So Tony Blair is spending the New Year in Bee Gees star Robin Gibb’s Florida mansion. He spends his summer holidays in Cliff Richard’s Barbados mansion. You must question his actions. But at the same time be sorry for him. He must have a perverted taste in music.
Does Blair have any sense of probity? He cadges holidays from has-been pop stars, and sells peerages to get money for the Labour party.
They “the Establishment” says the poor political parties have been forced to “bend” the law to get finances - it would be better if tax payers funded the parties. Let’s just think about this. The political parties, who do not care a toss about public opinion, now want us to finance them to ignore us. The measure of popularity of a party should be measured not only by the votes it gets at elections, but also by the number of people it attracts to become members. If a political party cannot gain sufficient support to finance its activities it doesn’t deserve to survive. And where does most of the money get spent? On advertising at General Elections. Cut out all the name calling at election time and save money.
Though if a law is past to finance political parties, it would be tempting to start the Grumpy and Farting Party (the GFP).
But who would want to become a member of a political party? Especially a party which has Hazel Blear as its Chairman ( I mean New Labour, not the Grumpy & Farting Party). Last week she was leading a protest at the planned closure of a hospital in her Salford constituency. What’s wrong with that you might ask? Surely it’s the duty of every MP to fight for the services provided in their constituency? Yes, but. Hazel Blear is a member of the Cabinet which took the decision to rationalize the National Health Service, which resulted in the planned closure. If Blear is opposed to the cuts, then she should on principle resign from the Government. But no, she will not do that, because she craves power. So why did she attend the protest and risk the wroth of Tony Blair? Simply, currently there are three Parliamentary constituencies in the Salford area. Under the reorganization of boundaries these will be reduced to two. So, poor Hazel is at risk of loosing here job. (Gloat, snigger). But Hazel is determined it will be one of the other two MPs who will be ousted.
Hazel ##### Blear, I can’t stand that woman. When she is interviewed she never answers any questions. During one programme she was determined the only message she wanted to get across was: to rubbish David Cameron, the leader of the Conservative Party.
Q: “Did the Prime Minister in his speech finally endorse Gordon Brown?”
HB: “Cameron is weak and never taken decisions”
Q: “Do you support Gordon Brown to be the next Leader?”
HB: “Cameron is weak and never taken decisions”
Q: “Are you going to stand for the post of Deputy Leader?”
HB: “Cameron is weak and never taken decisions”
Q: “ . . . . . . ?”
HB, “Cameron is weak, and never taken decisions”
And on and on.
Lets face it most people consider all politicians are a waste of space. Unless you are Cliff Richard or Robin Gibb, who are pleased to find space for their number one fan and his family.
Sunday, 31 December 2006
Saturday, 30 December 2006
Death of a Tyrant
There can only be one subject for today’s entry: the execution in Baghdad, just before dawn this morning, of Saddam Hussein.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/6218485.stm
When I heard the news yesterday that his lawyers had been told to collect his personal belongings, and this was an indication of his immanent execution, I felt physically sick. Whenever I hear of an execution I always have the same knotting pain in the pit of my stomach. Irrespective of the crime, capital punishment is a barbaric act.
Saddam Hussein was a tyrant and undoubtedly through his actions caused the deaths of tens if not hundreds of thousands of people. But his execution benefits no one. Indeed it is likely it will establish him as a glorious martyr in the hearts and minds of his followers.
Margaret Beckett the Foreign Secretary has placed on record The UK Governments opposition to the use of the death penalty. As have spokespersons of a number of counties, the notable exception being the USA.
Those governments who have judged and condemned Saddam Hussein, should now judge their own moral standards. In reality few if any Country has a moral code governing its conduct. Policy is influenced by commercial considerations, national prejudices and priorities. It would be wrong to give examples, as this would give the impression that the countries identified are the sole culprits. Unfortunately examples can be given of both large and small countries, from both the Northern and Southern hemispheres. Even the United Nations, theoretically established to guard the innocent and maintain ethical governance has failed because it too is a victim of the self serving priorities of member counties.
So day there is one tyrant less, but is the World a safer and happier place to live in?
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/6218485.stm
When I heard the news yesterday that his lawyers had been told to collect his personal belongings, and this was an indication of his immanent execution, I felt physically sick. Whenever I hear of an execution I always have the same knotting pain in the pit of my stomach. Irrespective of the crime, capital punishment is a barbaric act.
