesterday, at 3.10pm, I had to negotiate traffic which was fucked beyond belief.  An Arriva bus had stopped, and was rather too close to a school bus that had also stopped, coming from the other direction.  There was a road-narrowing bollard/obstacle/path extension to negotiate, along with a pompous self-righteous lollypop woman. All of this was made worse by a cunt of a cop van parked on DYL.  This obstruction was a flagrant bit of cunting selfishness and a display of double standards.  I had only just passed the Co-op as well, where the road-narrowing efforts of three parked cunts had caused a hold-up. It will come as no surprise that the bus stops are positioned right outside the Co-op as well, and this generally fucks up traffic flow.

When the parking rules are not observed by the police, then it is hardly going to help any efforts to stop cunts simply stopping on DYL outside shops and causing cars to wait, and alternate with oncoming vehicles, to get past.  It seems there's no appetite to deal with the issues.  Do 50mph in a 40mph zone, and you'll be fined.  Park outside a school, and occasional purges (unless there is one of those surveillance smart cars about) will target you, and issue fines without any suggestions as to how the cunting fuck 500 kids can be collected from the fucking establishment!  However, any cunt can leave a car outside a Co-op and be free to sift through the merchandise, looking for something for tea that won't cause bankruptcy.  Common sense will be lacking, in terms of the pricing policy, by the way.  For example, the "Loved By Us" Lasagne: 800g is £3.00, whereas the more sensibly sized 400g is a rip-off £2.60.  No, I didn't want to buy two of them for £4, because I'd have bought the 800g one and cut it in half!

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22.4.14 Moyes Moves

After just ten months, David Moyes is leaving Manchester United.  The dismal season has caused Man Utd to become a bit of a joke.  I do have some sympathy for Moyes, because he was following in the footsteps of Alex Ferguson, who somehow managed to squeeze every drop of effort and talent out of his various teams.  Moyes was always likely to disappoint, despite having proved himself capable at Everton.  I suspect (though he'd never admit it) that Ferguson is quietly pleased that his own exalted position and reputation are reinforced through Moyes's failure.

However, I was astounded at his ludicrous decision to spend £27.5million on Marouane Fellaini.  This quite unbelievable action brought into question his judgement at a very early stage.  The lazy Belgian Thug is most certainly not worth that much; in today's farcical climate for transfer fees, I'd say he'd be generously viewed as a £5m - £10m player.  On this basis, I thought Moyes had lost the plot, and there was an air of desperation about the transfer from his old club, as the September deadline loomed.

Juan Mata is a good player, and I've no idea why Chelsea seemed to leave him out of the side so often.  Again though, there was a sense of desperation as Moyes secured his services for £37million in January, hoping that this one signing would be enough to instantly get United back on track.

There can be no doubt that the overpaid players at Man Utd have let themselves down, the supporters down and Moyes down.  Even so, you'd hope that David Moyes was appointed because he has abilities to motivate and manage.

As for the temporary arrangement of Ryan Giggs taking charge, I view this as an irrelevance; Man Utd will win nothing this season, and so his care-taking for three games means nothing.  Sadly, he will view this as some sort of honour, and lap up the acclaim.  This is the man who captained the "British" team in the Olympics in 2012, and refused to sing the National Anthem.  I view that as double standards!  Maybe he was still miffed at not being able to shag his sister-in-law.

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21.4.14 Harry Potter and A Prisoner In Your Own Home

In the style of Michael Portillo and his references to his Bradshaw's guide on Great British Railway Journeys, I find myself referring to my Daily Mail TV Guide while reviewing the offerings this week.  There is not too much of note or interest this week, but I do need to mention just a few things.

ITV has proved itself to be lazy as fuck; after a recent nauseating run of Harry Potter films that mercifully ended a few months ago, Saturday afternoon saw the pointless and unnecessary reappearance of HP and the Chamber of Secrets.  Disgraceful milking of a film, shown immediately after Never Say Never Again, the James Bond film that you may have seen 39 times before. Then, on Sunday afternoon, as if withdrawal symptoms would threaten mankind, ITV served up A View To A Kill, with the dire waling of Duran Duran in the background.  Monday at 3pm sees HP and the Cuntin Prisoner of Azkaban resurface.

Cookery dominates the schedules as ever, and the BBC loves to ram down our throats (repeatedly - and I mean that literally) anything it can if there's a food theme.  So we get served Mary Fucking Berry and Paul Hollywood in The Great British Bake Off Easter Masterclass , which, seeing as it's a repeat, must be from last year?

Mary Berry

On BBC2 on Monday, there's an outrageous piss-take with an hour of The Great British Bake Off Revisted. Later on, just before Restaurant Wars, we get another portion of the Great British Menu.  It gets worse on Tuesday, when BBC1 shows Spring Kitchen with Tom Kerridge, and my Daily Mail Guide tells me that: "The chef prepares a range of springtime dishes as he celebrates the best of the season's ingredients."  What bollocks, and as if I needed telling that!  Over on BBC2, after Great British Menu, we have our patience tested by the irritating Fern Britton, in The Big Allotment Challenge.  I suppose we must be grateful in one single respect only - the name of the programme contains "Big" rather than "Great".  Fern (the one who advocates a staple diet of stomach shrinkage while denying any surgical procedure) is looking marginally smaller than when she used to fill a sofa, and is touting her crappy competition that will test a few herberts from the gardening world who are keen to go before unheard of judges, to listen to criticism and sob.  This week a challenge is, according to the Daily Mail: "To present Jim Buttress [me neither] with six perfectly matching, snappily crisp, blemish-free runner beans that must also be as straight as possible."  Laughable entertainment.

