30.12.17 Celebrity Or Not?

There are numerous television shows which feature "Celebrity" participants.  The definition of a 'celebrity' is quite simply laughable, and in 80% of cases, such a description is an obscenity.  This is brought home by various shows.  Anyone who has recently been bored by Celebrity Road Trip will know very well what I am talking about.

We are just into a new run of Celebrity Mastermind, so I will invite you to consider the participants whose celebrity status is, in my opinion, not so much "in doubt" as fucking flawed.  Yes, there are a few possibles, but there is one real test that in my opinion determines whether someone has no right whatsoever to be considered a celebrity - whether their name needs any sort of qualification, such as what they fucking do for a living.

Here are the entries in my TV guide, with extra notes on those whom you may not have heard of [instantly removing them from the category that has allowed them to participate!]

Jack Ashton
Rich Hall
Guy Mowbray
Pam Ayres
Philip Serrell (Antiques Expert)
Richard McCourt (Comedian)
Lemn Sissay (Poet)
Olivia Wayne (Sports Anchor)
John Bradley (Actor)
Crista Cullen (Hockey Player)
Nick Bright (Radio 1Xtra Presenter)
Anna Passey (Hollyoaks Actress)
Rachel Stevens,
Asim Chaudhry
Anita Anand
Andy Zaltman
Faisal Islam
Lloyd Langford
Ollie Locke
Yasmin Evans
Phil Williams (Radio Presenter)
John Robins (Comedian)
Lydia Bright (TOWIE star)
Tim Farron (MP)
Laurence Rickard (Actor)
Martin Hughes-Games (Springwatch Presenter)
Vogue Williams (Model and Presenter)
John Pienaar (BBC Political Editor)
Dane Baptiste (Comedian)
Grace Victory (Vlogger)
Annie Wallace (Holyoaks Actor)
Martin Bell (Ex MP)

A motley collection indeed.  Over on ITV, the culmination of a nauseating campaign to kill us all off with relentless trailers for Dancing On Ice has led us to next Sunday's commencement of the usual dross.  Here is the list of participants for this fayre.  Bearing in mind the 4-year absence of DOI, you would perhaps think a decent line-up should be offered.

Lemar
Kem Cetinay
Antony Cotton
Brooke Vincent
Max Evans
Perri Shakes-Drayton
Candice Brown
Stephanie Waring
Alex Beresford
Cheryl Baker
Jake Quickenden
Donna Air

I will leave you to assess.

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30.12.17 The Reason Is Because

People who can allegedly cook should do so without telling us about it, UNLESS they can cunting well speak English.  There is a muppet on TV as I type who repeatedly uses "the reason is because" which is simply horrendous.  If I were as useless, I'd be saying:

The reason you are a twat is because you cannot use the language.

However, I would not do so.  It is grammatically wrong - a howler.  Rather, I would go for one of the following two options to make my point to Mr Ainsworth.

The reason you are a twat is that you cannot use the language

You are a twat because you cannot use the language

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27.12.17 Festive Nonsense

As I have done in previous years, I have noted the excessive use of the word 'festive' in the TV Guide over the Christmas period.  The laziness adopted by the compilers of the TV Choice magazine is pathetic, and the gratuitous use of 'festive' in programme details is ludicrous.

The instances by day and channel have been collated, and are shown in the table below:

It is strangely the case that this year's results have in the main mirrored those of last year, in the general spread of usage.  See the graph below:

For comparison, here is the graph showing last year's results, which were taken over a slightly shorter time span.

I shall not attempt to analyse the full date, but a couple of points are:

a)  Channel 4 is again the most festive of the five main channels, strengthening its position with 36% of all appearances, up from 29% last year.

b)  The overall 'festive' count has increased, from 3.57 per day to 4.24 per day.

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10.12.17 Wetherby Junkies

The need to stop at the services was unfortunate, mainly because the place was mobbed.  Wetherby Services was, on this particular Saturday, the most popular venue in the north.  The degree of popularity only became truly apparent upon entering the building itself.  Mrs MWSC and I were amazed at the over-subscribed facility, and then suddenly dumbfounded by a queue for the toilets that stretched on and on.  With no exaggeration, there must have been well over 100 people waiting to shit and piss.

The double take changed nothing – there were indeed people everywhere, and loads of them clogging the walkway, most in the queue.  How could this be?  We joined through necessity, and inched forward at a snail’s pace.  In due course, it became apparent that the in/out area to the toilets was split by a roped barrier; in on the left, out on the right.  Men were going against the tide to get in to the corridor, dodging the outgoing empty-bladdered visitors.  It became clear that the male facilities were not oversubscribed, but the women were less well catered for.  The backlog was jiggling with the wait.

I resisted the urge to abandon Mrs MWSC, and we held our positions as we eventually rounded the corner, and kept left while getting to the corridor.  Another left turn revealed another 40 feet of females queuing.  I decided to veer right and sort myself out while Mrs MWSC was stuck in the queue.  As a complete aside, I ought to mention that the cashpoint machines (whose screens warned of a £1.99 charge for anyone withdrawing money) are located in the corridor.  The designers were clearly deranged, and anyone wanting twenty quid would have to tackle a dozen women wanting to spend a penny.

Out in the main area, I waited for a relieved wife, and considered the mayhem all around.  In the WH Smiths, people snaked around towards the till, ready to use plastic to buy non-essentials at higher than normal prices.  Coffee drinkers were getting their fixes, and takeaway food of low quality was being served at exorbitant prices.  I stood outside the main entrance to escape the oppressive atmosphere.  While taking in the view, I noted six coaches and realised that this was probably the cause of the madness.  Half a dozen coach drivers had deposited 300 people, each of whom wanted to make his or her own deposit.

A woman came from my right, and she adopted a strange posture.  This could have been linked to her need for the loo, and/or to her inability to cope with the high heels and very tight jeans.  The big arse formed the point in her profile that was a chevron.  She leaned forward as she walked, sticking her arse out behind her.  Mathematically, she was a ‘More Than’ symbol.  I deduced that she was not a visitor to the women’s toilets because she came out again just three minutes later, this time ‘Less Than’ (for her reverse journey to a car somewhere).

Mrs MWSC appeared through the crowds and we made haste, leaving behind the addicts.  I refer to the lunatics paying small fortunes for coffees, pasties, rolls and shite.  Wetherby Services is itself a metaphorical junkie, desperate for its own fix – the repeated injections of mad people intent on pissing, shitting and wasting loads of money on food, drink and non-essentials as part of a frenzy during an intermission in their journeys.