Saddam Hussein was a tyrant and undoubtedly through his actions caused the deaths of tens if not hundreds of thousands of people. But his execution benefits no one. Indeed it is likely it will establish him as a glorious martyr in the hearts and minds of his followers.
Margaret Beckett the Foreign Secretary has placed on record The UK Governments opposition to the use of the death penalty. As have spokespersons of a number of counties, the notable exception being the USA.
Those governments who have judged and condemned Saddam Hussein, should now judge their own moral standards. In reality few if any Country has a moral code governing its conduct. Policy is influenced by commercial considerations, national prejudices and priorities. It would be wrong to give examples, as this would give the impression that the countries identified are the sole culprits. Unfortunately examples can be given of both large and small countries, from both the Northern and Southern hemispheres. Even the United Nations, theoretically established to guard the innocent and maintain ethical governance has failed because it too is a victim of the self serving priorities of member counties.
So day there is one tyrant less, but is the World a safer and happier place to live in?
Friday, 29 December 2006
Conspiracy Theories
David Icke is just one of many, making a good living in the Conspiracy Industry.
Politicians build their careers on conspiracy. George Bush and Tony Blair declare they are the true protectors of Western Civilisation. Claiming to be the only ones we can trust to protect us from the massing menacing Islamic hordes, (so they claim).
Blair & Bush cannot do it by themselves; they are assisted by the “Gentlemen” of the Press. Newspapers need stories. And no story sells more newspapers than a good conspiracy (well with the exception of those about sex and or Princess Diana).
But conspiracies have to be worked at, nurtured. The fires have to be periodically stoked, with a splash of kerosene thrown on. This is the daily drip, drip:
Thirty or is it three hundred known terrorist plots under investigation by the Security Services. (They probably read this blog - Hi Guys & Girls Happy New Year)
“We as a Nation must unite and protect our citizens”. More laws, more restrictions, more surveillance (install more CCTV cameras at each street corner and under all beds, (seen it in the Movies, spies always hide under a bed)). ID cards, biometric passports. What’s the next step? Well it’s obvious. Why have old fashion cards and passports, why not implant a micro chip in each persons forearm. Not only can it be used to identify the individual, but in conjunction with satellite navigation it could be used to keep a record of everyone’s movements. Think of the advantages of that to solving crimes. “If you haven’t got anything to hide, you’ve got nothing to worry about”. Who could object? Only those liberal lefties.
But this is nothing new. Conspiracy thrives on fear, which is sustained by ignorance and exploitation of the unknown. Now what else relies on fear and the unknown? Religion. “Out there are evil forces, worship Me and I’ll protect you”. “Don’t worry about death, worship Me and you’ll have eternal life”. Religions have always built conspiracy myths to entice people to become followers. Today’s “enemies” were also yesterday’s enemies. In the eleventh century Europe was marshalled and organized to fight in a total of seven Crusades against the Muslim hordes.
David Icke isn’t stupid he combines politics and religion in his conspiracy theories. No wonder he sells so many books.
I think with a little bit of effort I could start my own conspiracy theories devised while under the influence of Tesco’s Rich Chocolate Fudge Yule Log - dam, the wife eat the last piece yesterday. Must be my Karma, or is it a conspiracy?
Politicians build their careers on conspiracy. George Bush and Tony Blair declare they are the true protectors of Western Civilisation. Claiming to be the only ones we can trust to protect us from the massing menacing Islamic hordes, (so they claim).
Blair & Bush cannot do it by themselves; they are assisted by the “Gentlemen” of the Press. Newspapers need stories. And no story sells more newspapers than a good conspiracy (well with the exception of those about sex and or Princess Diana).
Of course THE all time story had the combination of:
Conspiracy, sex and Princess Diana.
Conspiracy, sex and Princess Diana.
But conspiracies have to be worked at, nurtured. The fires have to be periodically stoked, with a splash of kerosene thrown on. This is the daily drip, drip:
Islamic women hiding behind their burkas (shock horror).
Islamic youths visiting Pakistan (the clouds of war are gathering).
Tanks sent to guard Heathrow.
News the Country is on Orange alert.
Police to receive training to deal with dirty bombs.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/6215795.stm
Islamic youths visiting Pakistan (the clouds of war are gathering).
Tanks sent to guard Heathrow.
News the Country is on Orange alert.