On Wednesday, with only Great British Menu, Spring Kitchen with Tom Kerridge ["The chef prepares a range of springtime dishes as he celebrates the best of the season's food."] and a repeated edition of The Great British Bake Off Masterclass, BBC1 decides to top up the cookery shit with Masterchef. This involves another 6 amateurs, but shouldn't that be eight, to include John Torode and Greg Wallace?  The four-way cooking assault carries on for Thursday and Friday, although Mary Fucking Berry gets a half-hour slot as well on Friday morning.

Robin Williams

On Saturday night, on Movie Mix, there was the excellent film One Hour Photo, with Robin Williams.  Rather better than the relentless mix of 007 films and Potter piss from which you cannot escape - Harry Potter and A Prisoner In Your Own Home.

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14.4.14 Revenge of the Chickens

I should have known better, and taken notice of the omen - the refusal of the trolley to let go of the pack when I stuck a pound coin in the fucker.  Thus, the extra long line of trolleys remain extra long, as I retrieved my coin and released a trolley from the shorter line alongside.

Morrisons is a dire place, and I was reminded of this during my visit.  The cider boxes were £12 and I was disappointed because in Asda they are £10, and this was after the increase from a recent offer price of £8.  Six bottles for £12 is of no interest to any sane person.  Then I saw the tags on the various shelves stating "4 Bottles for £6", and I decided that I'd struggle with four loose bottles rather than pay excessively for a box to contain the things.  Anyway, I digress.

The chickens were smaller than they used to be - just 1.3kg each.  Still, the "3 for £10" offer means this still represents good value and I can boil the carcasses for Larry (my dog).  The inanimate objects were placed in the trolley along with a few other items, bringing the total to around £40.  It was at this stage that the true annoyance of Morrisons started to eat away at my tolerance levels.

Nineteen checkouts, but only SIX of the cunts were in use!  Consequently there was a small queue at each; three were at the far end, and three at the other, where I found myself pondering.  The stakes were insignificant in comparison to those during the First World War, but I suspect the gazing over no man's land was akin to my surveillance for a few seconds of the checkouts at Morrisons. In desperation, and fooled into doing so by the completely empty self-scanning area, I pushed the trolley to one of the eight self-service terminals.

On previous visits, I'd always succumbed to the superiority of a machine which treated me like a thick cunt and pissed me about.  I'd resolved to avoid them in future, yet here I was, staring at the light grey machine that was daring me to use it.  I decided that the chickens ought to go first, to test the water, so to speak.  I scanned one, and it registered okay, so I placed it in the carrier bag to the left.  This was sufficient for the machine to avoid any sort of malfunction, and it was able to allow further progress.  Another beep and repositioning of 1.3kg led to the bag holding two of the dead birds.  This was going so well that I fell into the trap of thinking I might have made the right call in avoiding queuing at a (wo)manned ordinary checkout.  HOWEVER . . . I was wrong.

The Third Chicken (not related to The Third Man - Graham Greene) was made of stronger stuff, and its 1.3kg caused, upon entry into the bag already occupied by two mates, a machine malfunction.  The machine went into spasm, and started issuing instructions - "assistance required" was enough to send me past the acceptable level of tolerance, and I decided I was officially frustrated.  Behind me, another completely useless fucking bird was dithering, and talking to a mate who was similarly attired in a green uniform.  Instead of assistance, and some cunting attention, she was gabbling and of no help at all. I decided to pick up the carrier bag holding the three chickens, and plonk it in my trolley.  I wheeled it out of the self-serve area and I joined the queue at the very first checkout, and occupied the same place I'd have been in without the pointless detour to the self-service zone.  As I stood in line, the dithering cunt suddenly had a stroke.

I jest, of course, because she did not have a stroke, but was nevertheless fucking disorientated, and panicking; before her was a machine that was having a fucking chicken fit, and the red light on a pole above the thing was flashing red.  The non-assistant looked around, and tried to work out what was happening.  She rabbited (or chickened) to her fellow non-assistant, trying to establish whether anyone had absconded without paying for stuff.  I felt a pair of eyes looking in my direction, then another, and then some mumbling. Meanwhile I watched my goods arriving at the head of the conveyor belt as the shopper in front of me was told the bill.

After the customer in front of me had paid by credit card and as vacating the packing area, I noticed that the non-assistant in self-serve-city had stick a cunt of a big notice on the machine I'd used.  It read "Machine Not In Service - Sorry For Any Inconvenience".  The light was still flashing red.  I was pleased.

As I left the store, the dead machine was no doubt waiting for an engineer's visit.  How the fuck three scans of a chicken can send the fucker into IT orbit without the non-assistant being able to 're-set' it I have no idea. Maybe the Morrisons end-of-day review will show three missing chickens; who knows.  If the non-assistant had been bothered to fucking assist, I'd have left the store sooner, the machine would be working, and she'd have earned her minimum wage.  As it was, a useless non-assistant was chatting and being of no assistance in an area that was unwanted by most shoppers.

I will try to avoid Morrisons for a while, unless buying chickens.  That would give us (the chickens and me) a chance to fuck up a till.

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14.4.14 You Plonker Rodney - Thorntons Gets It Right

I have read today about the total daftness that occurred recently in Bury, which is eight miles north-west of Manchester in case you are oblivious.  What happened in Bury?  Well, it's a lot less exciting than Vegas, and it doesn't have to stay there.

