31.1.15 The Voice or The Looks

Tim Arnold

A pretentious attempt at singing a Kate Bush song slowly, with a weak voice and no real substance at all.  No wonder he's got nowhere.  Then, at the last second, Ricky decided to press his button!  Idiot.  "I ran in from the hotel this morning, listening to Kate Bush, and I saw you."  Ricky disclosed his experience of seeing Tim, and a level of fatalistic shit that I didn't think possible.  Ricky Witless strikes a-cuntin-gain.

Kim Alvord

Good song choice, and quite engaging.  That didn't take away the fact that her pronunciation sucked completely, and this turned out to be a formulaic performance.  Nothing distinctive.  BUT . . yet again on the very last second a twat turned, and this time it was Tom Jones.  Kim's gran will apparently be happy, as she confirmed to Tom.  Will and Ricky sat on their lecterns, leering like silly kids, proving it's not about the voice at all.  Tom conceded she's pretty, but mentioned it being about the voice; really?  "I didn't expect her to be as pretty as that," said Tom.  Yawn.

Dawn Allen

"Dawn with the horn" assaulted our screens with her appearance, and Mrs MWSC announced that she was now so much happier with her own appearance.  But as if to confirm that it's all about 'the voice', she sang well and than played the trumpet!  The best singer so far, and yet no CUNTING FUCK TURNED!  What a shit programme, and panel of judges/coaches/wankers.  "You've got a very mature vocal ability," said Rita Ora / Atora, confirming a level of patronising that I'd not thought possible, let alone appropriate.

Ross Harris

Marvin Humes twiddled a drumstick and thus proved he's a useless waste-of-space.  Then, Ross did a bit of singing and drumming that marked him out as slightly interesting.  Sadly his singing was not up to an awful lot.  No one turned, and this was the right decision.  "This show is called The Voice," said Tom, and I fell off the sofa in a moment of revelation - no I didn't!

The Mac Bros

"We are not actually brothers," was a fucking annoyance before a word had been sung.  The VT mentioned the Beatles and The Cavern, and I was instantly unimpressed.  The murdered mish-mash of shit was very quickly taken by Shredded Suet as worthy, while the rest of the country thought it was shit!  Will mentioned "dope" three times, and I wanted to take some!  Rita tried to defend her decision making process that was akin to a toss of a cunting coin.  "Why didn't I turn - because I'm a plonker," said Ricky.  Well you got the first part right (not turning) and the second part completely right (being a plonker).

Hollie Barry

Straight away I shouted "affected" to Mrs MWSC.  The rap approach clearly appealed to Will.i.won't.i, and then Rita-lin followed suit after the wailing banshee "whoa-owed" a bit more.  Then Tom managed to press his button (not a euphemism) ahead of Ricky's last second tap of the red blob.  So the first performer who managed a full house of turning judges was not really up to the mark!

Ciaran O'Driscoll

WTF?  Interesting . . . YES!  No one turned, and so was confirmed the formulaic shit that pervades.  His voice is weird, but likely to be something decent to work with.  The pussies in the chairs were cunts by doing nowt. Rita Shredded Suet had 90 seconds to press her button, and then bemoaned her failure to press the button (supposedly) but it was the cliche comment that tried to excuse a non-action.  "There isn't a game plan," muttered Ricky, later. Hmmm . . I reckon there's never been any plan to anything you do or say.

Morven Brown

Rita turned, and the hockey-socked girl from Glasgow was pleased.  "If Rita hadn't turned, I would have turned," said Ricky.  Be yourself, you twat.

Oli Bond

He should be from Basildon (if you get that, you're old) but was never worth a chair-spin.  It's about the voice, and his singing (shouting) was below par. Tom managed a quick name drop (Frank Sinatra) before we all moved on with our lives.

Rosa Lamele

Tom and Ricky managed to defy time and press their button with a quarter of a second before the end.  The sixteen-your-old was interesting to the nth degree. Tom won her.

Sharon Murphy

I shouted out "Warning, vehicle reversing," to Mrs MWSC, as the weird noise transmitted itself from my TV speakers.  Tom and Ricky turned late on, and her uniqueness seemed to pay off.  Tom talked the biggest load of bollocks I've heard for a week (since his last effort) and then it was Ricky's turn.  She went with Tom, not surprisingly.

DTwinz

The twins opted for Rita.  They were worthy enough, but I expected Will to be chosen.

Cai Williams

A standard sound that was never likely to engage any of the coaches/judges. Too much shouting, and no individuality.  Then, as if by magic and stupidity, Tom Jones managed to hit the button in time.  The South Wales connection was rather less than enlivening . . boring I'd say.  Tom used the "powerful" crap, and we all lost interest.

Stephen Bloy

A caretaker at a christian day centre is a qualification that was never likely to entitle him to get anywhere on The Voice.  He sang as though he was in a crappy musical, and/or Andrew Lloyd Webber farce.  This was not an appropriate participant for The Voice.  "You should be in a show in musical theatre," said Tom.  Actually accurate.

Olivia Lawson

Tom abstained while the other three turned, and there's no denying that her voice was interesting, and good.  The 6th form student was able to choose between three judges, and the fact that she's 17 and pretty means it's not about the voice.  The lipstick-match meant Rita was chosen.

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31.1.15 Now You See It

Unfortunately Mel Giedroyc is under the weird impression that she is as funny as Harry Hill when it comes to narration.  Her voice-over attempts on the BBC's programme Now You See It are so cunting fucking pissing annoying that I had to leave the room during the half-hour offering.  Fucking frustrating to be exposed to such a smug and patronising wittering and pointless level of input.

Gridlock

The relentless shit that's delivered is the most irritating cunting bollocks that has ever been uttered on TV, matched only by the level of self-satisfied smugness by the deliverer of this painfully scripted crap.

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31.1.15 January Round Up In Ten

1 - ITVBe is a recently created extra channel which is full of shit, literally.  It's a place where shit goes to die.  ITV, the channel that's so set on self-promotion and self-aggrandisement.  Tune in at your peril.

2 - Kimberley Walsh has the most boring, monotonous voice, to accompany what can only be described as a boring personality.  Like a windscreen wiper, her tongue manages to slide across her teeth, set for a fast but intermittent swipe action.

3 - Apparently the NHS might be changing its name, and could be known as the WHS.  World Health Service would better reflect the work it does, considering that one quarter of all births in hospitals are now  of babies born to foreign mothers!  It is no wonder that there is concern about the never-ending drain on national resources and spiralling costs when the NHS does absolutely nothing to deter the whole world from treating it as a call-in facility via any airport.