Police to receive training to deal with dirty bombs.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/6215795.stm
Thirty or is it three hundred known terrorist plots under investigation by the Security Services. (They probably read this blog - Hi Guys & Girls Happy New Year)
“We as a Nation must unite and protect our citizens”. More laws, more restrictions, more surveillance (install more CCTV cameras at each street corner and under all beds, (seen it in the Movies, spies always hide under a bed)). ID cards, biometric passports. What’s the next step? Well it’s obvious. Why have old fashion cards and passports, why not implant a micro chip in each persons forearm. Not only can it be used to identify the individual, but in conjunction with satellite navigation it could be used to keep a record of everyone’s movements. Think of the advantages of that to solving crimes. “If you haven’t got anything to hide, you’ve got nothing to worry about”. Who could object? Only those liberal lefties.
But this is nothing new. Conspiracy thrives on fear, which is sustained by ignorance and exploitation of the unknown. Now what else relies on fear and the unknown? Religion. “Out there are evil forces, worship Me and I’ll protect you”. “Don’t worry about death, worship Me and you’ll have eternal life”. Religions have always built conspiracy myths to entice people to become followers. Today’s “enemies” were also yesterday’s enemies. In the eleventh century Europe was marshalled and organized to fight in a total of seven Crusades against the Muslim hordes.
David Icke isn’t stupid he combines politics and religion in his conspiracy theories. No wonder he sells so many books.
I think with a little bit of effort I could start my own conspiracy theories devised while under the influence of Tesco’s Rich Chocolate Fudge Yule Log - dam, the wife eat the last piece yesterday. Must be my Karma, or is it a conspiracy?
Thursday, 28 December 2006
Is it true?
This week there was a programme on TV about David Icke. He is a former Coventry City goalkeeper and BBC sports presenter turned writer and campaigner who's convinced, amongst other things, that Earth is run by "reptilian humanoids".
If you want to find out more check out http://www.davidicke.com/icke/index.html
Normally a programme about someone who believes the Earth is run by "reptilian humanoids" would be enough for me to hit the off switch. But I‘m glad I didn‘t.
I was interested not only by what Icke had to say, but my reaction to the programme.
A person’s opinion can range from sane evidenced fact to fantasised mythology. This is especial true in Icke’s case.
As a listener (viewer) how do you judge the validity of statements made?
Some of the things Icke was laughed at and called a madman for saying in the 1990s have now become fact. His statement on the progressive constraint by Government of individual freedoms is demonstrably correct.
And I start listening to what he said, I nodded my head in agreement. Then he started taking about it all being a reptilian humanoid’s conspiracy, and I think “is he a nut case?” The same reaction to the statements made in the 90’s.
Now how am I to know what is an appropriate reaction? Must I reject all the statements made? Or can I pick and choose?
A man says he’s the son of God, (as Icke has done), he’s crucified, but 2000 years later people still follow his teachings. Be honest what would have been your reaction if you lived in Israel 2000 years ago?
The most powerful man in the World makes a statement, it’s supported by evidence provided by a number of sources. But where are the Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq?
Who can you believe? And how do you judge what to believe?
If you want to find out more check out http://www.davidicke.com/icke/index.html
Normally a programme about someone who believes the Earth is run by "reptilian humanoids" would be enough for me to hit the off switch. But I‘m glad I didn‘t.
I was interested not only by what Icke had to say, but my reaction to the programme.
A person’s opinion can range from sane evidenced fact to fantasised mythology. This is especial true in Icke’s case.
As a listener (viewer) how do you judge the validity of statements made?
Some of the things Icke was laughed at and called a madman for saying in the 1990s have now become fact. His statement on the progressive constraint by Government of individual freedoms is demonstrably correct.
And I start listening to what he said, I nodded my head in agreement. Then he started taking about it all being a reptilian humanoid’s conspiracy, and I think “is he a nut case?” The same reaction to the statements made in the 90’s.
Now how am I to know what is an appropriate reaction? Must I reject all the statements made? Or can I pick and choose?
A man says he’s the son of God, (as Icke has done), he’s crucified, but 2000 years later people still follow his teachings. Be honest what would have been your reaction if you lived in Israel 2000 years ago?
The most powerful man in the World makes a statement, it’s supported by evidence provided by a number of sources. But where are the Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq?
Who can you believe? And how do you judge what to believe?