Jo-Anne Scholes had intended to present her three-year-old son with a Thorntons chocolate Easter egg, inscribed with his name - Rooney. Apparently the store refused, on the grounds that this would cause copyright issues.  Despite the fact that using your own name can never be a breach of copyright because names cannot be subject to copyright, the dozy staff managed to maintain the stance successfully, and ended up with a compromise through the inscribing of the boy's full name on the egg.  So, Rooney Scholes was duly piped on to the surface of the egg.

Unfortunate Name

Some of the comments by Mrs Scholes are quite amusing:

"What should have been a nice surprise for Easter has turned into a total farce."

"It's just pathetic that they wouldn't let a child have his name on an Easter egg for fear of upsetting Wayne Rooney."

"It's just nonsense anyway.  Rooney is his name; does that mean he's not allowed to have his name on anything because he shares it with a famous footballer?"

The words "barmy" and "beyond belief" word bandied as well, and Jo-Anne said that having his full name on the chocolate looked "a bit silly really".

Summary

No, luv, what's a bit silly is calling your son Rooney, and when you have a surname of Scholes, then that's even more daft.  The only thing barmy is your choice to force the poor kid to live with Rooney as a first name simply because YOU are an Manchester United fan.  Where did you get your inspiration? Probably from one of your two cats - Cantona and Berbatov.  I believe Thorntons had every right to refuse to produce an egg with 'Rooney' on it; not because of any possibilities of a breach of copyright, but because endorsing any use of Rooney as a first name is itself madness.  Unfortunately the 'nice surprise' that's turned into a 'farce' is rather overshadowed by the farcical name that's going to make your kid's life hell.  Luckily she didn't call you "Cleverley", Rooney.  By the way, Ms Scholes, have you seen the Only Fools and Horses episode about Rodney and Rooney?  Silly mare.

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13.4.14 Britain's Got Talent 2014 - Oh Dear!

Irritation 1

It is easy to get irritated by Britain's Got Talent.  The irritation arises immediately, every time a foreign act is sent out on to the stage.  This is not a new subject, and there has been criticism in the past from many quarters (including myself) over the stupidity of a programme which makes specific reference to 'Britain' while accepting international acts.  The supposed defence for allowing visitors is that the foreign acts are "discovered in Britain".  Sorry, that just doesn't wash!  I have no gripe with anyone appearing who lives in Britain, wherever they were born.  I do, though, suggest that the arrival via plane or boat of any act is hardly grounds for inclusion in BGT.  Quite simply these "talent tourists" should be excluded, and told to feature in their own countries' versions of the 'talent' franchise.

For the first programme, we were fed 15 acts, 7 of which were non-British. This is so cunting irritating that I accuse ITV and Simon Cowell of ignoring the wishers of viewers, ignoring common sense, and being stupid.

Irritation 2

The next fuck-up that causes immense irritation is the perpetual sob-story peddling by the producers.  I do not give a fucking shit whether a contestant has toothache, paranoia, leprosy, flashbacks to bullying in the playground, or whether their auntie had leukaemia as a kid.  This show is NOT about such stuff, but allegedly about 'talent'.

Irritation 3

David Walliams.  I will expand on this only to say that I get irritated by his pathetic efforts to disagree with the others, usually by saying he likes something just for the sake of being a twat, when any sane person would not only eject an act or be critical, but fire a Taser at the contestant!

Irritation 4

Amanda Holden is famous for . . . . . hang on, I'll get there in a moment . . . . . sorry, all I can come up with is being a judge on BGT.  Apparently she appeared in a few tame sitcoms many years ago, and did a few lads' mags. Her own talent level is thus set at the equivalent of the line on a car's fuel gauge, when the light comes on to indicate there's a gallon left and something needs to be injected or you'll be going nowhere.  Devoid of talent herself (other than to cry at the drop of a lipstick or Botox needle) she manages to have a hoot and pass judgement without any qualification to do so.

Yesterday's show, the first in a line of programmes that will stretch the powers of endurance of even the most couched of potatoes, was rather weak in content.  Of the fifteen acts, only four were worth watching.

Rocky the owl and his 'trainer' were simply a waste of fucking space, and five minutes of my life went down the pan.  As for Sean eating a fucking onion, how did the producers think for one pissing second that this could be decent television?  Then came Luke, allegedly a 'dancer', and he was worthy of simply nothing at all.  Then we had the line dancers, or country dancers, or whatever they want to be known as, introduced by Shane.  They were lucky to have followed three acts that were atrocious, making the dancing seem quite good. Unfortunately it was neither good nor worthy of four 'yes' comments from the judges.

Finally, we had something slightly more interesting to deal with - the boy band which was called Collabro.  The VT was nauseating, and we learned that the five chaps had been together just a month, the answer that they gave Alesha Dixon when she enquired.  Her retort was: "A month - oh, not long."  A month is a fucking month, Alesha!  It is as long as a month!  The song choice was either weird or, if you want to dispense with the 'w' and rearrange the letters, dire.  Nevertheless, the sound they made was unconventional and reasobaly good (if you forget about the actual words they were stringing together).  The funniest part was the key change; the chaps were already standing, and so at the key change, it was the audience which stood.  "That was bloody brilliant," said Amanda Holden, testing the ITV swear-o-meter.