4 - There is nothing more nauseating or vacuous than the latest exploits and photos of Cara Delevingne, or Kim Kardashian.  The media is obsessed with providing an endless supply of useless pictures showing useless people being useless.  There are so many others that I could mention, as subjects of these media attentions, but I think that would serve to give unwarranted recognition to even more useless people.

Allow me one indulgence, though, with a mention of Millie Mackintosh, who is on a not-so-secret mission to flaunt her body and promote skinniness via pictures displaying skinny limbs and offering nothing beneficial at all.

5 - Barbara Windsor should be put into quarantine immediately, for a period of no less than twelve years.  All soundtracks and adverts that feature her should be doctored such that her voice is muted.

6 - Would Chloe Madeley feature in anything at all on TV if she were not the daughter of Richard & Judy.  There is no question mark, as the question is rhetorical.

7 - For Bianca Gascoigne the situation is similar to the above, in that her use of the surname seems to grant her access to things that would otherwise not be possible.  However, there is a significant difference between the two, with Bianca displaying traits that are wholly more unattractive.  The level of desperation is rather dire and embarrassing, and her clinging on to her step-dad's name as a means to gain fame is pathetic.  Limping from one direction to another, she touts herself without shame, and without any talent.  More sad is that the media seem to indulge her.

8 - Would the media stop lauding females who "bravely" go make-up free. Also, would attention-seeking females stop going make-up free on some sort of weird understanding that they are doing something extraordinary!

9 - I have yet to find anyone who relentlessly (and of course inappropriately) uses the word "so" at the beginning of every utterance to be in the slightest engaging, likeable or worth more than a gnat's fuck.

10 - Like any other year, 2015 looks like being no different in terms of the usefulness, likeability and abilities of the various members of the York household.  The disgusting freeloading of Prince Andrew is only surpassed by that of his wife, which is then outdone by the two offspring, the ones who resemble ugly beings from a children's story.  The feckless actions of all four are the most awful joint display of entitlement governing existence.  I strongly suspect Andrew was more than up for all sorts of 'galavanting', whether it was while his ex was sucking someone's toe, beforehand, or afterwards.  This quartet is possibly the most unattractive collection possible, and certainly the least welcome advert for Britain let alone the Royal Family.  It therefore beggars belief that Andrew seems to have enjoyed a role as an 'envoy' representing trade and UK interests!

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31.1.15 The Jump

It was with an unsurprising level of bemusement and disgust that I clocked the names of the participants in this Channel 4 programme that's about to get underway.  One on the sixteen has rather jumped the gun, though, in terms of her relationship.  Yes, Jodie Kidd has called time on her second marriage and jumped ship after just four months.  To have done so just four months after raving about her relationship being 'for ever', and taking payment from Hello! is laughable.  With such credentials, surely she's a favourite to win?

The other's in the line-up are for the most part the same second-rate hangers-on who have participated in other so-called reality shows before.  When will commissioning twats in television present us with something entertaining, and rather more varied than attendees for 'anything going', picked from the standard register of C-listers?  There have been some casualties in recent weeks, so Ola Jordan and Sally Bercow had to withdraw.  Just why Ola thought it appropriate to join in at all is beyond me, though I take some mild delight in the latter having come a cropper.

Davina hosts the show 

Louie Spence - need I say anything at all in respect of his participation?  I think not.  Phil Tufnell has surfaced near the snow in contrast to his I'M A GOOCH (anagram) appearance.  Another from that show is Stacey Solomon; nice girl maybe, but for goodness sake can't we find someone new?  Heather Mills? WTF?  Her inclusion is a mix of being McCartney's ex, and having a leg missing.  Her touting of these two 'attributes' as qualifications for being considered for shows is apparently working, sadly.  The fact that she's already mastered skiing to a high standard means that she has an advantage!

Chloe Madeley (her of the Dancing On Ice past) has obviously used her name to get re-noticed for a show, unashamedly promoting herself rather beyond her inherent level of appeal to anyone other than a boyfriend.

Is there no end to the appetite of audiences for Joey Essex?  This bloke smiles his way through jungles, via IACGMOOH as well as on trips to visit gorillas, and also on any panel shows going.  I am bored with him.  Ashley Roberts, the ubiquitous ex-jungle girl is included for reasons that escape me. Back to the un-reality that's Made In Chelsea for another lightweight contender, and Louise Thompson.  My successful avoidance of such shite means I've no idea who she is.  The inclusion of someone described as a "socialite" is an affront to humanity, let alone entertainment.  Nevertheless, Lady Victoria Hervey has a place in the line-up.  A Jackass bloke seems to have rocked up as well, someone by the name of Steve-O, possibly to be renamed Steve-O-Dear depending on how long he lasts.

As seems now to be an exercise in political correctness, there's a paralympian included, Jon-Allan Butterworth.  Whilst I of course admire anyone's determination to thrive despite difficulties arising from disability, in this case the loss of an arm, I am still convinced that the commissioning editors insist these days on someone who ticks such a box being included.  The last time I saw this was on Splash, when the bloke with no legs was expected to compete with those with legs, and judges were expected to be able to make a fair comparison of his efforts against those whose whole approach to diving was necessarily and obviously completely different.  There is a great difference between sinful discrimination, and ludicrous inclusion, and in some cases the decision making appears rather dubious.  The Jump has out-performed this time, with one missing leg and a missing arm.  Again, I am cynical about motives rather than against the individuals' participation.

Back to the more frivolous comments, and an Olympian contribution is of course the norm these days, so Louise Hazel gets a chance to add jumping around in the cold to her already established prowess in the heptathlon, something that no doubt gives her some sort of physical advantage.

Then we come to Mike Tindall, whose qualification for consideration comes rather less from his being an ex-rugby player than his marriage to Zara Phillips. Still, as has been established in the press a number of times, this couple gets no state funding so has to rely on sponsorship, and various other money-making efforts that see the duo participating in some un-royal (if not unsavoury) things.

It is so easy to overlook any of the ex-JLS people, apart of course from Marvin Humes, who manages to annoy while contributing absolutely nothing of value on The Voice.  JB Gill is on The Jump, for some reason yet to be identified.

This brings us finally to the only participant whom I truly believe adds some interest to proceedings - Dom Parker from Gogglebox.  Sadly I suspect that his language will be rather more carefully vetted, but I do hope he gets on well with the various activities.

All in all, then, The Jump is a Cunt of a show that exploits the viewers' combined appetite for shit served to them under the claimed guise of some sort of national event that cannot be missed.  Well, in this household, everything about the thing will be purposefully missed.  If I were to engage in any way at all, then it would be a very, very slippery slope.