Wednesday, 27 December 2006
Retribution
Following on from yesterday’s blog. More about the Tesco’s Rich Chocolate Fudge Yule Log. Boy am I in trouble! The wife caught me trying to get rid of what's left by feeding it to her dog. Accused me of poisoning her darling Poppet. I pleaded with her that it was too sweet to eat. She said I should pour natural yogurt over it to make it sour. The woman must really hate me, what a concoction - don’t try it, its absolutely vile. But what am I to do, I’m not allowed to throw what’s left away? Is it my Karma?
I’ve already had my say, about the TV programmes shown this Christmas. But I must have my final grump. Logic would have it, the more TV channels there are, greater the choice, the higher the chance of getting a programme I want to see. But it doesn’t work that way. The more channels there are, the more frustrated I get in not finding a single programme I want to see. But, ####, fart, to turn the knife in the wound - the more channels there are, the higher the chance, when there is a good programme on I want to see, there will be good programmes on at least four other channels. Two good programmes - watch one record the other - but four good programmes, bloody frustration. Also, also, when there is a choice, with the channel selector in hand I spend time switching between channels - the result I never see one complete programme. Is this some form of punishment?
Talking about punishment, I overheard two women talking. One said she was glad there hadn’t been any big disaster this Christmas - there always seems to be planes crashing, boats or ferries sinking and two years ago there was the Tsunami. The other said “Thank God”. What did she mean?
What did she think - is God a cantankerous Grumpy Old Fart who vents his spleen by raining havoc down on the human race?
“Got a bloody hangover. What can I do? I know I’ll punish the human race. Heads it’s a Natural disaster, tails it’s a plane crash”.
This isn’t a fanciful idea; even the law recognises “Acts of God”. Something happens, your house gets damaged, you claim on your insurance policy - sorry you’re not covered for damage caused by “Acts of God”.
The idea of God is ingrained deep in our psyche. Even atheists in times of stress will exclaim, “oh God“, or “please God”. Totally irrational but that’s how it is.
Did God have such a lousy Christmas that He is venting His anger by making me eat the rest of the Tesco’s Rich Chocolate Fudge Yule Log?
I’ve already had my say, about the TV programmes shown this Christmas. But I must have my final grump. Logic would have it, the more TV channels there are, greater the choice, the higher the chance of getting a programme I want to see. But it doesn’t work that way. The more channels there are, the more frustrated I get in not finding a single programme I want to see. But, ####, fart, to turn the knife in the wound - the more channels there are, the higher the chance, when there is a good programme on I want to see, there will be good programmes on at least four other channels. Two good programmes - watch one record the other - but four good programmes, bloody frustration. Also, also, when there is a choice, with the channel selector in hand I spend time switching between channels - the result I never see one complete programme. Is this some form of punishment?
Talking about punishment, I overheard two women talking. One said she was glad there hadn’t been any big disaster this Christmas - there always seems to be planes crashing, boats or ferries sinking and two years ago there was the Tsunami. The other said “Thank God”. What did she mean?
What did she think - is God a cantankerous Grumpy Old Fart who vents his spleen by raining havoc down on the human race?
“Got a bloody hangover. What can I do? I know I’ll punish the human race. Heads it’s a Natural disaster, tails it’s a plane crash”.
This isn’t a fanciful idea; even the law recognises “Acts of God”. Something happens, your house gets damaged, you claim on your insurance policy - sorry you’re not covered for damage caused by “Acts of God”.
The idea of God is ingrained deep in our psyche. Even atheists in times of stress will exclaim, “oh God“, or “please God”. Totally irrational but that’s how it is.
Did God have such a lousy Christmas that He is venting His anger by making me eat the rest of the Tesco’s Rich Chocolate Fudge Yule Log?
Tuesday, 26 December 2006
Christmas - the morning after
Christmas finished for another year. Today, thousands are saying “Well that’s it for another year”, “Was it worth it?”.
I knew I should have got a goose from St James’s Park. The one we bought from Iceland was - how can I describe it - stuffing packed in goose flavoured skin. Don’t ask if the meat was tasty. Never found any on my plate!! All I can tell you is there were gallons of fat at the bottom of the baking tin. They should be called Canada Grease rather than Canada Geese. I’ll have to make a note to ask Jack next door for a veggie recipe for next year.