3.12.17 Rights of Passage

Before we got near a plane, an airport worker was on a mission to restrict passage.  The five-foot entrance to the airport via automatic doors was the first 'limitation' introduced to all those hoping to fly.  The next effort to restrict the flow of people was provided by a beskirted sales assistant in the meandering walkway through the shop.  The airport authorities had long ago decided we should all be made to run the gauntlet of the overpriced, pointless products emporium.

However, Miss Constrictor (let's call her Boa) was on a personal mission to further funnel people by blocking the 120cm wide walkway by talking to two cunts who had nothing better to do.  So it was, that passengers trying to make their way to the various airports of Europe were first required to squeeze through a gap no wider than 70 cunting centimetres!  This right of passage [pun intended] was a necessary step in the process of getting on any plane at all.  So, Yorkshire's gateway to the world was as wide as two-and-a-half fucking Toblerones.

The painful process of boarding was made so much worse by the lack of air; people sweated, and oxygen was in short supply.  If only masks could drop from the ceiling.  I found myself wishing we were board at gate number eight, a long walk from the main building, but it would have meant a walk in the open air, plus boarding via the back steps as well.  Instead, we were funnelled through a tunnel after a wait in the cramped area of gate number three, and with boarding at the front only, it took ages.  Inane thoughts came and went, as I stood vegetating in the queue.  The young kid in front of me must have been about 13; his tits were bigger than his mother's.  We shuffled forward.

In my seat I became reacquainted with the half-size arm rests provided by Jet2, arm rests that are no good to man nor beast - unless, that is, you have no arms, or at least nothing below the elbow.  [How strange that BELOW and ELBOW are anagrams]

The Jet2Shop magazine was full of the usual stuff; who exactly buys it?  The editor, Kirsty Calvert, gave her intro and left me all the worse for it.  Here is one small extract for your delectation:

Our Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream All-Over Miracle Oil is super popular.  It maximises on suitcase space too, as it rejuvenates face, body and hair!

I'm not sure which of the two sentences is the worst; make your own mind up.

I turned to considering more manly things, and in particular, why the various watches were being championed according to their resistance levels.  I am sorry, but whether a watch is resistant to water at 30 metres, 50 metres or 100 metres is rather immaterial.  Most people will never subject the things to more than a foot of water, if it falls into a bath or six inches, if if falls into a loo!

Who would choose to spend £41 on a plane when the alleged recommended price is £50.  Any problems and there is no easy return option.

The struggle to disembark via the front door was,as ever, an unhappy affair.  Eventually it was time to show passports to a disinterested, uniformed person and leave the airport.  BUT, nothing so slick or efficient was possible.  Instead, the mob was before us, a heaving mass of flesh, sweat and bad breath in front of passport control.  There were two routes, I came to realise, as we inched forward.  A chap was overseeing the splitting process; to the left was the ABC system for eye and fingerprint checks, while to the right was a queue for one of the two chaps in the conventional kiosk.

As we neared the kiosk, and airport worker guided an old chap with short white hair to the front of the queue, and he took up residency at the glass, resting his cane against the counter.  We waited.  The second passport checker was the target for the HOTWW.  Yes, the constant arrival of immobile people on our right meant the queue made only intermittent progress in getting shorter.  Helpers Of The Walking Wounded were nipping about and flashing the collected passports of the infirm.

The left hand counter was out of action for ages.  I suggested the bloke could be a returning Rudolph Hess and that could explain well over over five minutes at the passport control window.  There was no leeway from the officials.  It used to be more of a spot check, with some people simply being waved through, but despite the big crowd, everyone was getting attention.  With Rudolph at the left window, we had one single person in Malaga actually allowing people into Spain.

The ABC section, which I observed for a while as there was little else to do, was a mess.  The rabble was engaged in sorting out fingerprints and people were staring into screens to get eye recognition clearance.  It was all a palaver, and hardly efficient.  At each of the four machines was a member of staff, and all four of them could have been better employed in checking fucking passports!  Such a policy would have alleviated the wait, as the queues would have been tiny with all six of the airport staff checking passports instead of training thick travellers on how to use a shit system that takes twice as long.  The dogged adherence to a flawed policy and procedure was a demonstration of stupiduty worse than the cunts in charge at ASDA.  Whilst ASDA may well often offer just two manned (or womanned) checkouts, the self service area usually only has one member of staff overseeing the scanners rather than four!  Yes, I know that there are other wasters, such as the floor runner researching the price of a kumquat and two gossipers loitering, the one with the most keys being the more senior, but we have all learnt to ignore them as useful members of staff.

Leaving Rudolph behind (Hess, in case you've forgotten) I pocketed our passports and headed for the exit.  As ever, the exit from Malaga Airport was restricted to a five-foot wide gap, reduced by whatever coefficient had to be applied each minute based on encroachment and blockages.  Blokes holding cards got in the way, as did dithering fuckers who insisted in stopping in or just outside the doorway.  Leeds Airport granted us 70cm, and Malaga Airport matched this, just about, but not before some sidestepping and circum-cuntin-navigating.  Generally, there was no right of passage.

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21.11.17 Ikea Farcical Delivery

I have just been on line to buy a pillow, and have encountered a double-whammy problem with the pathetic offering from Ikea.

1  The delivery cost for a fucking £15 pillow is £7.50

2  The delivery date is scheduled to be in TWO CUNTIN WEEKS TIME!

Absolute madness.  I am lost for words.

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7.10.17 Plastic

I left the kitchen, taking with me the small plastic bin that holds the recyclable plastics.  I emptied it in the large plastic wheelie bin and then went to get a lottery ticket.  I first needed to use the cash point because I had no real money.  The local bank closed down on Friday, as did its cashpoint machine outside, so I was obliged to use the large lump of plastic situated inside the Co-op that serves as an ATM.  I stuck my plastic card in the thing and took out £50.  I got two real noted, and a £10 that is now basically plastic.  I didn't need a plastic basket, as I would be shopping properly later on.  I got a TV Guide and went to the till where I would buy a lottery ticket as well.  I decided to offload the plastic £10 note.  As I got to the till, I noticed on a floor a pair of plastic knitting needles in a plastic wrapper, so put them on the counter.  The assistant suggested they had fallen out of the needlework magazine that was propped up to one side, a magazine that was encased in plastic to (unsuccessfully) hold the wool and needles.  I presented the £10 plastic note and was frustrated to receive in my change a plastic £5 note that was adopting a shape that would not change.  It was folded in a way that suggested a change of chemical structure had fucking occurred.  Pissing fucking plastic.