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30.1.15 Made For Each Other

I see that the soon-to-be-Murray woman has learnt a thing or two about the old fashioned grimace.  Adopting a prototype version of the Murray family speciality, she has been caught swearing like a trooper while watching her fiance [I accidentally typed 'finance' then, and concluded it was a Freudian slip] win through to the final.  Her liberal use of the F-word is hardly a major issue in the heat of the moment, although I'd suggest that anyone else coming out with such stuff would find themselves in rather more trouble.

Let's hope for her sake that she's able to confirm her choice of words did not in fact include "Fucking have that you Czech flash fuck!" and that she instead said "Fucking have that, you shitty Flash Fuck", or there'll be all sorts of trouble. She'd of course do well to check in with John Terry, he of the "Blind Cunt" utterance, as he preferred to admit, despite many claiming his first word was rather less offensive to the blind, and much darker than that.  I am sure there are lip readers touting their services all over the place.

Initiation is going very well for Kim

Despite Judy's attempts to paint herself as some sort of national treasure, after her wobbling efforts on Strictly Come Dancing, and the required national, collective glee at Andy's engagement to Kim Sears, I suggest that there is little that's really endearing about any of them, in truth.  Why on earth do people feel compelled to generously be in some sort of awe regarding this clan?

...

26.1.15 Dam Busters In Morrisons

At the weekend, I was annoyed by the Co-op.  To be fair, there was nothing special about the weekend, because the Cunt-Op manages to annoy me most days of the week in one way or another.  This weekend's nuisance factor included the pricing regime that encourages unnecessary (and forced) purchasing.  Warburton's bread is deemed to have a value of £1.45 for a loaf, although its value diminishes by 31% should anyone decide to buy two loaves at once.  There can be no fucking justification for selling any odd numbered loaf at £1.45 but charging just £1.00 if the buyers chooses to purchase in even numbers.  I did not want to buy two fucking loaves, so bought NONE.  This was the cheapest option altogether, detrimental to the Cunt-Op's profits and satisfying for myself.

I moved on to the milk, and was presented with the exact same scenario!  I had no fucking reason to put eight pissing pints of milk in my fridge.  Thus, the £1.45 for one carton or two for £2.00 because cunting nowt for nothing!

I found myself in need of some other items, and this necessitated a short car journey, and parking in a Morrisons car park.  Not surprisingly, after doing my general shopping, I went into Morrisons to get a few things, including milk and bread.  I looked in the bread aisle and discovered nothing by way of Warburton's.  It was not on sale, so I didn't even have to chance to moan like a cunt about any pricing policy.  On to the milk.

These fuckers have pushed things further than the Cunt-Op, by charging £1.39 for a four-pint plastic carton, but offering them at £1.00 each should I deign to buy THREE!  Why the cuntin fuck would I want to stuff twelve pints of milk in my fridge?  This was ridiculous.  I had to settle for picking up one, on that basis that a stop off at ASDA on my way home would be more hassle than the saving on milk.  For some reason ASDA ia able to sell the same four-pint cartons one-at-a-time, and for 89p.

I went through the checkout, served by a pensioner who was quite insistent regarding my take-up of a loyalty card.  My indifference could not have been confused with anything other than "obvious fucking indifference to any shitty scheme going" and I complemented by disinterest with a shrug to go along with the "not really, thanks", the answer I gave when Mrs Miggins asked if I'd like a card.  She persisted and I let her scan a small piece of card that was to serve as a temporary one, apparently.  I let the details relayed to me about points and other shite waft in one ear and out of the other without adherence to a single brain cell.

I checked my receipt as I walked away, just to see what the fuss was about, and it seems that I spent £35, and that after some sort of comparison with a load of other stores, I could have saved sixty fucking pence by opting for the best combination.  Since when did shopping require the fucking input of Robert Langdon.  I was in cuntin Morrisons, not trawling round France trying to find the cunting Enigma Code !

617 Squadron

I found myself hemmed in.  The area behind the checkouts was particularly wide, something that should have been advantageous in exiting the yellow and green nightmare.  However, I had not bargained on there being three of 617 Squadron hogging the thoroughfare.  That's right, the Dam Busters re-enactment troupe had sent its three most doddery members to piss about in front of me, in a formation that prevented any cunt getting past.

Full Blocking Formation

The Mohne, Sorpe and Eder were not in their sights, though.  Instead, the trio of old women was intent on keeping a tight formation all the way to the far door, and then beyond, along the covered path, over the zebra crossing and into the car park.  The three kept in contact at all stages, basically by never fucking shutting up.  The three metal cages hogged the right of way such that nothing was ever going to come of a manoeuvre to get past them.  I simply had to wait ages.

Back in the Hanger, at RAF Scampton

Not all made it back; one of the casualties ditched in a field

ID Tag of one of the unlucky ones

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26.1.15 Left Twix Right Twix

It is high time that the annoying Twix adverts were updated.  I cannot begin to tell you how much I hate them.

I have endured this shit about left and right for far too long, and what may have been a novelty at the outset (as is the case for many adverts) has turned into a source of great frustration.

I propose a rather better pictorial representation of things from now on.  This revised approach to droning on about left and fucking right is rather more in keeping with what must now surely be the nation's view of cunting Twix!

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23.1.15 Next Catalogues - 10,000 abuses of English

Anyone who gets an opportunity to peruse the latest catalogues from Next will see that the company has lost the plot when it comes to the descriptions it now employs.  Instead of following convention (not to mention the English language!) the twats at Next have decided to introduce pretentiousness by way of pathetic and affected terms when referring to items of clothing.

I must register, first of all, my annoyance at the use of Hoody rather than Hoodie.  The generally accepted convention is that the latter is preferable for the item of clothing, but I am not in the least surprised to find Next opting for the less common approach.  Alongside this are the numerous instances of pathetic uses of 'English'.  The Label catalogue contains outrageous stuff.