The biggest disappointment was TESCO’s finest Rich Chocolate Fudge Yule Log, coco flavoured chewing gum fermented in extra sweet molasses. I am not saying it was heavy, but when I put a small slice on my plate, not only did the plate break, but the table leg buckled. Another entry for the “Not to Get Next Year List”. While my wife isn't looking, I’ll have to give what’s left to the dog. Its not that I hate the dog, but if it’s a choice of me or it - it’s a none question.
So the Queen recorded her Annual Address from Southwark Cathedral - I hope the Bishop was sober. It would have been embarrassing to find him throwing the Queen’s toys out of her car.
(Last week, after attending a Christmas party at the Irish Embassy the Bishop of Southwark, was found throwing toys out of the back seat of a car he had broken into. One week latter he still claims he has no recollection of the evening - some party!!!.)
What is it with TV companies. Through a combination of willpower, gritting of teeth and pray people managed to go through yesterday without quarrelling with the kids, telling the Mother-in-law that she is an old witch, or their Daughter-in-law that she is a lousy cook. Then 9pm the TV master plan explodes on the nation. There must have been collaboration between three TV companies because at 9 o’clock there was a choice of:
On BBC1, -"The Vicar of Dibley" - liked by the old folk
ITV1, -"Doc Martin" - perfect family entertainment
Film4, -"Gladiator" - favourite of testosterone super charged males.
Such a clever devious plan, if it had been a choice between only two programmes one could be watched, and the other recoded. But a choice of three programmes, cruel. But even more, notice how the programmes were selected to cause maximum irritation and disagreement between men vs. women, young vs. old.
It would be no good saying, Gladiator can be seen on DVD. Through their action TV programmers ensured thousands of people went to bed disgruntled. And to make it even worse, and to rub salt in the wound, they put absolute rubbish on today. So in thousands of homes the chorus after looking at the TV programme listings is “bloody rubbish, not one, not one bloody decent programme, and last night they put three on the same time, I’m off down the pub”.
As a result of rubbish served up on TV, I decided after months of agonising to switch from dial-up to broadband, so can spend more time on the web. But what happens? I tell you what happens, last night on TV there were adverts for PC World’s Sale. They are selling laptops for £100’s less than I paid a year ago. So what? So what, its put the doubt back in my mind, that as soon as I sign up for Broadband, a new provider will come along offering the same service at a fraction of the cost. Problems, bloody problems. I’m off down the pub.
I knew I should have got a goose from St James’s Park. The one we bought from Iceland was - how can I describe it - stuffing packed in goose flavoured skin. Don’t ask if the meat was tasty. Never found any on my plate!! All I can tell you is there were gallons of fat at the bottom of the baking tin. They should be called Canada Grease rather than Canada Geese. I’ll have to make a note to ask Jack next door for a veggie recipe for next year.
The biggest disappointment was TESCO’s finest Rich Chocolate Fudge Yule Log, coco flavoured chewing gum fermented in extra sweet molasses. I am not saying it was heavy, but when I put a small slice on my plate, not only did the plate break, but the table leg buckled. Another entry for the “Not to Get Next Year List”. While my wife isn't looking, I’ll have to give what’s left to the dog. Its not that I hate the dog, but if it’s a choice of me or it - it’s a none question.
So the Queen recorded her Annual Address from Southwark Cathedral - I hope the Bishop was sober. It would have been embarrassing to find him throwing the Queen’s toys out of her car.
(Last week, after attending a Christmas party at the Irish Embassy the Bishop of Southwark, was found throwing toys out of the back seat of a car he had broken into. One week latter he still claims he has no recollection of the evening - some party!!!.)
What is it with TV companies. Through a combination of willpower, gritting of teeth and pray people managed to go through yesterday without quarrelling with the kids, telling the Mother-in-law that she is an old witch, or their Daughter-in-law that she is a lousy cook. Then 9pm the TV master plan explodes on the nation. There must have been collaboration between three TV companies because at 9 o’clock there was a choice of:
On BBC1, -"The Vicar of Dibley" - liked by the old folk
ITV1, -"Doc Martin" - perfect family entertainment
Film4, -"Gladiator" - favourite of testosterone super charged males.
Such a clever devious plan, if it had been a choice between only two programmes one could be watched, and the other recoded. But a choice of three programmes, cruel. But even more, notice how the programmes were selected to cause maximum irritation and disagreement between men vs. women, young vs. old.