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17.9.17 Field of Dreams? Asda Nightmares!

Can there be any supermarket worse than ASDA?  This is a rhetorical question because of course there is no establishment that is as annoying or useless.  I suppose to some small degree my views are shaped through having a relatively small store closest to my house.  'Small' is a relative term, because the footprint of this blot on the landscape is rather large - enough to have decimated the green field that was minding its own business before the planners came along and acted like cunts.

"Build it and they will come" is the line from Field Of Dreams, and in similar style, the cunts-in-charge adopted this approach in the belief that shoppers would swarm to the stadium of mayhem.  They were right; from far and wide, people flock to be fucked.  The lies about pricing have spread to thousands of people in a catchment area that denies them any real alternative.  The Cunt-op may well have improved its pricing policy, but you will still be hard pressed to find more than a handful of things you can buy without being truly ripped off.

After just about three years of the green monster having devoured a pristine coastal field and offered us a sweeping social downgrade, there is work underway to add to Asda's assault on the landscape. The "Build it and they will come" line may well apply to shoppers, but the mantra also applies to other retailers.  Like flies around shit, the hangers-on are now mobilised, aided and abetted by the cunts at the council who have decided that more green fields can be decimated.  Why?  Because apparently we are in need of yet another fucking McDonald's and all the accompanying litter.  On the opposite side of the inadequate mini roundabout is a massive shell that will house three or four more retail outlets.  The diggers have dug, the brickies have laid their shit, and the mud has taken over.  From the site office (two shipping containers) the CIC are no doubt happy to look out and be smug. The vandalism is half-way completed.  Soon, the others (a Marston's pub, B&M, Aldi and more) will join in the obscenity.

Asda's own exploits are best described as a corporate con.  There are hundreds of red and white signs shouting "Rollback".  Yes, everywhere I look, I see flagrant disregard for any retail honesty or integrity.  Rather, I see manipulation and lies on most tickets and pricing displays, complementing well the actual products, whose sizes and weights have been tweaked insidiously by manufacturers.  Thus, it is more like "Two rolls forward and one rollback".

I entered the store three weeks ago to a display of Sprite, bring sold at £1 under the 'Rollback' bollocks.  The Cunts In Charge had raised the price from £1 to £1.85 per 2-litre bottle two weeks earlier, for absolutely no reason.  The stock markets had not been jittered into raising world prices for this commodity; there was no scarcity that could have any way suggested a need to introduce an 85% price increase.  Then, two weeks later, I am supposed to be impressed that Asda has put the price back down to a level where I could again buy the fucking stuff instead of boycotting it!

There IS NO ROLLBACK!  Peperami packs fluctuate between £1 and £2.50. Pot of Joy four-packs fluctuate between £1 and £2.40.  Summer Fruits High Juice is up to £1.20 after a year at £1.  Was the 20% hike related to the product's withdrawal for three weeks, and reappearance with a new label design and screw cap?  I hope not because the plastic top is now of a worse design and it is more fiddly to line up the thread than the perfectly functioning previous darker green cap.  Last week, the Hot 'n' Spicy Chicken Breasts went from £1 to £1.50 for no reason.  This is not the only issue with chicken at Asda.

Yesterday, I went to get chicken wings, and some salad.  There were chicken goujons, chicken breasts, chicken legs, chicken thighs, and of course chickens.  Now, I know chickens don't fly, but I believe that anatomically, they still have cunting wings, and Charles Darwin suggested change over thousands of years, not fucking overnight!  Not a cunting wing in the cunting shop!  Not even a bag of them in the freezer.

Two weeks ago I was forced to use the self service area for a box of beer. There were only two normal checkouts in use, both of them oversubscribed. I could not face a long wait for one item, and the days of an manned express checkout for up to 9 items have long since ended.  With trepidation I approached the zone . . . . no fucker to hand in an Asda uniform.  I of course pressed to confirm that I had no need of a bag - as if a fucking twat-of-a-5p-bag would be any good for 20 cans in a box!  I scanned and waited, instantly angry that I was now in the limbo stage of retail.  This is where I want to buy something that I have selected, I have the money and simply wish to proceed . . . BUT . . . I am not allowed to do so because I need 'clearance'.  I stood in limbo, awaiting input.  I had been instructed to do so my the machine, and the voice command that told me what was going on.

"Please wait for assistance; a colleague is on their way".

This was more cunting infuriating than the system that denies purchase of some fucking cans.  How the cunting fuck does a machine have a colleague? The only part-acceptable explanation would be a robot that might assist me further.  The petrol pumps have stickers suggesting that a colleague might be able to assist, so inanimate "colleagues" are apparently working at Asda. More severe was my annoyance at the abuse of the English language.  A colleague . . THEIR way . .  fucking disgraceful!

A young chap appeared and with some sort of weird flourish, attended to the machine, allowing me to spend fucking money.  "There you go," he said, as though he had achieved something in life.  I decided not to thank him for his divine intervention; that would mean Asda inconveniencing me so that I could then be grateful for the inconvenience being removed.  "Bring back the CONVENIENCE" I say . . . . . fuck the Rollback Bollocks.

A few days later I had shopping that was in a trolley, and I spied a checkout with just one person 'on the belt' (not literally).  I loaded my stuff behind the remaining items of the customer in front, but I soon regretted this.  There was an issue with an item of clothing.  The wait for an "override" as excruciating. Finally, a waddling cunt in a "Happy To Help" sleeveless yellow vest arrived, jangling like a Prisoner Cell Block H guard, unhappy as fuck to deal with 'scan-gate'. Without any checks, she stuck a key in the till and tapped a few numbers, muttered something, and prepared to fuck off.  I toyed with the idea of ramming the unwanted hanger up the arse of the twat with the keys (or should that be up the twat of the arse with the keys?).  The ignorance was astounding, and she was in a world of her own.  What is the point of giving a twat at the far end of the store a key, and then having her eventually perform an override without any checks?  The checkout woman may as well keep the cunting key in her own pocket!

Field of Dreams?  No, more like Normal Asda Nightmares next to a Field of Mud.

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30.7.17 ITV Only 3.25% New Content

A week ago I was pissed off with ITV, which had decided that prime time Saturday viewing was best catered for with a dollop of shite lasting 3 hours and 15 minutes.  The Hobbit: The Unexpected Journey put paid to any viewing on that channel for the whole fucking evening, and it is a sad state of affairs when ITV struggles to find something to do when it has no X-Factor, BGT or The Voice to fill space.  I was hoping for some progress for this weekend and I can report that the cunts in charge have excelled themselves once more.