Here are some examples:

Adidas Nitro Short  [NO, fucking Shorts!]
Adidas Zip Through Hoody  [NO, Hoodie!]
Adidas Grey Messi Jogger  [NO, Jogging Bottoms!]
Adidas Black Run Tight  [NO, Tights!]
Nike Navy Camo Crew  [NO, Crew Neck Top!]
Red Print Swim Short  [NO, you cunts, Swimming Shorts!]
All Over Print Block Sweat  [Fucking NO, Sweat Shirt!]
Black Rusty Jean  [NO, Jeans!]
Tommy Hilfiger Polo  [NO, Polo Shirt!]
Animal Pink Stripe Flip Flop  [NO, NO, NO, Flip Flops!]
Multi Print Legging  [Twats . . . Leggings!]
Blue Print Trouser  [Just fuck off . . . it's Trousers!]
Asics Patriot 7 Trainer  [NO, Trainers!]
Dr Martens Tan 4 Eye Shoe  [What, fucking one of them?]
Navy Poplin Tartan Pump  [As above, just the cuntin' one?]
Lacoste CSU Trainer  [Again, only one footed people need order!]
Sherbrooke Brogue  [Yet again, one-footed people can be satisfied!]
Pretty Green Desert Boot  [I am bored, now, are you?]
Vital Woven Cuff Pant  [PANTS, you idiots!]
Navy Flag Polo  [That'll be a Polo Shirt!]
Lyle & Scott Navy Chino  [NO, Chinos!]
Shoe/Loafer/Brogue/Boot/Sandal . . All fucking singular; I want a PAIR!
Beige Suede Platform . . . but not a train in fucking sight!
Leather Quilted Ballerina . . but not a cunt in a tutu in sight!
Whistles Daphne Loafer Sneaker . . . a double singular fuck up!
Whistles Haldi Slider  [This is apparently a fucking £130 pair of slippers!]
Adidas Black Run Tee  [NO, a cunting Running T-Shirt!]
Adidas Flash Orange Response Tank  [Fuck Off!  It's not a tank!]
Comfort Hipster Brief  [NO, fucking briefs!]
LK Bennett Kat Navy Shopper  [NO, it's a fucking Shopping Bag]
Black Zip Top Clutch  [A Clutch is found on a cunting car!]


Top, singular, Yes.
Vest, singular, Yes.
T-Shirt, singular, Yes.
Jumper, singular, Yes.
Tracksuit, singular, Yes.

I note that there is reference to Denim Dungarees, and not Dungaree, and Sunglasses retain the last two letter, so it's clearly possible for the twats in charge to opt for the conventional and appropriate plural version.  Espadrilles have an 's'.


Shit Description / Product Award

Lee Scarlett Skinny Mid-Rise Waist Jean in Deep Clush - £102

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21.1.15 ASDA & The Balking At Burritos - Part One

Please take this as a warning, for having gone through the process of preparing these ASDA Burritos and discovering the atrocious results, I'd like to save you from such pointless effort.

These were allegedly Chosen by you . . . . . I think fucking not!  There is nothing positive to say at all about this product, and I urge you not to purchase the 430g of pure nonentity.

Nutritionally, I believe the contents of the packet might be useful in delaying death by hunger, whilst encouraging a premature death through illness, nausea, olfactory degeneration and annoyance.  It would seem that to get the Taste of America, one needs to consume a list of ingredients [or should I say chemicals] that would test the joint abilities of a qualified chemist working in partnership with a Michelin chef in identifying - though most certainly NOT endorsing.

I have not bought a ready meal for at least a year now, and this experience will at least ensure I am deterred from doing so for another long stint.  The packaging included a small section on how to bring to the attention of ASDA that its product is shit.  I have therefore sent an email via the website, as instructed - well, as best as I could, because this turned out to be less than straightforward, with an apparent dominance of ASDA Direct over the Groceries section.  Thus, I believe that Enid (who no doubt discussed bra sizes with female shoppers) will be expected to handle the case of the Balking Burritos and have to pass it on to someone else.  Let's see. Meanwhile, here's a copy of the submission I've made via Asda.com.


The website denies me the option of contact on any matter relating to groceries, and instead I am directed to the asda direct arm of your rambling organisation.  The nature of my question on this form is thus totally erroneous; I've not been given any option to relay details of an awful product, so have had to select "I'm having trouble getting started". As a result, I am sure this complaint will be misdirected. Anyway, here goes -

The details on the packaging for "chosen by you" Taste of America beefy burritos suggest contact if I am not happy. the product is quite simply inedible. I don't know what AFM stands for but it says to quote this, plus the 21 Jan date in the Use By info box.  I have just cooked the product in the oven following the instructions exactly, and have found the outcome to be a completely inedible dollop of stodge.  I cannot begin to describe the taste, I'm afraid.  The meal-for-two turned into an exercise in 'binning it by one'.  I'd attach some photos but for the fact that this form doesn't allow me to do so.  I'd suggest removing it from shelves, and most certainly reviewing the 'chosen by you' tag because I doubt anyone with taste buds would opt to go anywhere near it.  Sorry if this is all a bit blunt, but I now have to find something else to eat and start again. Regards.

There might be a Part Two for this post, depending on Enid's contribution. Pending.

PS: Mrs MWSC agrees with me completely.  Amazingly, she commented how awful the smell and sight was, and this was DESPITE having her hair in a twisted towel (in the way women do) after applying some or other product that itself smells rather pungent!  I can therefore, through her intervention and input, confirm and convey that the ASDA Taste of America Chosen by you Beefy Burritos are more toxic than hair colour-stripping agent.

...

21.1.15 Belt Up In The Back

A recent weekend trip involved some motorway driving in Scotland, and I was exposed to some advice by way of messages on overhead gantries.  These displays are supposed to allow drivers to gain relevant information, but are now used to convey general shit rather than specific details about the road ahead, or local hazards.  The result is that drivers get input that is worth fuck all.  Here are the messages that have been beamed my way in the last few days:

Don't Drink and Drive

Please Use Seat Belts

Check Tyre Pressure

Keep Your Windscreen Clear

Please Drive Safely

Check Your Fuel Level

Please Drive Carefully

Respect Other Road Users

Observe Speed Limit

and my favourite . . . .

Belt Up in the Rear


I did see one in Yorkshire a couple of weeks ago that said:

Strong Winds Slow Down

"Do they, indeed?" I thought to myself.

This incessant interference is a joke.  Are drivers really in need of advice, telling them not to drive like idiots, cunts or while blotto?  As far as I am concerned, these are distractions that do nothing to help drivers concentrate on relevant aspects of travelling.  What next?

How about:

Keep Within Dotted White Lines
Please Don't Crash
Don't Drive Like a Cunt
Don't Drive and Pick Your Nose
Don't Forget To Do Your Lotto Numbers
Don't Sleep While Driving

...

14.1.15 The Voice UK - Series 4

"She sings incredible," said will.i.am, referring to Rita Ora.  Clearly his command of English has been affected by watching too much Match of the Day, and copying Alan Shearer, who has no use for adverbs in his daily life. The extended introduction last week was simply an exercise in the four judges/coaches complementing each other . . . . blowing smoke.