It would be no good saying, Gladiator can be seen on DVD. Through their action TV programmers ensured thousands of people went to bed disgruntled. And to make it even worse, and to rub salt in the wound, they put absolute rubbish on today. So in thousands of homes the chorus after looking at the TV programme listings is “bloody rubbish, not one, not one bloody decent programme, and last night they put three on the same time, I’m off down the pub”.
As a result of rubbish served up on TV, I decided after months of agonising to switch from dial-up to broadband, so can spend more time on the web. But what happens? I tell you what happens, last night on TV there were adverts for PC World’s Sale. They are selling laptops for £100’s less than I paid a year ago. So what? So what, its put the doubt back in my mind, that as soon as I sign up for Broadband, a new provider will come along offering the same service at a fraction of the cost. Problems, bloody problems. I’m off down the pub.
Monday, 25 December 2006
Merry Christmas & The Queen
Merry Christmas to you all.
Everybody is supposed to be merry - humbug.
People, who are happy being alone the rest of the year, are made to feel anti-social or an outcast if they are by themselves on Christmas day.
While others are forced to smile and look happy in the company of relatives they detested.
So much for the Christmas spirit.
Had to get up at 6.60 am to put the goose in the oven. Hope it’s worth it. My wife made me buy a goose, I wanted to get one from St. James’s Park, there are enough Canada geese there - they wouldn’t miss one. Trouble is, they all belong to the Queen. How come, as soon as a wild goose lands in a Royal Park it becomes the Queen’s property? She also owns all the swans in England.
Last summer we were walking through St James’s Park, when we saw an old woman feeding the ducks, swans and geese. She was giving a running commentary, in an East European accent.
"The bloody Queen, she sit in her bloody palace, she no feed the bloody ducks."
Actually she didn’t say bloody, but “vludy”.
"The vludy Queen, she sit in her vludy palace, she no feed the vludy ducks. Me a vludy pensioner have to go to vludy Tesco Supermarket to buy vludy bread to feed the vludy Queen’s vludy ducks, while she sit in her vludy palace. Me with my vludy bad feet, have to walk all the vludy way here, and she no vludy come. She no care if the vludy ducks vludy starve."
I explained to her how kind the Queen was to let her walk in the Queen’s Park. Not only that but she even lets people use her toilet. Westminster Council charge 50p to use the toilets. The Queen lets people use her toilets for free. Yes free. You can sit on a Royal toilet for free. Not only that she keeps them so clean. She must have to get up very early everyday to clean them.
I can just picture Her Royal Majesty, 6 o’clock in the morning, scarf tied round her head, bucket in one hand, mop in the other, her dogs yapping at her feet, scurrying across from Buckingham Palace to St James’s Park to clean the toilets. Then back to the Palace, exchange the scarf for a Crown, make tea, toast and boil an egg for Prince Phillip. Then after all that, she has to start ruling the country.
Christmas day, she has to cook for all the family - heard Princes Ann doesn’t lift a figure to help. After lunch, when she should be putting her feet up, she has to get on her bicycle to ride to the BBC studios to give her annual address to the nation. Then cycle back to the palace, wash the pots, pans and dishes after lunch, (you would think that while she was away, the rest of the family would wash the dishes, but no), then make the tea. They tell me she makes a beautiful victoria sponge cake. But her mince pies are only average.
I tell you, she does a wonderful job. And I’ll tell her so the next time I see her at the supermarket. She normally shops on Tuesdays, while Prince Philip goes to the pub to play cribbage and darts.
Everybody is supposed to be merry - humbug.
People, who are happy being alone the rest of the year, are made to feel anti-social or an outcast if they are by themselves on Christmas day.
While others are forced to smile and look happy in the company of relatives they detested.
So much for the Christmas spirit.
Had to get up at 6.60 am to put the goose in the oven. Hope it’s worth it. My wife made me buy a goose, I wanted to get one from St. James’s Park, there are enough Canada geese there - they wouldn’t miss one. Trouble is, they all belong to the Queen. How come, as soon as a wild goose lands in a Royal Park it becomes the Queen’s property? She also owns all the swans in England.
Last summer we were walking through St James’s Park, when we saw an old woman feeding the ducks, swans and geese. She was giving a running commentary, in an East European accent.
"The bloody Queen, she sit in her bloody palace, she no feed the bloody ducks."
Actually she didn’t say bloody, but “vludy”.