Yesterday, the CIC opted for The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug,coming in at a meagre three cunting hours!  Disgraceful scheduling.  Things could not get worse, could they?  Well yes, actually.

I have looked at today's offerings on ITV and have discovered the CIC are taking the cunting piss. Consider the full day's content, and you will see an horrendous abdication of any sense of responsibility for providing entertainment.

09.25 Judge Rinder (repeat)
10.20 Long Lost Family (repeat)
11.20 Love Your Garden (repeat)
12.25 James Martin's French Adventure (repeat)
12.55 Rebound (repeat)
13.55 Tipping Point (repeat)
14.55 Bear Grylls Survival School
15.25 A View To A Kill (repeat)
18.30 Diana, Our Mother: Her Life And Legacy (repeat)
20:00 Harry Potter And The Order Of The Phoenix (repeat)
22.50 Judge Rinder's Crime Stories (repeat)
11.50 Take Me Out (repeat)

I have omitted from the above the news and weather input, as ITV has not yet sunk so low as to schedule repeats of the news (albeit that if you watch every news bulletin you'll go mad with the inherent repeated shite).  So the ONLY cunting thing on TV today that is not a repeat is Bear Grylls Survival School.  30 fucking minutes of tips that might help you survive the repeats on ITV and no go cunting crazy!

15 hours and 25 minutes between the start of the first programme and the end of the last.  30 minutes of actual new content means a paltry . . . . .

3.25 per cent !

Unbelievable, except for the fact that it is completely true.  However, ITV is littered with adverts and trailers, and this included the before, during and after, in relation to the one new programme.  The reality is that whilst the schedule devotes 30 minutes to the programme, it only actually airs for 24 minutes . . . .  so I can argue that the true percentage for new content is actually

2.6 per cent !

Next week, watch out for Harry Potter and The Meeting With The Hobbit: The Desolation Of Life, A Smorgasbord And The Prisoner Of Azerbaijan - Part 18 (7 hours and 45 minutes)

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22.7.17 Saturday Night TV - WTF?

What the cunting fuck is going on?  Surely the stations between them have got enough spunk to summon up a Saturday offering that's worth the bother! There is what might generously be described as a 'lull' in the entertainment level, but what would be more accurately described as a cunting great chasm.

BBC1 has decided to rollover and die, giving licence fee payers an audio nightmare by showing Pitch Battle that swallows up one hour and thirty-five minutes of prime time television, from 7.25pm.  This is the sixth of six such scheduling outrages, and I've avoided them all.  This is not least because the host is Mel Gridlock/Giedroyc/Guidecock/Ging Gang Goolie.

In desperation, I looked at the options on ITV and was cuntin affronted by the ridiculous three-and-a-quarter hours block-booked by The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey.  This is taking the piss, ITV!

Ignoring the BBC2 golf coverage, I hoped for something from Channel 4. Sadly I was left furious by Fast & Furious 6 which is simply unnecessary, well all eight are - or is it up to nine now?  150 minutes with adverts!

Channel 5 is always shockingly shite, and with Big Brother, some other celebrity nonsense and a repeat of some allegedly 'shocking moments' (20 of them) in the evening schedule. it was of course no surprise for me to find the offering shockingly shite.

In some sort of vague hope that I might stumble upon something watchable on the other minor channels, I turned the page.  ITV2 was lining up nearly three hours of Spiderman on his 13,240th repeat.  ITV3 executives at a recent meeting concluded that we'd like to see Mamma Mia again - wrongly of course.  ITV managed a clean sweep of utter shit and outrageous piss-taking with its last effort - the ITV4 listing for Police Academy 2: Their First Assignment.  This has been aired permanently since the dawn of time, well, since it was made in fucking 1985.  Worse, the follow-on film (Passenger 57 with Wesley Snipes) dates to 1992 and at 11.40pm, Death Wish 3 (from 1985) kills off any remaining viewers.

Dave thinks Demolition Man (Stallone) from 1993 is worthy of relentless attention, while E4 management is on drugs (speed?) because at 9.00pm we have Speed from 1994.

True Entertainment is a channel so poorly named that I think Trading Standards ought to be involved in a review.  Three films (all gaining two stars) swamp Saturday night viewing, and take us back to the nineties in every case.  The Stranger Beside Me, Loving Evangeline and Between Love and Hate.  Honestly, have you heard of any of them?

Old films from the nineties prevail elsewhere - An American Werewolf In Paris on the Horror channel, and on the Sony Movie Channel, First Knight with Richard Gere and Sean Connery fucking about on horseback.  On Film4, they've made it to the eighties (just, 1980) with Darkman, "starring" Liam Neeson.  This is one of the worst films of all time!

Dire indeed.

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22.7.17 Take Me Out - Dire Indeed

Is this the most horrendous 'show' made by ITV?  Well, it's got to be one of the front runners.

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14.6.17 Stage Musicals

DEFINITION:

People who can't really sing, singing songs that aren't really songs, about stuff no one gives a shit about.

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11.6.17 Three Women Fuck-up

It is clear for all to see that the fuck-ups in recent weeks have seen the UK inflect self-harm at a phenomenal level.  The election result was a surprise to the arrogant Mrs May, and most Tories.  The view was (no doubt) that she could march ahead and get a massive majority, and that she had the leeway and freedom to piss off pensioners, the disabled and the vulnerable along the way. That level of arrogance had to be punished - and it was.  Theresa May, useless twat, fucked it big time.  She is a woman who fucked things big time.

On the other side of the political divide, Jeremy Corbyn, a deluded wreck of a person, has managed to create a manifesto that was dreamland in economic terms, but was a tactical masterstroke.  The young were bribed, and the slogan of 'for the many, not the few' was equally well considered.  JC winning a majority would have been a disaster for the UK - and yet there is some weird romantic view being peddled that he was the real winner, and but for a couple of thousand well-placed votes, would have taken office as PM and saved the day.  Sorry, but this is a farcical notion.

The thing that saved the UK from a Corbyn victory was perhaps his belligerence regarding the retention of the dubious services of Diane Abbott. His decision to keep her on board displayed a definite error of judgement to match many of his other poor decisions over the years, to support all manner of dangerous and awful people.  Make no mistake, the diabolical human that is Diane Abbott brought nothing but damage to the Labour Party.  She single-handedly  managed to reduce the Labour vote by enough to keep the Tories in power.  So, she is the second woman who fucked things big time.