They sang Ready To Go, murdering the brilliant Republica song.  If this in any way served as an indication of the standard of contestants' singing, then series four is already fucked!  Emma Willis and Marvin Humes resumed their pointlessness.  After introducing by name each of the four judges again, it was time to get going with the first singer.  The studio went quiet as everyone waiting, and a scintillating exchange took place, as follows.

Rita Ora: "That's kinda quiet, isn't it?"
Rita Ora: "Silence."
Tom Jones: "Quiet."
Ricky Wilson: "I know, it's scary isn't it?
Rita Ora: "It's the opening act, in it."
Tom Jones: "Yup."

With such fantastic input, I considered the licence payers' money being channelled to the four judges by the million to have been well spent.  Yeah, right.

The show got off to a limp start, with only will.he.won't.he displaying sense, and not turning around.  The quality of the singing was naff.  Tom decided to announce he is 74, as opposed to 24.  This was his basis for wanting to have her in his team . . . fifty years of experience.  Yawn.

The show then took a lurch downwards, into the realms of fucking Blind Date. The woman decided to ask the three judges a question.  What a fucking fiasco!

"If we were to go out for say, some chicken, what kind of spice would you have with your chicken."

Ricky turned out to be the successful one, though I'd contest that he actually lost.  Letitia will not prove much of a catch.  Lucy was up next week. Obviously the fact that she is from Dublin has little relevance; The Voice UK suggests that this isn't an international contest.  She moved to London last year, so that probably qualifies her though.  Operatic voice = pointless entering!

Emma Willis seems to have a role that demands she jumps up and down alongside family members as they whoop and cheer their relative in the most partisan manner.  Emma's joy seems off-the-shelf, and irrelevant.

I have quickly developed the opinion that "shredded suet" perfectly sums up the nature of the comments from Atora and her general input on the show.

Elsewhere (well, in the next fucking seat, actually) is Tom Jones, or perhaps he should be henceforth referred to as Ten Mojos. [Anagram]

Tom is simply the most predictable and uninspiring chap, relying on 'being Ten Mojos' and believing that is qualification enough to hold court, saying nothing much at all.

Ricky Wilson seems unable to press his button, ever, preferring instead to slap it hard in a dramatic way, as if he's at a fun fair and hoping to hear a bell a split second later.  His 'Woody' view of life is more gormless than anyone else on TV.

Kim Marsh's daughter was not very good, and we endured the laughable angst displayed retrospectively by the four chair-people of the apocalypse.  Rita got her first young chap and there was national celebration, bunting ordered by town councils, street parties planned, and euphoria at a level not seen since Keith Chegwin went naked on TV.  Atora managed to offer a wonderfully useless comment after securing her first victim:

"You were really in sync with yourself."

If that is not a perfect dollop of suet, then I do not know what is!  Next up was Bungle from Rainbow.  He was dire, make no mistake.  The pathetic karaoke input from an idiot midway through a naff party was allowed to be counted as a legitimate contestant on this series, proving that the BBC has lost the fucking plot.  The interplay between Bungle and Woody was embarrassing, as was the necessity for prime time TV to include will.i.am getting an explanation of who Bungle was/is.  Hugs all round as the bloke left - what shite.  Then we had a session of reminiscing about Muffin the Fucking Mule!

Hannah managed to get all four coaches to turn around, and Marvin confirmed to some of Hannah's friends and family that this was the first time that had happened.  Thanks, Marvin,  Invaluable input.  Why she picked Woody I've no idea!  Stephen, the 16-year-old, was not ready at all.  It is supposedly all about the Voice, but clearly the lack of anyone turning around was followed by cringe-worthy apologies and confirmations of a mistake.  His age was apparently a key driver for the apologies after the event.  It's the cunting VOICE UK not the fucking AGE CONCERN UK, and it's a contest, not a call for charity.

As if there were ever any doubts about will.i.am being slightly 'wonky', he managed to provide reassurance with the quirkiness he's known for.  He got a "brain mail from himself".  The "soggy" rambling episode was nuts.

Like an alcoholics anonymous session, the four seated twats each said sorry for not picking Stephen, and it was horrendous.  I need a fucking drink after that bollocking display of nauseous pandering.

Finally we had Stevie, who sang with an affected wail, and nasal affliction that annoyed.  Atora turned, followed by Ten Mojos, Woody and Iams.  His occupation (firefighter) inspired the cliche response from Suet-head, and the audience whooped and cheered.  Yet again, a contestant opted for Woody, and a few million people sat shaking their heads, bewildered.

I fear for the future, and will have to think long and hard before enduring any more rounds ahead of the next stage.

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13.1.15 Disgraceful 'Journalism'

It may well be the case that the 'reading age' of The Sun is seven, but I cannot condone the level of grammar now evident in this pathetic publication. For someone by the name of Matt Quinton to produce a 'story' about travel costs in the light of cheaper fuel and use improper grammar is deplorable. Four cunting words into the piece, he has opted for "showed" instead of "shown", and demonstrated a complete disregard for the English language.  It is bad enough that so many are now guilty of a similar approach, and that so fucking many would not recognise the mistake!  For a newspaper and a writer to follow a similar path proves a dumbing-down and level of non-achievement that I thought not possible until today!

Matt - please participate properly in using participles appropriately!

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13.1.15 Merry Hill Review

There is nothing more likely to collapse, break or simply wither to nothing than a hotel bin liner.  These wispy, ineffective, pointless items are provided to the same low standard irrespective of the establishment's room rate - from expensive room to cheap lodge.  This was exactly the case on each of my recent overnight experiences, including the last one at the Copthorne Merry Hill. It would be fair to say that any ProLife supporter would sanction the Merry Hill bin liners for use as condoms, based on their complete ineffectiveness!

Arrival was late, and an adjustment to our reservation was necessary.  I arrived at reception with Mrs MWSC alongside me, and Junior in tow.  I had of course booked online for three adults.  The receptionist was a variation on a 'Stepford Wife' - the two significant variances being she was not very attractive, and not very bright.  I dubbed her "Anne".

"Oh; you'll be needing a family room with an extra bed in it, then."

I acknowledged this superb assessment as accurate, while remaining baffled as to how the fuck our allotted room was not of such a style and already prepared for us.  Anyway, Anne of Cleves was able to amend things with minimal effort, the level of input at which she was proficient.  After registering, we got the lift and found our room.