Peter from Germany thought he was Andre Rieu - but he was a long way short, as well as a long way from home.  He seemingly loved his wife (which of course brought applause . . . Why?) and had written a song for her.  This turned out to be a rather loose interpretation of his efforts, which were more akin to a funeral dirge being spat from his violin and gob.  Amanda had such vivid lipstick that the gobsmacked 'O' shape she adopted with her mouth was reminiscent of the classic 1970's sex doll.  Cowell at least stated that it was "fantastically bad", leaving "Weird Walliams" to say that IT was weird, but that he liked it before voting "Yes".  Arsehole.  At least Alesha said 'No' and Amanda had the sense to say "Nein".  I shouted from my sofa: "Minus Nein!"

Jerome from France was simply awful, drumming in a hamster wheel.  It would have been rather more entertaining if he'd been travelling at 10 revolutions per minute instead of just half of one.  As for Mzz Kimberley, the tranny from Detroit, she/he was awful; dressed as Wonder Woman, and roller skating while singing "Born This Way" was the height of madness.  "Total rubbish," Cowell called it.  The Greek chap, Georgio from Kos, was just as bad, and a waste of TV time.

Then we came to Nikita from Ukraine.  The VT sob story was obligatory, and then the question of the night was posed to him by Alesha Dixon, although the question stood well enough on its own as a general enquiry: "And why Britain's Got Talent?"  Indeed, Alesha, why, why indeed?  The nice chap said he was proud to represent Ukraine, and I suddenly wondered why anyone thought Ukraine needed representation on BGT.  This contest is NOT a variety version of the Eurovision Song Contest!

The competition was pathetic - I am not referring on this occasion to BGT, but to the competition as explained by Ant & Dec, to win a Range Rover and £20,000.  The puzzler that demanded I waste £1.54 on was: "Which British secret agent has the code number 007?"  When Dec said, "Good Luck" I was baffled.  You cannot wish good luck to the whole nation when only one cunt can win, as it makes no sense.  Only one person is going to be lucky; so, perhaps he was wishing me good luck in trying to select the right answer to the easiest question ever posed!  Twats.

Samantha was nervous, and was quickly ejected.  Lizzie was equally nervous and ejected equally quickly.  Lucy was nervous, but proceeded to stick around. This was because ITV had to run the VT and make sure we understood the back story about bullying, the separation of her mum and dad, and how she'd had a tough time.  The mother got her fair share of airtime while I tried to decide whether to vomit before of after the performance.  Lucy sang perfectly, and was surely the outstanding act of the night.  How much better it would have been to see her take to the stage, and simply sing.  All the shite that we have to put up with detracts from the simple performance element of the show.  ITV - wake up and stop wasting fucking time on back stories, sob stories, and any other irrelevances.

The street dancers (Lauren and Terrell) were interesting; it was a bit basic, but reasonable, and compared with some of the acts, more than presentable.

The final pair on stage was Nico and Paddy, the 39-year-old bloke and the 79-year-old woman.  The antics they got up to were amazing, yet so "wrong" on some levels.  I suppose they did deserve to go through, although the pointless pressing of a golden buzzer by the pointless Amanda was, well, pointless. They'd have got through anyway and I simply don't understand.

In summary, there was little point in seeing anyone other than Collabro, Lucy and the last two dance acts.  The other 11 efforts were padding.

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12.4.14 A Month Off School

Vina Pankhania is a headteacher at a Leicester primary school, although not for four weeks of term time in May.  She's being given unpaid leave to get married.  Talk about double standards.  Despite having 13 weeks at her disposal in any year, and a rather long holiday every summer, she somehow thinks it is okay to take time off during a term.  Meanwhile, any parent who decides to take a child out of school while she is away will be hit with a £60 per child per day per parent fine!  WTF?

Double Standards

For parents taking a child out if school for this time:
28 days x £60 = £1680 fine per child, or £3360 if there's no prompt payment

Sorry, luv, but despite the governors (who allowed this) stating you've worked hard in the last two years, it's a fucking bad example to be setting!

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11.4.14 Panini Stickers

There are, I understand, 640 stickers to collect in the Panini World Cup 2014 album.  I also believe the price of the stickers is 50p per packet, with only 5 in each one.  It takes no genius to work out that the very best result possible is to purchase 128 packets of stickers and find that the alleged 'randomness' is perfectly in place to produce 640 stickers without any duplication at all.  This would mean that the album was filled at a cost of £64.00.

Now let's be sensible about it, and concede that this modelling is so far fetched it's akin to believing that Ed Miliband has a brain, that Nick Clegg is not away with the fairies, and that Alex Salmond is not hell bent on causing mayhem and being a complete twat.  So in the real world, there is simply no way to avoid numerous duplication, and the 'swap' scenario is essential if the fucking album is not to cost £64,000 to fill.  Let us assume there is indeed no imbalance in the production of stickers.  This would mean a mathematical likelihood of friends having spares of the ones you need, while being able to offer them stickers they need from your own pile of duplicates.  Sadly, there will most certainly be an unevenness in distribution, such that the circle of friends will need to be extensive, possibly dispersed by some considerable distance, and able to maintain the same buying power so decent numbers of swaps are possible.

When I was a kid, everyone had a surplus of a few particular stickers, and no cunt in the county had the last few needed to get the album near to completion. By the time there's even a sniff of success, the World Cup has finished, Germany has annoyed everyone with its solid performance, the England side has used 37.4 excuses for being shit, and in the studio everyone has exhausted the argument that whilst English players are less technically gifted, they have 'bulldog spirit' to counter the lack of ability.  The unused albums will of course be disposed of; I saw hundreds in the local Co-op, and shuddered to think how many hundreds of thousands of the cunts have been produced, trying to entice idiots to spend 10p per sticker of each player.  Sheer lunacy, waste, pathetic commercial nonsense, and totally unnecessary.