The third in the trio of fuck-ups is the Scottish Faux Pas.  Yes, if it were not for Nicola Sturgeon's obsession with touting the independence issue and another referendum in Scotland, then there is absolutely no doubt that the Tories would not have gained 12 seats in Scotland.  Tories will be glad of Nicola's obsession, while the SNP and Labour will be frustrated at that approach.  The whole Scottish Independence palaver has ensured that the Tories have the chance to create a majority if the DUP plays ball.  That option should not be open to the Conservatives at all, but it is, because of |Nicola Sturgeon, who is the third woman who fucked things big time.

The irony here is that Arlene Foster fucked up big time a while ago, with the fuel scheme in Northern Ireland, and the bill that topped half a billion pounds.  On her watch, there was a fuck-up.  Now, as the Tories try to step the nightmare of a Labour administration, she is the woman who fucked up, but may now be a desperate solution for May, one of the trio of women who fucked up!

This country is FUCKED - Never has FUBAR been more appropriately ascribed to the situation.  In the coming weeks, we are as a nation expected to make a case to the EU negotiators for some recognition as an economy that is worth keeping links with.  Having dropped from 5th to 6th, the UK is now deciding it should cut its foot off before engaging in pointless discussions that will see the alleged "will of the people" carried out.  I say this with a tinge of regret, not least because the referendum vote on the EU issue one year ago was the most flawed proposition put before voters that could have been conceived.  Sadly, not enough younger voters bothered back in June 2016 - perhaps if they had rallied round to the levels that Corbyn seems to invigorate, the outcome would have been rather better.

I have stolen the above from a friend (thank you YH) because it demonstrates the real situation.  The 'young' may well applaud JC, but if we had enthused them enough at an earlier stage, they'd not be facing a departure from the EU and a waiting pile of grief.  The younger voters will have to suffer the longest. They are not aware of the consequences that the EU referendum outcome will have, nor are they suitably aware of the pain that a Labour administration under Corby would mean for the economy, or the fortunes of the United Kingdom.  It is perhaps worth drawing a parallel - the £350 million per week that was touted as a potential contribution to the NHS if the UK left the EU was a joke; the figure was £160 million, and that level of cash benefit is irrelevant if the country loses many billions in terms of economic fortune because of a silly outcome.  It's like getting a pay rise of £1 per hour, but having your mortgage increased by £50,000 or your rent upped by £100 per week.

The UK is a joke, and we will spiral yet further before we hit rock bottom. Theresa May was a poor, poor representative of the Conservatives, and they are all now paying the price.  Corbyn ran a good campaign, aided and abetted by the BBC and its usual bias towards the leftism that it covets and strokes. Sturgeon fucked it as badly as May.  The Scottish Conservatives did well, and saved the skin of the blues in this election.  Abbott was (as ever) a disaster.

The desperate time that are now in full swing will see instability, delusion from the left, delusion from the right, and despair from the masses who have engaged politically at great levels for one, and yet will be frustrated.  It is the right of the Tories to limp on, and this is probably the best thing to do in the circumstances.  If Cameron had not been o keen to call the vote on Brexit, then his fuck-up would not now linger as a main issue in tactics being considered by the Tories.  The Brexit talks are colouring things in a way that the UK General Election could have done without.

Stopping a Labour win was essential.  Bloodying May's nose was essential. Confirming the UKIP irrelevance was essential.  Telling Sturgeon to shut up about independence was essential.  It is now essential that the UK gives proper consideration to Brexit and the negotiations.  It is also essential that instead of gaining a pathetic and flawed Labour administration, the younger voters are rewarded with a Brexit that is sensible and not so cunting fucking hard that May could sharpen a tooth on it!

...

8.6.17 Graph Paper Grief

On Saturday, I tried to buy some graph paper.  This ought to have been a relatively simple task, but how wrong can one person be?

My ideal outcome would have been to acquire a few sheets, probably rolled up, of A1 size, and I was expecting to pay a pound or so for each.  This objective seemed reasonable on Saturday morning, but it was short lived aspiration.

The stationery on offer in the bargain shops included nothing at all with squares on, of any size.  I was not too surprised, and deflected any mild disappointment based on going to the shop that sells books, art supplies and other assorted stuff.  Here, I found canvasses, loads of art-related items and paper of every type except 'graph'.  I was annoyed at the discrimination exercised by the procurement people associated with The Works.  I went over to WH Smith and expected a result; the only concern I had was what size graph paper I might be able to obtain.

The wankers had fuck all!  Historically famed for its stationery, Smiths has let itself go badly.  The cunts hadn't even an A4 pad of the stuff!  I was stumped, and had not realised that the commodity was so difficult to come by.  I rather suspect that obtaining cannabis is easier than getting hold of graph paper.

On Tuesday, I was in the vicinity of a retail park where I'd previously found a Staples store.  With a sense of confidence, I drove there to find Office Outlet where the Staples used to be.  "Oh well," I thought to myself, "that'll do."  This hangar-sized building would surely provide me with some squared paper.

Inside, I aimed for the area that looked promising, and found an area that denied any cunting promise at all.  I was the only customer in the shop, and I piqued the curiosity of a woman who was cleaning a display of something no one could possibly want.  She asked if she could help and after mentioning graph paper, a concerned look stretched her features unattractively.  I followed as she decided to lead me back to the front desk, where the other two staff members were achieving very little.  After a rummage in a metal bin holding tubes of wrapping paper, she checked with one of the other women, along the lines of: "didn't we have some graph paper in this bin?"  Apparently it had not all gone, as two rather crumpled tubes were located underneath a great bit fucking machine.

I was presented with two A2 sheets, each rolled in a thin polythene sleeve, bearing a barcode and a £1.50 price tag.  I was not impressed, but in the circumstances had very little choice.  I mentioned I was hoping for a larger size, and the first of the staff suggested I might try Hobbycraft.  So with all the frustration of a clitless cunt, I produced the three pounds, and left the store, deciding that obtaining these two sheets would serve as a back-up.

Hobbycraft was one of the large stores on the retail park, and I pulled up outside just two minutes later.  Inside, there was 18.5 tonnes of complete shit, and zero ounces of paper marked with squares. This was simply ten minutes wasted.  The Hobbycunts had decided there was no call for graph paper.