"The vludy Queen, she sit in her vludy palace, she no feed the vludy ducks. Me a vludy pensioner have to go to vludy Tesco Supermarket to buy vludy bread to feed the vludy Queen’s vludy ducks, while she sit in her vludy palace. Me with my vludy bad feet, have to walk all the vludy way here, and she no vludy come. She no care if the vludy ducks vludy starve."
I explained to her how kind the Queen was to let her walk in the Queen’s Park. Not only that but she even lets people use her toilet. Westminster Council charge 50p to use the toilets. The Queen lets people use her toilets for free. Yes free. You can sit on a Royal toilet for free. Not only that she keeps them so clean. She must have to get up very early everyday to clean them.
I can just picture Her Royal Majesty, 6 o’clock in the morning, scarf tied round her head, bucket in one hand, mop in the other, her dogs yapping at her feet, scurrying across from Buckingham Palace to St James’s Park to clean the toilets. Then back to the Palace, exchange the scarf for a Crown, make tea, toast and boil an egg for Prince Phillip. Then after all that, she has to start ruling the country.
Christmas day, she has to cook for all the family - heard Princes Ann doesn’t lift a figure to help. After lunch, when she should be putting her feet up, she has to get on her bicycle to ride to the BBC studios to give her annual address to the nation. Then cycle back to the palace, wash the pots, pans and dishes after lunch, (you would think that while she was away, the rest of the family would wash the dishes, but no), then make the tea. They tell me she makes a beautiful victoria sponge cake. But her mince pies are only average.
I tell you, she does a wonderful job. And I’ll tell her so the next time I see her at the supermarket. She normally shops on Tuesdays, while Prince Philip goes to the pub to play cribbage and darts.
Sunday, 24 December 2006
Eastern Religion, middle aged hippies and things best not mentioned
Jack next door has got Religion. Is that the correct expression - got religion?
Well he always felt frustrated on account of being deprived. He joined the army straight from school. So in the 1960’s while everyone was discovering drug, sex and Rock & Roll, Jack was marching up and down the parade ground.
On his 63 birthday he discovered Eastern Religion. Got his wife to make him a Kaftans, borrowed sandals from me - I’d bought on a holiday to Algeria. Turned vegetarian, which isn‘t too bad.
In fact I’ve benefited from him becoming a veggie. His wife had to buy a Cook Book, which my wife has borrowed. Chickpeas and spinach, surprisingly nicer than it looks or sounds. But I have to be careful what I tell the wife.
Is it a woman’s thing? You must never make the mistake of telling them you like something they’ve cooked. Fell into that trap with my mother. Wanted to get into her good books so told her I liked the liver, onions and chips we had just eaten. From then on, every Tuesday we had liver, onions and chips. The excuses Family members thought up to eat out on Tuesdays. The wife’s the same, let slip “that was nice”, and you can set your watch; we will get, it if we are lucky only, twice a week.
Though I must say, my wife really is a good cook, except - there’s always an except! She doesn’t know when to stop.
She experiments, trying this and that recipe until its perfect. But she isn’t contented with perfect she has to continue to try to improve. It took months adjusting the mixture, gas setting cooking time until she produced the perfect scone. But she had to go that little bit to far, substituting black olives for sultanas was not a good idea. I ask her “why olives”, she said “they looked like fat sultanas”.
She also has “big eye”. When she cooks she cooks in quantity. She makes stew, and we have stew for the next three days.
Back to Jack, Kaftan and sandals, he’s also let his hair grow long. How can I describe it? Previously he was bald with stubble round the edges. Now he looks as if he is wearing a hairy fringe thing (now what were they called, they were tied around beds, ruffles or something?). Why do old men (particularly ex-pop stars) think they look “Cool” by having straggly long hair?
Jack, he’s also taken up meditation, but his wife will not let him do it in the house. She had a bit of a shock, being woken at 4 am by a cacophony of fire-alarms - smoky incense sticks.
Why 4 am? It’s supposed to be the best time to communicate with the unknown. Don’t know about that. All I know, it’s the time I normally have to get up for a pee!
We told Jack he can use our garden shed to do his meditation. Useful, I can now nip into the shed for a quick drag on a fag (the UK meaning of the word - cigarette!!!), without the wife being able to smell the smoke.
He wants me to take up meditation. Bit frightening - what if it makes me all piece and love and no grumpiness!
Well he always felt frustrated on account of being deprived. He joined the army straight from school. So in the 1960’s while everyone was discovering drug, sex and Rock & Roll, Jack was marching up and down the parade ground.