I reckon that the most talented and networked individual on the planet could probably complete the album for £100, but that most normal people will spend rather more than that!  Of course, buying a book for £20 afterwards will achieve so much more all round.


5th June 2014 Update
Thank you to Swiss mathematicians, who have this week announced an average cost of completing the collection at £450.

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10.4.14 The 45th Driving Ban

Just what DO you have to do to be sent to prison, then?  The case of John Moir is a good one to illustrate how fucking useless the UK is at dealing with crime.

In 2010 he ran over a 46-year-old chap (Simon Jacobs) and drove away, leaving him for dead.  The victim survived, but suffered a fractured skull, fractured eye sockets and a broken nose.  He was expected by doctors to die, but managed to pull through; he can never drive again, and cannot work ever again.  Moir served 9 months of the 18-month sentence.  This is not a bloke who should ever be at the wheel of a car.

After breaking a driving ban for the fucking 44th time, he has just walked from a courtroom with just a 16-week suspended sentence and an order to do 240 hours community service.  He was of course (pointlessly) banned from driving for 45th time.  This cunt has so far got 52 previous convictions relating to 220 offences, 77 counts of theft in his shocking record, and pointless fucking life. With a track record like this, why the fuck is he not in prison, after being arrested for driving yet again?  I read that he was told in court, if he drives again, he will probably be jailed.  PROBABLY?  For fuck's sake, what's the point of all this?

Disgusting, wimpish, cunting uselessness, as ever.

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8.4.14 In The Name Of Charity

It comes as no surprise that there are some anomalies in the charity world. For so long I have questioned the sense (economic and moral) in having so many of the fucking things, all rattling buckets or touting for completed direct debit mandates.  There is simply no sense to the massively high costs in keeping so many thousands of separate entities going.  They all have running costs that mean wastage is ludicrous.  In the commercial world, they would fail unless consolidation was undertaken.  However, whilst a company selling double glazing may well buy a smaller company doing the same thing, and have as a result a bigger company that consolidates costs while benefiting from a better and more efficient presence in general, charities don't work in this way.  Thus, the inefficiency of charities is maintained - and paid for out of money that should really be directed at the good cause.

I see that investigations into Afghan Heroes have revealed some details on how much was raised and what good was done; it makes interesting reading, and is as disheartening as fuck.

In 2012, the receipts were about £550,000.  This level of income, you'd suppose, would mean that much help for soldiers and their families was possible.  However, the amount spent on them was about £15,000.  I have not missed off a zero (which would have been bad enough!) and yes, you're right, that is a pathetic end result for income at 36 times that amount.  How come? Simple - costs incurred!

In round numbers -

With one hand, the charity received donations of £550,000
With the other hand the charity managed to spend £475,000

Other details emerging confirm that there were 8 full-time staff and 16 part-time staff, and wages ran to £190,000.  This is all a shocking example of how so much money can be wasted, through totally counter-productive efforts.  What is the point of spending £234,000 on fundraising events, and a further £241,000 on encouraging people to donate?  These two elements meant there was fuck all left.  So, all that 'giving' by those wanting to help was pointless.

I am not in any position to comment specifically on any charity, but I do believe that there is so much wrong with the whole sphere of charitable efforts in the UK.  We are supposedly one of the top nations in the world for giving, but I suspect that we are not at all as high in the rankings when measurement is based on those receiving.  The above example is probably rather worse (well, I'd fucking hope so) than most, but nevertheless, the principle holds true. Wages and running costs, and the speculative efforts to try and prize more money from the public all diminish the amount that gets anywhere near the cause for which money is being raised.

Some merging is essential, but this is unlikely.  People in this sector want to defend their entities, and protect their incomes.  If money is tight, and donations drop, then the 'spare money' that can be passed to the intended beneficiaries is reduced.  What a joke of a basis to operate.  When I see repeated adverts on TV o sponsor children, and the pleading for £2 per month, £5 per month or £10 per month, I get frustrated at the costs being incurred.

If you want to do good, then go direct.  Do a good turn or give someone something without going to a charity as the interface, and see the percentage drop from 100% to - who knows what?  Sadly there is no real check on what costs might be 'reasonable'.

When you give £10, does it matter to you that £5 goes to the cause, or £7, or £2?  Even with the recent Sport Relief efforts, where I heard that "100% of your money goes to Sport Relief", I thought that was misleading, because that simply means no one is taking a cut before it gets to Sports Relief.  Once it's there, of course, normal rules apply.  Comic Relief needs to receive a fortune just to break even.  Staff costs are about £15million.  I am sure I've read somewhere that the running costs total over £50million a year - or maybe it was £97million. Who knows?  Who actually cares?

Charities commonly hoard money to protect themselves from 'peaks and troughs', and so money is in banks, shares and who-knows-where, while further touting for money proceeds at pace.

Sorry to be a spoilsport but when something is "For Charity", that is NOT a basis to blindly believe anything at all, and certainly not a basis to believe that money will definitely get through the system.  Even if just one person wants to do good, and ride a mountain bike along a high ridge in Peru while grooming baboons, and throwing food to starving kids on the way, it is NOT much good if the bike rider pays out £2500 for the fundraising trip, and raises £2550 in sponsorship.  In essence, the benefit is £50.  The people who all chipped in would not be best pleased, I feel.  Big charities operate in the same way, simply hoping that the scale of donations far exceeds the costs that will be incurred.