Never could I have envisaged such difficulty in locating graph paper.

...

3.6.17 BGT Final - Preview

BGT is the generally accepted abbreviation, but of course BGASS is a recognised alternative - standing for Britain's Got A Sob Story.  Yes, the 'talent' element is not always a necessity, and in many cases it is those with some sort of back story who get a bit more attention than those with talent.

Let's clear the air by dealing with my usual irritation regarding hordes (or should that perhaps be herds) of people claiming to be choirs.  This year we have been stampeded by numerous collectives. This very week, 41 desperate kids trotted out some Disney shite as a young woman in charge provided semaphore while keeping her back to the audience.  Generally speaking, a choir induces immediate boredom.  'Talent' is simply NOT demonstrated by a large number of people wailing together.

In the final we have the Missing People Choir.  Fortunately this is the only act that involves numerous contributions to an overall noise.  Unfortunately the sob story has so far overridden ANY proper attention to the notion of 'talent'.  Last night, in the last semi-final, the choir came second and secured its place in tonight's final.  The standard of singing what quite simply awful.  The soloist kicked us off with a warbling wail that must have grated in the minds of all the other choirs who had members who could sing!  I appreciate that the parents of missing people will suffer enormously, and this is certainly a situation that deserves attention - but not on a talent show.  Raising awareness is the new preoccupation with those forcing upon us a particular agenda.  I would be all for BGT sponsoring the cause, but not in rewarding non-talent within the show.

Alesha muttered on about BGT being a great platform for worthy causes, and I swore at the television.  The next choir will consist of members without arms and legs (irony intended) pulling themselves on to the stage by their tongues, and singing (badly) a cover of the Beach Boys' I Get Around, and expecting applause, plus safe passage to the final.  BGT is a plaform for fucking TALENT, Alesha!

I am enormously grateful that the lineup for the final includes just two kids. One, Issy, is a magician who is clearly taught her tricks and presents them on stage with a level of expertise and sweetness that has assured her kudos and appreciation.  The other, Ned, is an irritating 'comedian' who is clearly taught his jokes and presents them on stage with a level of twatishness and smugness that has assured him of my personal dislike.  I blame the parents completely.

The Pensionalities are Henry and Malcom, 84 and 75 respectively, and neither can sing to any standard above 'dire'.  I do not begrudge them their chance of attention, but can we please get serious? There is no 'talent' involved here. Nice chaps, funny, and you'd be happy if either was your granddad - but how the fuck are these two in the final of BGT?

Amanda Holden, aged 46 / IQ 46, has presented herself with a 'style' all of her own.  The pout last night was carp-like.

Moses did a worse job in parting the Red Sea than Amanda's effort in separating her ironed tits.  I suppose she is trying to compete with Alesha Dixon in the glamour stakes, and no one has told her not to bother.

Mersey Girls - a decent enough group of girls dancing around.  However, no one could possibly deny that if one of them (Julia) did not have scoliosis, then making it through to the final would have been unthinkable.  So here again, BGASS has triumphed.  I am simply making the point here that the decision-making processes in play are fickle in relation to 'talent'.

Sarah Ikumu, the 16-year-old shrieking, wailing, annoying, in-your-face and in-your-ears probable wildcard is simply an affront to singing.  Having a good voice is one thing, but knowing how to use it is another. The relentless assault on our ears in the audition was more than enough (much more) to demonstrate a good voice.  Sadly, where there was an opportunity for her to sing a song well in the semi-final, she chose to ram down our ears yet again an awful train-wreck of a racket.  The unoriginal choice of Purple Rain was tiresome, but the delivery was unattractive.  At the time of writing, the wildcard is unknown, and I have my fingers crossed it is not her.

I was so pleased when Tokio got the win, and she was left to try and comprehend how her sense of entitlement counted for nowt. The public vote had decided her noise was not worthy of input.  The rallying claims that people must have "thought she was safe" were trotted out by all and sundry, with no one actually daring to suggest her approach to singing was aggressive rather than enjoyable.

Daliso Chaponda - very funny and a worthy winner
Ned Woodman - annoying, and irritating in the extreme
Tokio Myers - lovely bloke and amazingly talented
The Pensionalities - yawn
Mersey Girls - nice people who can dance
Issy Simpson - learns her lines and tricks well
Kyle Tomlinson - good singer
Missing People Choir - yawn
Matt Edwards - talented but simply not sure what i think
DNA - very good

...

3.6 17 Horrendous Cunting English

Once again the pride must continue their search.  [David Attenborough making a pride plural]

These zebra are almost at the end of their journey.  [David at it again - 'zebra' is not plural!]

There were no mention of . . . [Tom Simons, BBC News]

What the enquiry say is . . . [Sanchia Berg, Radio 4]

Spectaculy.  [Radio 4 idiot reporter, missing a syllable and a brain]

But have Russia done enough?  [Garry Richardson on Radio 4]

Sins Fein is celebrating their best performance . . . [Kate Silverton talking shit]

It finds its way into all sorts of arena.  [Unknown idiot - pathetic news reporting, making 'arena' plural]

The selection criteria was very hard.  [Vicky Holland on Radio 4]

There is really quite good chances.  [Vicky Holland again]

To go through these sequence of questions.  [Sarah Montague on Radio 4]

Sofits and Facias.  [Rick Woodall Building Services Ltd van livery; he is unable to spell either word]

They have one of Hollywood's most longest marriages . . . . the couple have almost been married for 30 years.  [Daily Mail Online, with a double error; should be "have been married for almost 30 years"]

It hasn't sunken in yet.  [Tanya on The Voice]

It looks like the team are about to start their warm up.  [Screw Fix advert]

It's a pictoral journey.  [Idiot on Radio 4]

A bunch of 27 flowers were taken to a nearby care home.  [Daily Mail]

Every one of the 100 senators were called in.  [Nick Robinson on Radio 4]


And finally, the decline of the adverb is sadly relentless, as twats completely misuse the language with in most cases not a fucking shred of awareness.  We have, for example:

"Living healthier"

Living healthier what?  Lives?  Yes, that would make sense and be grammatically correct.  However, the cunt on TV narrating the advert meant "Living healthily" or "Living more healthily".  I despair.

...