Aside from the bin liner being gossamer thin, the room was seemingly perfectly acceptable.  It was almost 11pm, and with a slight stomach rumble on the part of Mrs MWSC, it was time to investigate room service.  After perusal of the options, Mrs MWSC decided that she would be satisfied with a Panini (£8.95 was the going rate for said delicacy which came with crisps and salad) and Junior would have some chips.  It was time to place the order.

Unfortunately there was some sort of communications issue, for the 'room service' number elicited no response.  After a long wait, Mrs MWSC decided to call reception. Alas, Anne of Cleves was not available. She was of course NOT engaged with the hotel manager (Henry) in any hanky panky because as we all know, her marriage was never consummated. Another go calling 'room service' was fruitless, just like the menu.  Again a call to reception proved a waste of time.  A personal visit was required to place the fucking order!  This was not a good start for "room service".

Upon her return, Mrs MWSC told me that there were no chips available. Anne had said the fryers were turned off for the night.  Junior would therefore be having a panini as well.  Strangely there was a quick answer when Mrs MWSC called to add a pint of lager to the order.  As soon as Mrs MWSC announced herself, Anne of Cleves was straight in with, "I know; we doing your order now and it'll be ready in a minute."  She no doubt felt she was being pursued.  I could have assured her that if she were indeed the target of pursuit by Mrs MWSC, then she would have been beheaded, significantly messing up the rhyme of "Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived". The request for a lager was taken, and that concluded any further involvement - she was history.

The arrival of the large tray was a grandiose event, preceded by the tap on the door.  The ritual "setting down of the square" was followed by my signing the pad and the exit of the court jester who'd brought it, with flourish and a dollop of her unusual personality.

As I confirmed the following morning, via the completed customer survey: "No cutlery was provided with room service.  Eating a salad + dressing with fingers is a strange experience, possible a local custom in the Midlands?"

Illiteracy was evident, as confirmed by the printed message on the paper sheet under the two plates of food.

When you require your tray collecting please place it outside your room and dial 4631 for collection.

"Require your tray collecting" is simply clumsy and wrong.

The humidity was high, and akin to the conditions required at the Body Farm, where scientists conduct research into the decomposition process for bodies.

Hotels never give decent light.  Instead, there's a strange rationing of this commodity (well, the electric variety) through a weird obsession with multiple lamps each trying to eat a small mouthful of gloom and succeeding only inasmuch as progress demands collective action.  In this case, four lamps colluded with two wall lights which did little more than help establish the true colour of the wallpaper.  There was also one overhead disc of light by the door that illuminated the wardrobe area to a reasonable degree.

The Bed of Brierley Hill

All of this peripheral information proved irrelevant for any review of the establishment, as the whole experience was severely overridden by the quality of the night's sleep which was determined for the most part by the comfort level of the mattress.  On a scale of Tutankhamun's Sarcophagus to Luxurious Angel's Wings, it was definitely as fucking Egyptian as the cotton sheets!

The particularly small bin was almost full as we set to go, with the liner of course underneath the debris rather than containing it.

Departure involved being mugged for £24.80, the cost of two paninis and a pint of later.  This, I quickly realised, was only 80p more than 40 cans of Carlsberg from ASDA, and I determined never to return.  The fair cost of a pint and two very small paninis was probably no more than half that.

Will I return?  No.

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6.1.15 Outstanding Quotes of the Month

Having stopped posting my Quotes of the Month a while ago, I find I've got some oddments that need disposing of.  I am thus removing them from my cluttered life by listing a collection of them below.

In fairness, she can't do much with that chin line - Steph on Gogglebox, in reference to Judy Murray on Strictly Come Dancing.

I wouldn't like him no matter how many limbs he had - Mrs MWSC regarding a most annoying contestant on Pointless, the one without legs who participated in Splash last year.

That's poor for any international nation - Andy Townsend talking nonsense again.

They couldn't have no complaints - Alan Shearer, thick as ever.

Fucking foraging; I'm not a truffle - TMWSC, after Larry (the Basset Hound) decided to launch himself on to the sofa and start sniffing and foraging in the vicinity.

You're confusing 'American Smooth' with 'American Stiff' - Bruno Tonioli to Judy Murray on Strictly Come Dancing.

With no make-up, she's really quite ugly; she's like a rhino without a horn - TMWSC regarding the very awful Gemma Collins.

Dyson also confirmed there will be discounts of more than £100 on some hoovers - Daily Mail, not understanding the Dyson/Hoover/Vacuum side of things and showing vacuum-like heads.

All the people around me are more better than I am - Pharrell Williams, proving ignorance with superlative prowess.

I know you are there and I will get you - Mrs MWSC to a fly, while holding a swatter, in the style of Liam Neeson.

It's a wailing marathon, isn't it; where's a harpoon when you need one? - TMWSC regarding the Sam Bailey & Nicole Scherzinger duet on X-Factor.

She was an honour to share the stage with - Nicole showing appalling grammar.

It's never quarter-to-twelve!  Oh, it's five to nine - Mrs MWSC trying to establish the time without the aid of glasses.

He's got to make them more harder to beat - Phil Neville.  Surely there's never been a more annoying person to listen to on a football show, and only Alan Shearer can be accused of greater illiteracy.

Once the seat belt signs go on, the toilets will be locked and prohibited to use - Ryanair cabin person making a last comment on use of the toilets before landing, and displaying no understanding of the English language.

It's the cunt of the paint world - a friend's comment on the black paint she was trying to apply to railings.

Find a wing-backed chair and dribble - an abusive comment by TMWSC to the painter friend.

Ken Dodd's dad's dog's dead - TMWSC somehow creating a tongue twister while engaged in general conversation.

Greenwich is the epicentre of the seafaring world - idiot TV presenter, proving idiocy.

One of us are going - Jimmy Bullard on I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, ignoring use of English.

I found "Men In Black Three tomorrow at seven on Four too much" - TMWSC regarding the TV announcer's confusing numbers attack.

Everyone in the audience were given a number - Stephen Mulhern, thinking that everyone is (are?) plural.

He's got a touch of the Dereks about him - Mrs MWSC regarding a pedestrian looking bemused, in the style of Derek.

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6.1.15 Ched Evans Disgrace

I have no sympathy for Mr Evans, the convicted rapist who is trying to get back into the football world.  There are many expressing views on whether or not he should be allowed to resume his career, and I am not sure what's to be done.  He has to earn a living, but has alienated everyone by not showing any remorse.  The latest episode in the saga involves a possible role at Oldham Athletic FC.

This is apparently in the balance now, because sponsors may withdraw their support and money from the club, should Evans be signed.  The leading 'player' in the sponsorship dealings is Mike Ashley, whose sponsorship is worth about £1million to Oldham.