Mad world.

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6.4.14 Dirtiest Player In The Premier League

There is no doubt that there are a few who are in the running for this award. Amazingly David Luiz is not one of the two who seem to be vying for top spot. I suspect 3rd Place will be a disappointment to him

Mr Luiz is always ready to take someone out with thuggery when it suits him, and he does encourage some rough tackles in return, what with his attitude being 'questionable' at best.  As for examples of play-acting, there are numerous from which to choose, to exemplify a poor level of sportsmanship. The end result of all this is that he is disliked and a bit of a shit.

He is not however in the leave of the two top thugs in the Premiership.  I am not sure how to decide on who is the dirtiest player.  Charlie Adam is regularly very keen to leave a foot in the way of a player, tackle such that the outcome could easily be a broken limb, and of course deny all responsibility for cuntishness.  I view him as dangerous, and nasty, as well as deceitful.

With much evidence to support my views, I think there can be no doubt that Charlie Adam is in the running for top spot.  Alongside him in the race is Marouanne Fellaini.

Mr Fellaini seems to wave arms and elbows as a matter of course, with intent to do harm.  This is sometimes disguised, so that he can plead innocence after an opponent had had his teeth realigned by a Fellaini elbow, but on other occasions it's so fucking obvious that he has administered the elbow or arm that it defies logic that the referee doesn't send him off.

His most recent efforts were at Newcastle yesterday, as you can see above.   This human windmill is a fucking liability.  When will someone do something about it?

Still, I think it is not an easy call to make; Fellaini or Adam.  If I do have to make a decision, it must be that Adam is the dirtiest and most dangerous, simply because most of his awful input comes from his boots.  Yes, an arm in the face is less than helpful, but the consequences of a boot on a shin are fucking terrible!

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5.4.14 The Voice - Grand Final

The Voice has turned out to be the biggest fuck-up of a show.  Tonight's final was further proof that the format, the judges, the contestants and the various bollocks sprinkled over the whole programme was all put into a blender and served up to us by Wailing Emma and Bland Marvin.

After the initial noise provided by the coaches, who attempted to club together in a version of something including the line "Get your rocks off", I heard from Wailing Willis (WW) - "We are literally live.  Here we go, this is the final." Such insight and astuteness was enlightening as shit on a shovel.  Then Marvin asked us all: "Are you ready to meet the best of the best?"  As it turned out, I had a long wait, and an unsuccessful one.  This was evidenced by his announcing that I'd be seeing "Gillingham's golden boy", and "the Right Honourable Jermain".  WTF, Marvin?  When he asked, "Are you guys ready for this?" I was so ready to shout 'No' at the screen.

Christina-Marie was first to sing, and did brilliantly. 5/5 is my score.  WW confirmed it had been "a great start to the show", which I'd predicted just before she opened her mouth.  Tom was invited to give his views after the performance, and told us: "Control was great, tone was great, the whole performance was great." For some strange reason WW decided to guide us with the following advice: "You can cross your fingers to vote or use your fingers to dial and vote; only one of those works."  Twat.

Sally was up next and we heard from Tom: "This woman can sing.  Now it's her time to shine."  Thanks, Tom.  Sally sang okay, but a bit too slowly, labouring the song and 3.5/5 is my score.  WW asked her how she felt afterwards, after confirming: "We're in the final now."  Thanks, Willis.  Tom gave us some more detailed information with: "She touched me and she still touches me."  Thanks, Tom.  Ricky chipped in with some blandness to match Marvin's mediocrity levels.

Jermain was next to arrive, and be asked pointless questions by WW.  He confirmed for us: "It hasn't hit me. it really hasn't hit me."  "I wish something would!" shouted I, as the Hackney Mayor appeared on screen to extol the virtues of Jermain and Hackney, rather than oversee the filling of fucking potholes.  Jermain's performance was dire as fuck - my score is 1/5.  WW congratulated him afterwards [which proves this woman would congratulate Mussolini and Genghis Khan on their humanitarian stances] and uttered: "Every time you open your mouth it's just sensational."  My initial thought was "if only the same were true of you, Emma" but then I wondered if he'd been paying her some personal attention over the last few weeks - cunnilingus, I think it's called.

Will.i.ever.make.sense was asked to comment, and was unbelievably rude when he pissed about with his watch/phone and everyone had to wait for him - till he announced that Cheryl Cole had said Jermain was 'amazing'.  This is the woman who cannot sing herself, telling a bloke who can't sing via Will that he was 'amazing'.  The performance was supposed to be 'Voice orientated' but the flying seems to be the element worthy of most attention and congratulation. WW asked Tom (the dementia patient) a leading question: "Did he make it his own, Tom?"  "Yes he did," was the astounding reply.  "You made that song your own - fantastic," he continued.

Jamie managed to tamper with his song (Missing You) and it was average - I'd say 3/5.  Tom was on form again in the review afterwards, when WW again helped him get on track with a leading question.  "You've said twice before that he reminds you of you; was it three times in a row tonight?"  "Yes," said Tom. Thanks, Tom.

Marvin showed a level of stupidity with: "The nation want to see it live."  Do it, indeed . . ?  WW then posed an interesting question, or set of questions, when she was summing up and asking us to consider who might get our vote.  "Ask yourself whose album would you buy?  Whose tickets would you queue up for? Who has true star quality?"  'None of them' came to mind.