3.6.17 Quotes of Note

I've lived here all my life; I moved here when I was seven.  [Danny Flynn on Radio 4]

The ceasefire on Monday has led to a significant reduction in hostilities.  [No shit Sherlock! Radio 4 News]

What should we know about Fanny?  [Mishal Husain on Today, Radio 4]

I'm fed up with all these piano-fingered ladies fussing around Fanny. [Sheila Hayman on Radio 4, talking about Mendelssohn]

Always keep away from children.  [Persil advert]

Bush, everyone!  Cracking performance.  [Emma Willis]

I don't agree with barbecues.  [TMWSC]

He's in the shallow end, paddling like a twat.  [TMWSC]

I really don't like people I don't like.  [TMWSC]

He's not Carl Sagan, is he!  [TMWSC, regarding xyz on his presenting of a property programme]

He's left a whole bunch of air.  [David Coulthard, inventing a new way of measuring air]

A good chunk of points.  [Lee McKenzie, talking shit on Channel 4 Gand Prix interview]

I find him strange.  [Mother of TMWSC talking to Mrs MWSC about Father of TMWSC]

...

3.6.17 Football Mumbo Jumbo

Now that we are done with football for a while, it is time to post some of the rubbish uttered by pundits and commentators.  Jermaine is starting to rival Alan Shearer and Andy Townsend as the master of bollocks, in the world of punditry and illiteracy.  Here is a sprinkling of football quotes and you will note some Jenas jewels in the mix.


Two chances at either end.  [At EACH end - football commentator]

A chance either side of the break.  [EACH side of the break - same commentator]

Things were going so smooth.  [Jermaine Jenas, smoothly doing it]]

The players in and around him enjoy his leadership.  [Jermaine Jenas - players in him?]

To put it plainly simple . . . [Jermaine Jenas]

As early as this chance has came.  [Jermaine Jenas - not coming good anytime soon]

They are easy picked up.  [Jermaine Jenas, fucking up so easily]

It's took that early pressure out of the game.  [Jermaine Jenas, taken with the play]

Almost an identical replica of the last goal.  [MOTD commentator]

It's comparable with other clubs in and around them.  [Alan Shearer]

Give a little go.  [Alan shearer, meaning a little give and go]

He scored an absolute fantastic goal.  [Phil Neville in need of an LY]

I think him himself has said that.  [Alan Shearer]

He had an absolute fantastic chance.  [Phil Neville, still missing the LY]

It's a great area for scoring goals.  [Martin Keown, referring to the six-yard box]

They watched teams drop points in and around them.  [Shearer classic - WTF?]

They shouldn't be getting beat.  [Dion Dublin, refusing to speak Engish]

Referees are letting go of it.  [Martin Keown, trying to say "referees are letting it go"]

He does it with a plum.  [Trevor Sinclair, reinventing "aplomb"]

Burnley are one of a number of football clubs . . . [Gary Lineker]

Them centre backs have to go wide.  [Phil Neville]

I never thought anything like this was capable.  [Idiot co-commentator on BT Sport]

If we do get beat . . . [Jermaine Jenas]

His talent is unlimitless.  [Lee Dixon, talking bollocks]

He's gonna stay in and around where he is.  [Ian Wright]

He struck it unbelievable.  [Phil Neville, who else?]

No one in and around him at all.  [Alan Shearer]

He's always in and around him, to help out.  [Jermaine Jenas]

They had three big moments in the game that indefinitely caused them to lose the game.  [Phil Neville]


...

13.5.17 Eurovision Song Contest Final 2017

Once again it's Eurovision time, when countries from inside and outside of Europe join in the palaver so that Graham Norton can chuckle along and give us his views on the wailing, shrieking and warbling, as well as the outlandish activities that occur on stage.  42 were whittled down to 26 for this evening's final.  Something to consider is that this is supposed to be a song contest, and not a singing contest.  Proper attention to this small matter would perhaps be something of a rarity.

Israel

IMRI - I Feel Alive

Rhyming 'fragile' with 'trouble' in the first line was not very impressive start, although the American pronunciation of 'fragile' got him a bit nearer to his objective.  Out of tune for the first minute was further trouble.  Sadly for us all he felt alive, and had to tell us repeatedly.  This was disposable shite. He was apparently a backing singer until a year ago, and it is obvious now to the whole of Europe (plus Australia) that he should have stayed behind the scenes.  Dire.


Poland

KASIA MOSS - Flashlight

A bit pained in her delivery.  Nevertheless, there were some unusual elements that gave it a pleasing feel.  Overall it was rather original, which has to be a good thing in this competition that's so often littered with 'anthems' about fuck all or corny stuff.  Sadly, though, my enthusiasm drained with every second of the performance, as she insisted on growling some of the words, and that is NEVER a good tactic.


Belarus

NAVIBAND - Story of My Life

Middle of the road fayre, even if I had no idea what was being said, where the road was, or what was on either side.  I was bored after 20 seconds, and despite not being able to speak the language, I clocked the repetition that killed any chance of artistic credence.  Heyaaa-o-hey-ho.  Simply frenetic, hippy-esque twaddle.


Austria

NATHAN TRENT - Running On Air

Austria's answer to Ed Sheeran was easy to listen to.  It reminded me of a young Stephen Bishop, which is no bad thing at all, and rather better than any reminder of the ubiquitous Ed Sheeran.  This should do well.  It's the sort of song that Corinne Bailey Rae would deliver.


Armenia

ARTSVIK - Fly With Me

Not quite what I was expecting from Armenia, but it was interesting, and I quite liked it.


The Netherlands

OG3NE - Lights and Shadows

Graham told us there were two twins, and this helped me massively because the number of people involved in 'twins' is clearly something that's not generally known!  Easy Listening, Dutch style.  A safe offering that ticked a number of boxes.  It didn't set much alight though, and was a bit forgettable, with a pitch that somehow niggled.  It reminded me of poor version of The Corrs. Nowhere near the excellent effort from The Common Linnets (Calm After The Storm) a couple of years back.


Moldova

SUNSTROKE PROJECT - Hey Mamma

Shit.


Hungary

JOCI PAPAI - Origo

It sounded like someone praying loudly for a fair while.  Then the snake-charmer music started, along with the clapping.  I lost interest in this completely. On stage, there dancing woman provided some interest, and her waist-length hair was lovely.


Italy

FRANCESCO GABBANI - Occidentali's Karma

Blimey!  This was crap.  As for the fucking gorilla, madness.


Denmark

ANJA - Where I am

This was an awful song with less going for it than a hunchback in a posture competition.  Formulaic and therefore unworthy; sorry, luv.  Her mouth spent most of the three minutes open like that of a hippo.