What I find utterly deplorable, aside from the actions of Ched Evans, is the outrageous intervention made by Vera Baird.  She is the Northumbria Police and Crime Commissioner, and has apparently made a personal request to Mr Ashley, according to the Mail Online.  How the cuntin fuck is it right that a commissioner is prevailing upon someone to withdraw sponsorship if a football club agrees to employ a particular player - whatever the fucking background? This is simply amazing!  The police should be involved in catching criminals. I rather thought that once they had done so, and the offender had served the sentence, that the police were not involved in harassment . . . . obviously I was wrong.  The system now seems to allow the pursuit of people afterwards, simply on the grounds of trying to make their life hell, or at least fucking up any chance of gainful employment.

Just because I have no sympathy for Ched Evans does NOT mean that I can condone some fucking vendetta being pursued by a commissioner whose remit must surely not extend to being a nuisance and trying to influence matters that have fuck all to do with her.  I suspect Vera Baird's actions might be grounds enough for Ched Evans to sue her; she should be concentrating on other matters, rather than abusing her position.  She may well be keen to encourage us all to observe the law, and obsessed with efforts to tinker with more fucking 'initiatives', but maybe someone should tell her she's not Charles Bronson, and she should butt out.

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4.1.15 Phil Neville - How Not To Perform

There can be no doubt, surely, that Phil Neville is a long way short of competent, and a lot further short of being of any interest at all when trying to be a football pundit.  I don't know the bloke, and I am sure he's nice enough if he's your friend.  The trouble is, he isn't, but I still have to endure his input in my life, thanks to the BBC's annoying invitations for him to have a say in footballing matters.

Today's story in the Mail Online confirms inadequacy at a shocking level; we learn that the 37-year-old was unable to make a cup of instant coffee when an interviewer called at his house last week, and that Phil had to phone his wife to ask how to do it.  This really takes the biscuit.  There was I, thinking that his skills in commentary and punditry were horrendous and most certainly evidence of inappropriate inclusion in the media world, but never to have made a coffee shows inadequacy at a much greater level, surpassed only by the further uselessness in not even knowing how to make one.

On to footballing input, and I must call into question his qualifications for having any sort of say.  Playing football does NOT automatically qualify one to be proficient in talking about the game.  The former requires some skill with a ball on a football pitch.  The latter requires a command of the English language and a screen presence that does not offend.  Sadly, far too many ex-footballers are recruited to our screen to waffle and talk bollocks, without ever giving consideration to the tense in which they are speaking, let alone the quality of the content in their rambling utterances.

By his own admission, Phil was not up to the job when commentating during the World Cup.  He was slated for being boring, and a few million viewers were correct.  It seems perseverance has given him the impression all has been forgotten, and that he has acquired new skills to a satisfactory level.  I would like to register my objection to any such claim; in my view, there remains more than enough reason to switch channels or press the mute button when Phil appears.

In terms of his talking gibberish, he is no better or worse than many others.  The dumbing down of the world, and in particular the football world, means that it's now commonplace for people to sit in armchairs talking shit and getting paid. As a result, we get:

"He's got to make them more harder to beat." [Phil Neville]
"The left back get's beat too easily." [Phil Neville]
"I think they're a team that's got real good resilience." [Phil Neville]
"It was a real poor goal." [Phil Neville]

My further annoyances, though, come from Mr Neville's complete inability to pronounce things properly.  As well as irritation for me, a discourteousness to other players comes from his inability to pronounce names correctly.  Some examples are:

Gerrard - pronounced with a stress on the second syllable.  Steven Gerrard has a name that is rather standard, and one that can be properly and successfully pronounced by everyone in the country - except Phil Neville. WTF?

Cazorla - for some strange reason, Phil Neville has decided to rename Santi Cazorla, Arsenal's excellent Spanish player, and refer to him as 'Cazola', rhyming with 'Tombola'.  There is a fucking 'r' before the 'l' which Neville has decided to remove.  It's bad enough that most commentators pronounce the 'z' in the English way rather than like the 'z' in Ibiza, but to have further tampering is just poor.  Only Neville manages this extra level of disrespect.

Flamini - this is another name that Phil Neville has decided to abuse, preferring to say "Flameeni" with stress on the second syllable.

Giroud - instead of Giroo, with a soft 'j' sound for the first letter, Neville prefers the 'g' in 'giraffe' and to pronounce the 'd' as well, giving "Gi-rude".

Just to finish off, here's a good one from his last Match of the Day appearance -

"That's gung-go!"  [He of course meant gung-ho]

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2.1.15 London Airports - Taking The Piss

The latest farcical move regarding airports has come from Ashford in Kent. Lydd Airport is now known as London Ashford.  This is quite simply preposterous.  Already there is lunacy regarding the association of airports with London, demonstrated by the distances of each from central London.

MILES FROM CENTRAL LONDON?

London Heathrow Airport - 16 miles from central London

London Gatwick Airport - 28 miles from central London

London Luton Airport - 34 miles from central London

London Stansted Airport - 39 miles from central London

London City Airport - 8 miles from central London

London Southend Airport - 40 miles from central London

London Oxford Airport - 61 miles from central London

London Ashford Airport - 73 miles from central London

I always thought it was taking the fucking piss when Luton decided it was "London Luton".  That now seems a tame move indeed, not least because Stanstead adopted the 'London' tag with relative ease despite its being 39 miles away.  Perhaps it was naivety that led us to think that the 40 mile radius might serve as some sort of barrier to the piss taking, and that Southend would be the final piss-taker.  Any such theory was blown out of the water when some stupid cunts thought Oxford close enough to be deemed an extension of London. For a city as globally well known as Oxford to relinquish its identity and individuality by allowing its airport to be tagged as a 'London' one is simply opportunistic, daft and idiosyncratic.  At least Cambridge (55 miles) has resisted the urge to fuck itself over with a new name, despite easy qualification, under the revised toss-pot rules.  Maybe Peterborough will have a go instead?

Now we have the laughable situation whereby Ashford is being added to the list.  At 73 miles distant, I suspect any visitors landing there will be slightly surprised and disappointed that they are a long way fucking short of Trafalgar Square!  Whatever next?  It's only 99 miles from London to fucking Calais!

Well, as it happens, I have some possibilities prepared for you.  If the 61 miles to Oxford could be surpassed by the 73 miles to Ashford, then logic says that other places are but a step away.

FURTHER / FARTHER OPTIONS?