The duets were a strange mix; Christina-Marie managed well enough with Ricky, Sally was overpowered by Morgan Freeman . . . sorry, Tom Jones. Then we got to 'Never Never Land' and I wish we'd never fucking been invited. Jermain and Will were simply odd and awful.  This simple fact made the pathetic input from Wailing Willis prove beyond doubt her inability to count for anything at all: "That was brilliant" showed a complete lack of everything human.  When Jamie had sung, he mentioned his experience in meeting Justin Timberlake had been 'surreal'.  No Jamie - all definitions of 'surreal' have been binned, and the new definition is based on the performance by Jermain and Will.

Marvin impressed us with his ability to fuck up the English language with: "The votes is now frozen."

Jamie went first, as expected, based on the betting odds in the morning papers.  This left us with the other three singing their favourite songs again. Christina was excellent (5/5) with Sally managing well (4/5).  Jermoan was all over the place with his vocal warbling, worthy of no real commendation (3/5). Sadly Will felt it necessary to make much of Jermain coming from Hackney - 'not the best neighbourhood', apparently, and this is relevant because . . . . . ?  Will tells the country that Jermain is "on a mission" and is a great example. There's me thinking that it was supposed to be about the voice.

The Real Winner

I might buy an album by Christina-Marie, but that's about the sum total of The Voice UK 2014.

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5.4.14 Colons: Overuse & Inappropriateness

This week's TV Guide proves that the TV channels in this country have become obsessed with colons, although none more so than Channel 5.  I suspect the twats in charge at Channel 5 have decided to follow the 'Columbo' format and got carried away.  In the vast majority of cases, the programme titles are pathetic, and the extra explanation after the colon is not necessary.  I accept that in the case of a film (F) including this punctuation, there's no real control, but all the more reason for other features to avoid jumping on the shitty bandwaggon.  Let me demonstrate by listing the programmes for this week, by channel.

Channel 5

McBride: Anybody Here Murder Marty? (F)
Columbo: Mind Over Mayhem (F)
Columbo: Dagger of the Mind (F)
Jesse Stone: Death in Paradise (F)
Gibraltar: Britain in the Sun
Columbo: The Most dangerous Match (F)
Criminals: Caught on Camera
Shops and Robbers: Britain's War on Shoplifters
Law & Disorder: Catching Crims Live *
Closing Time: Newcastle After Dark
Autopsy: Whitney Houston's Last Hours
Killing Spree: Terror in Paradise
Columbo: Blueprint for Murder (F)
Police Interceptors: Stop & Search
Can't Pay? We'll Take It Away!; Final Demand **
Law & Order: Special Victims Unit
True Crimes: The First 72 Hours
Raoul Moat: Northumbria Rampage
Britain's Crime Capitals: Crime Map
Columbo: Dead Weight (F)
Running Riot: Britain's Teen Criminals
The NCIS Movie: Shell Shock
Columbo: Death Lends a Hand (F)
Webcam Girls: At Your Service
Booze, Bust-Ups & Brothels: Soho Blues

* Use of the term "Crims" is fucking pathetic
** The double punctuation is fucking criminal!

Channel 4

Return of the Black Death: Secret History
A Place in the Sun: Winter Sun
The Truth about Lo Fat Food: Channel 4 Dispatches
Shop Secrets: Tricks of the Trade
12 Year Old Lifer: True Stories
Alan Carr: Chatty Man Grand National Special
The £60,000 Puppy: Cloning Man's Best Friend
Music on 4: Music Nation
Food Prices: The Shocking Truth
Alan Carr: Chatty Man

BBC2

James Martin: Home Comforts
Formula 1: Bahrain Grand Prix Qualifying Highlights
Inspire: The Olympic Journey
Border Country: The Story of Britain's Lost Middleland
Coffee Shop Hot Shots: Business Boomers
Under Offer: Estate Agents on the Job
Golf: The Masters - 2014 Preview
Digby Jones: The New Troubleshooter
Don't Take My Car: Bailiffs Undercover - Panorama ***
Africa's Giant Killers: Natural World

*** That's three fucking titles!

ITV

Law & Order: UK
Columbo: No Time to Die (F)
Martin Clunes: Man to Manta
Piers Morgan's Life Stories: Torvill & Dean
School's Out: Tonight
Exposure: Who's Driving on Britain's Roads?
The Cube: Celebrity Special

BBC1

The Voice UK: The Live Final
Don't Take My Car: Bailiffs Undercover - Panorama
Marine 'A': Criminal or Casualty of War?


This whole approach is simply pathetic, pretentious and piss poor.

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4.4.14 Goodbye Bruce - Strictly Good Decision

"It's been an absolute pleasure and a privilege working alongside Bruce for the last decade," says Tess Daly.  Well, Ms Foghorn Leghorn, from my perspective, the old giffer should have gone years ago!

Yes folks, Bruce Forsythe has belatedly done the right thing, and retired from Strictly Come Dancing.

We can wave goodbye to Brucie and his awful attempts at cracking a joke (something that's not worked for about 22 years now) although the bellowing Tess will now have more prominence.  Oh dear.