Portugal

SALVADOR SOBRAL - Amar Pelos Dois

A surprisingly lovely performance and song.  Delightful intonation and phrasing, and a smooth sound that was actually quite dreamy.  A real surprise!


Azerbaijan

DIHAJ - Skeletons

She spent some time listening to Tatu, I think.  The synths provided the backdrop for the standard chant/anthem/pop noise that was provided.  Not awful, and there was a familiarity from her voice in the lighter sections, but this was simply pointless, overall.  Angst and drums added to the discomfort for all.


Croatia

JACQUES HOUDEK - My Friend

What on fucking earth was this?


Australia

ISAIAH - Don't Come Easy

His effort in singing almost matched his effort in trying to look good.  17 years old, and already 'affected'.  Shoes but no socks is simply silly.  His pronunciation was horrendous for someone who is supposed to be able to speak English.  I am sure this will do quite well, but actually, it shouldn't.  The pretentiousness was overpowering.


Greece

DEMY - This is Love

Very typical of just about every dance record.  Nothing special at all, and of course, out of tune here and there.  "There's an echo in my head, and a story unread" she repeated a number of times, while two blokes played in a paddling pool in front of her on the stage.


Spain

MANEL NAVARRO - Do It For our Lover

He was certainly no Jason Mraz, despite an attempt to adopt a similar approach.  This should have been inoffensive - but it wasn't....... and is that the basis upon which we should be judging a song?  I think not.  This was a niggle set to dubious music, and a really weak effort - I think 'puerile' is an appropriate adjective, while some tuneless notes attached my ears.


Norway

JOWST - Grab The Moment

Basically this was a bit of a mess, and instead of grabbing the moment, they throttled it.  "I'm gonna kill that voice in my head" was promised by the 'singer'.  I wished I could kill his voice!  Shite.


United Kingdom

LUCIE JONES - Never Give Up On You

Evanescence gone wrong, I am afraid.  This was hard work to listen to - tinnitus would have been a blessing for those three minutes.  It should have been so much better but is was not up to much, musically.  It needed to actually 'get going' and have a more varied vocal range rather than a continual whine.


Cyprus

HOVIG - Gravity

The sort of song you hear once and would do well never to hear again - as that would be so unnecessary.  Awful words, poor vocals and two blokes prancing about behind him, pointlessly.  Perhaps the worst choreography ever devised.


Romania

ILINCA ft. ALEX FLOREA - Yodel It!

I defy anyone to make a judgement on this effort and produce a proper summary of what happened. Sheer lunacy, poor vocals, yodeling and bollocks. It was so very bad that it is probably 'good' !


Germany

LEVINA - Perfect Life

A pretty decent effort from Germany.  A fairly safe song that was better than the majority of the entries.  It should get steady votes.


Ukraine

O.TORVALD - Time

"How can three minutes be this long?" said Graham just as the song was about to start.  His comment was certainly not misplaced.  The song itself was not actually the issue, but the chaps could not sing it!  So, considering this is a song contest (and not a singing contest), it should have a chance.


Belgium

BLANCHE - City Lights

Subdued and interesting, and it managed to avoid the usual shouting, chanting and anthemic noise that so many consider essential in their efforts at winning. Well done, luv, for simply standing and singing.  I liked it.


Sweden

ROBIN BENGTSSON - I Can't Go On

"I can't go on," he said - but he fucking did!  AWFUL.  And no fucking socks, with trousers 5 inches short of his shoes!


Bulgaria

KRISTIAN KOSTOV - Beautiful Mess

He is just 17 years old.  Graham told us he was born in this century, but of course the year 2000 is in the 20th century, NOT the 21st century.  Tut-tut, Graham.  This was a really good song, and he sang it rather well.  It should be one of the top three, no question, if there is any justice.


France

ALMA - Requiem

A real let down, this.  She waffled away as though it was a shopping list, and this lightweight tosh was delivered in a rushed style that did nothing to improve her chances of coming anywhere near the top ten.


And that was it . . . . a painful experience and so much worse than most years. The three twats hosting the event were most certainly twats, and it was awful to suffer them.  I noticed that most of the Union flags being waved were upside down; I rather think suppliers in Ukraine made a mistake in production.  The voting will take up the next hour.

.....

7.5.17 Binmen Work Near Bin Lorries - Shock

Have you ever wondered what happens at the arse end of a bin lorry?  Have you ever struggled to understand their purpose, and felt frustrated at not knowing the answer?  If so, then you are no doubt one of those intended beneficiaries of a new approach to the council liaising with its council tax payers.

It is how possible to get a better understanding of what binmen do, and where they operate.  Thanks to new signage, I ma personally better informed as to the actions of men in high-visibility clothes who have historically loitered near large bin lorries.  As noted in the above picture, I can rest assured that they are in fact "working".  I was a doubter, I must confess, but now that I have seen the writing on the screen, I can be happy.  This assurance is a welcome addition to my common cunting sense.

I am slightly surprised that there has not, to my knowledge, been any movement by feminists to challenge councils regarding use of the word "men".  Surely there is a dungaree-clad (under the hi-vis of course) woman ready to rage at this outrageous claim - the "men" part not the "working" bit that is of course open to challenge from either sex.

On the way to work last week, I saw a monstrously large grey vehicle that comprised largely (circa 90%) a container, but foe a cab at the front.  I was suddenly taken with confusion as to its purpose, and why it was moving along quite slowly while a few chaps in yellow dress (whom I simply could not ignore, and whose outfits were visibly dazzling) collected things on wheels and fed the grey monster.  This weird phenomenon caused me consternation and a suddenly felt the urge to become reckless.

I was about to succumb to a feeling of erratic and spontaneous lunacy and ram my car into the mouth of the contraption.  I prepared to defend myself against this threat, because I simply had no idea what to do at all.  I was losing control and without come sort of check to my thinking, I would mow down the two highly visible creatures tending the monster's teeth.  Then, as if guided by a higher power, I looked up at the top right hand corner of the beast, and found guidance.  Yes, just as I was about to act recklessly, I was given the all important advice I was so in need of:

Caution - Workers At Rear 

The illuminated letters on the small panel were a great help.  Just to the right of the registration plate, in equally sized writing was the explanation for this whole spectacle, and the presence of a trash eating monster and its tics.  I had been about to drive into them, despite their highly visible yellow skins, but at the last moment, I noticed the subtle wording on the grey angular monster.  But for the foresight of the council's waste management department, I'd have been guilty of manslaughter.  How could I have possibly known that a refuse lorry might have people putting rubbish into the back of it?

...