London Southampton Airport - 74 miles from central London

London Ipswich Airport - 76 miles from central London

London Peterborough Airport - 77 miles from central London

London Gloucester Airport - 91 miles from central London

London Calais Airport - 99 miles from central London

Of course it's not just London that seems to act as a magnet when it comes to naming conventions.  We've already had the pathetic adjustment to East Midlands Airport, since is was deemed necessary to tag it to Nottingham, and produce NEMA as the silly style for referencing it.  After three years, the twats in charge went for another change, to East Midlands Airport - Nottingham, Leicester, Derby.  What complete bollocks.  I suspect the same lunacy was shared in meetings further north, when in 2004 the idiots in charge considered Teesside Airport was inappropriate, and opted for Durham Tees Valley Airport. This was despite the airport actually being just four miles from the centre of Darlington.  Even Middlesbrough and Stockton were dismissed as names when they are just nine miles away.  Clearly someone thought that Durham 'sounded better', despite it being 24 miles north.  I wonder if it is a coincidence that the airport has been in decline ever since, with the 900k passengers in 2005 dropping to 160k in 2013.

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1.1.15 Awful ASDA Again

I am not sure that the scene in ASDA yesterday was truly in line with 1970s Beirut or whether the lack of stock on shelves was reminiscent of a supermarket in the USSR, but it was nevertheless one of pandemonium, shortages, dithering and annoyance.

New Year's Eve meant a mild panic by many, who might not survive a day of non-shopping, and so necessitated extensive stocking up.  This, together with ASDA's fucking disgraceful approach to providing a facility in which to shop, meant there was not a single fucking chicken to be had.  I cant recall the exact number of chickens killed every year, but it is something like 60 billion.  It seems that there were many birds which qualified for a reprieve in the last couple of weeks, leading Asda to run out.

Needless to say I could not obtain any beansprouts, for the simple reason that the local ASDA has made some sort of policy decision not to stock them, which is cunting criminal.  Back to yesterday, and my efforts to get some bread and milk, a dog treat, some Sprite and a case of beer, along with something for tea. This was not a massively challenging 'list' in my opinion, but ASDA decided to make it so, through two measures.  The first was to ensure that there was no chicken for sale.  I did not though feel targeted in any special way, as those seeking mushrooms, and a whole range of other vegetables were truly disappointed.  They had long gone, never to be restocked - just like the streaky bacon.  The other measure introduced to complicate my errand was to ensure there were staff dithering in the fucking way.

In some sort of vague effort to impede the progress of shoppers, the aisles were filled with cages, mostly containing stock.  In the vicinity of each was a squatting or stretching uniformed worker obstructing shoppers and achieving little.  I found one such twat in the dog food aisle.  Hard up against one side were two cages, behind which were some dog treats that I had my eye on - well, would have, if I could make out what was what.  The chap in charge of the aisle, the cages, restocking and impedance was intent on putting dog food on the shelves.  I though about redirecting him to the cunting chicken aisle, but then remember I'd picked up two Indian ready meals for £10, to serve as tea. Thus, I waited for an opportunity to gain access to the treats.

It was less easy than threading a needle, or finding out why the cunt with the "Space Here" sign was not pointing at the shelves instead of a checkout lane while trying to look more intelligent than the sign's wooden pole.  The Pedigree Chump in charge of dog food was aware of my interest in the shelves around and behind his two cages, but was adamant that they were there for a reason. What it was escaped me, as Chump seems to be taking stuff from a cage further up the aisle and then putting it in one of the two cages before me.  He nipped back for some Winalot, and I took the opportunity to pull one forward, to gain access to the shelf behind.  I was squatting, in the style of an ASDA worker, when I felt the cage being nudged towards me.  Fucking cheek.  I braced myself in the style recommended by Ryanair, and adopted the RSJ position.  This was enough for Chump to realise I'd gained access to stock for sale, and so he went off to his back-up cage.

As I left the aisle, I looked at Chump, and he looked at me.  I knew he knew I knew it was him who'd nudged the cage.  I let him proceed unscathed, and he continued to fulfill society's desperate need for ludicrous amounts of dog food to be available on New Year's Eve at 4pm.

Bread was available, and I picked up a loaf with ease from the top shelf, not least because I am tall enough to reach to the back and gain a loaf with the longest life.  This was in stark contrast to my last visit to ASDA, on Sunday last, when there was a frantic exercise in progress which involved a worker reducing everything to 10p.  The trolley in front of the shelves of bread held items with yellow stickers, and the ASDA woman was furiously topping up the trolley.  I was in the process of inspecting what was on offer when it started to move. Yes, Attila the Twat [she was a hefty lass] was absconding with the scones, and the various loaves.

Clearly I am behind the times in retail theory, and was totally unaware that the people most likely to buy cheap bread with limited life are those who are perusing cheap clothes and half-price cleaning liquid and newspapers.  For this is where the trolley ended up, as I saw on my exit from ASDA.  Attila had wheeled it away, and found this new home for what was a strange array of products.  I considered that ASDA's policy was flawed, because everyone already in the shop would be denied the chance of seeing the reduced items, and any wanting bread would probably veer towards the bread section, where there was nothing reduced to clear.  I then decided that at about £7 per hour, Attila had earned £3.50 before tax, but her efforts were likely to yield for ASDA fewer than 35 purchases at 10p.  In economic terms, she should have been sent home and the items left alone.  A handful might have sold (at no on cost) and throwing the remainder away would have cost less than having Attila's input at all.  Anyway, yesterday must have been her day off.

The world price of Sprite has suddenly shot up.  I know this because ASDA has unfortunately had to respond in the only way it knows how - to increase the price.  Those of you who are cynical might think there was a purposeful move to rip off customers in their time of need.  I am not one who thinks this might be the case - I fucking know it.  Last week, I bought three bottles for £3 because the offer was good and Junior likes his sprite.  Yesterday, they were available at £1.85 each!  I thought I may as well get the eight-packs which have been available at "two for £5" for the last couple of months. but oh no - they were £4.79 each.  Clearly the cunts in charge like playing games.

Just to highlight how we in Britain are ripped off all the time, Sprite is available in Mercadona [Spain] at ONE EURO for a bottle.  This has been the case for the last two years to my certain knowledge.  That equates to little more than 80p per bottle, and for a year, the bottles have in fact been 2.25 litres rather than 2 litres!  Not an "offer" in sight!.

I decided not to bother with the Sprite, and picked up two cases of lager.  The checkouts were heaving, but I coped admirably.  Amy engaged in no small talk whatsoever, for which I (silently) thanked her.  She was not stingy with the bags, so I was able to make my escape quite efficiently.

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