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4.4.14 Ladies Day at Aintree

The pictures from Liverpool are in many cases rather horrendous, with bits between teeth, sweat, chafing, garish colours, big thighs and a fair bit of hoofing around.  I refer, of course, NOT to the horses or the riders at Aintree, but the awful attendees.  There is a section of the population which decides a visit to Aintree after a failed styling session is the appropriate thing to do. Sadly, the press reporters and photographers manage to capture many of the heffers who watch the racing, although some could probably do well on the actual course!

Some of the cast from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding arrived looking a  fucking state, as above, and whoever told them they look good wants fucking castrating and shooting. Sadly the bizarrely adorned pack was accompanied by a limitless supply of others whom one might describe using some or all of the following terms: fat, ugly, tacky, desperate, chavvy, skanky, twattish, thick, rough, unbelievable, disastrous, misguided, hopeless, messy, dire, hilarious, sad.

What a spectacle.  I believe there was also some horse racing on as well, as a sort of side show!

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3.4.14 News - There's a Theme Here

Vindictive Cunts

Sadly there are people around who offer nothing useful to society and take actions which show them to be pathetic.  This 'honour' goes to the policeman on a bike who radioed colleagues for backup - and three more coppers turned up to help.  The 22-year-old received a fixed penalty fine of £100 because she took a sip from a drink.  The motorist was charged for driving without due care and attention, although she most certainly fucking wasn't, seeing as the car was stationary.  She was in traffic, and took a fucking sip from a drink while NOT moving!  She also got 3 penalty points!  Fucking disgraceful!

Okay For a Copper Thought !

The same approach was adopted on a Sunday by a parking attendant who issued a £70 fine to a car owner who'd parked with one wheel just on the pavement, having pulled up in bad weather.  She had parked outside her own driveway, and dashed inside to dodge hail and rain, expecting to move the car to a marginally better position soon after.  The issuer of the ticket might reasonable be referred to as a cunt.


Stupid Cunts

These are people without any common sense, and who make life unnecessarily miserable for others by being totally 'jobsworth' about things, and displaying cuntish stupidity.  This applied when a chap wanted to buy four cans of lager from an Esso station, and was refused service because he had no ID with him.  The bloke was almost 58 years old!  Only a stupid fucking idiot would decide that he does not look over 18.


Daft Cunts

The twats in charge have decided that to join the police force, it is necessary to have first gained a certificate that involved 300 hours of study and an expense that will range from £600 to £1300.  It is probably that a higher rather than a lower figure will apply because that's juts how life works.  What does this effort, expense and 'qualification' achieve?  It allows someone to APPLY to join the police.  That's right, it's a basis to have your application considered.  Clearly this new approach will have a detrimental effect on recruitment.  Many will be unlikely to have and/or spend the money, let alone the time or inclination to gain the certificate, when any job application could be unsuccessful.  What daft cunt thought this would be a good way to go?

More daft twats at the Environment Agency have shown their uselessness by fucking up.  Those in charge have sold equipment for just £200,00, and have then spent £850,000 in a year hiring dredging equipment.  I shudder to think how this sort of management can ever be defended, but am sure there is a daft cunt somewhere who will defend the policy and make spurious claims that somehow it's better to do things in a fucked-up way.

More daftness comes to light via the escapades of the woman who found that the council had accidentally deposited £52,000 in her bank account.  She went on a mad spending spree for two days, and blew £9,000 with most going on highly unnecessary items such as designer shoes and handbags.  She, her family and a few friends have said she did nothing wrong, and are on her side. How she ever thought that she had the right to spend it is beyond me, and claiming she thought it was an "inheritance" in her defence was feeble as fuck. Now she has a criminal record and has to do 150 hours of community service. A mistake in a bank transfer does not give the temporary receiver the right to keep it, and ignoring calls and visits by those trying to resolve the error is asking for trouble.  In effect she stole taxpayers money by trying to keep what she knew was not hers, and expected [because of the sense of entitlement that many have nowadays] to get away with it.  Stupid council, though.


Wasteful Cunts

The BBC has decided it is appropriate to send 272 staff to cover the World Cup in Brazil.  This will cost a fucking fortune, and add to the other millions of pounds that's frittered away by the 'cunts in charge'.  £12million is a pathetic use of money.  It is of significance that ITV is sending 120 staff; how can this be explained?  Simple - ITV is a commercial organisation that needs to make a profit and look more carefully at costs, while the BBC is a fucking joke, bankrolled by licence fee payers.

Elsewhere, well at Sheffield Council actually, we find more wastage as replacement signage is hardly necessary, and considering the shortage on money, the decision to put a new sign up (as above) is pathetic when a good clean of the old one would have been fine.  Anyway, why the cunting fuck are there now two signs in place?  Aside from the stupid decision to put up a new sign, why on earth wasn't the old one removed?  Another crappy cunting council call.


Greedy Cunts

£90 for an England football shirt?  Need I say any more?  No.

Elsewhere, expenses investigations have led to Maria Miller having to pay some money back - hardly a major issue considering the profit made on property.  I cannot be arsed to go into the details here, as it's the same old self-serving stuff with pleas that "I was advised everything was okay" etc. Yawn.  It's not even as if Miller is any good at her job, or 'anything', actually. Still, being a woman, she'll get some preferential treatment, what with the shortage of tits in Parliament . . . no, the other sort, you nob.


Misguided Cunts

I see there's a new 50 Peso banknote on the horizon, and in true Argentinian style, it is causing a stir because it features the Falkland Islands.  Cristina Kirchner has endorsed and celebrated the plans for the new note, and the inclusion of Antonio Rivero, a 'hero' who opposed the British in the 19th Century.

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