On his 63 birthday he discovered Eastern Religion. Got his wife to make him a Kaftans, borrowed sandals from me - I’d bought on a holiday to Algeria. Turned vegetarian, which isn‘t too bad.
In fact I’ve benefited from him becoming a veggie. His wife had to buy a Cook Book, which my wife has borrowed. Chickpeas and spinach, surprisingly nicer than it looks or sounds. But I have to be careful what I tell the wife.
Is it a woman’s thing? You must never make the mistake of telling them you like something they’ve cooked. Fell into that trap with my mother. Wanted to get into her good books so told her I liked the liver, onions and chips we had just eaten. From then on, every Tuesday we had liver, onions and chips. The excuses Family members thought up to eat out on Tuesdays. The wife’s the same, let slip “that was nice”, and you can set your watch; we will get, it if we are lucky only, twice a week.
Though I must say, my wife really is a good cook, except - there’s always an except! She doesn’t know when to stop.
She experiments, trying this and that recipe until its perfect. But she isn’t contented with perfect she has to continue to try to improve. It took months adjusting the mixture, gas setting cooking time until she produced the perfect scone. But she had to go that little bit to far, substituting black olives for sultanas was not a good idea. I ask her “why olives”, she said “they looked like fat sultanas”.
She also has “big eye”. When she cooks she cooks in quantity. She makes stew, and we have stew for the next three days.
Back to Jack, Kaftan and sandals, he’s also let his hair grow long. How can I describe it? Previously he was bald with stubble round the edges. Now he looks as if he is wearing a hairy fringe thing (now what were they called, they were tied around beds, ruffles or something?). Why do old men (particularly ex-pop stars) think they look “Cool” by having straggly long hair?
Jack, he’s also taken up meditation, but his wife will not let him do it in the house. She had a bit of a shock, being woken at 4 am by a cacophony of fire-alarms - smoky incense sticks.
Why 4 am? It’s supposed to be the best time to communicate with the unknown. Don’t know about that. All I know, it’s the time I normally have to get up for a pee!
We told Jack he can use our garden shed to do his meditation. Useful, I can now nip into the shed for a quick drag on a fag (the UK meaning of the word - cigarette!!!), without the wife being able to smell the smoke.
He wants me to take up meditation. Bit frightening - what if it makes me all piece and love and no grumpiness!
Saturday, 23 December 2006
Cross-generation Dress Code
Nice crisp fresh morning.
Just been out for a walk - glad I’m still capable of walking - Horny Goat Weed - thought I’d acquired a built-in walking stick!
Saw a family going for a walk: husband, wife and four children - oldest about 15, youngest in a pram.
What struck me was the father. Haircut looked like a hairy piece of carpet balanced on a shaved head. Rings in eyebrow, nose and ear. Cloths undistinguishable from those of his sons.
How things have changed in the last 50 ~ 60 years. Back then each generation had its own dress code.
I never knew my Grandmothers, but I was close to my friend’s Gran. For the twenty years I knew her, she always looked old. Dressed in black, with a hat perched on her head.
Its only natural for adults to look old to children, but even now looking at old photographs, to me the people back then still look old.
How things have changed. “In the good Old Days” Doctors looked like Doctors, today they look like Outward Bound Canoe Instructors with open necked checked shirts.
Told you about the wife going for a Flu jab.
The Nurse came out of her room, called out a name. No movement. Called out the name again, slight stirring. She turned to a woman, “Are you *** *****”,
“Yes, but I’m waiting to see the nurse”,
“I am the Nurse”
“You are the NURSE?”
“Yes”
The woman looked at her friend and silently mouth questioningly, she’s the nurse?
I wasn’t surprised by the woman’s reaction
The nurse had on trainers with tight hipsters finishing half way down her calf, revealing red and black hooped socks. Skimp top, revealing a broad band of midriff with ring in naval. No bra. Short cropped hair with one eye and one nose ring. The patients weren’t expecting her to wear a uniform, but this??
What would my friend’s Grandmother think about the way some middle-aged women dress now?
What the hell, some +50year old women get egg implants, so they can have kids. Come on act your age!!!
Just been out for a walk - glad I’m still capable of walking - Horny Goat Weed - thought I’d acquired a built-in walking stick!
Saw a family going for a walk: husband, wife and four children - oldest about 15, youngest in a pram.
What struck me was the father. Haircut looked like a hairy piece of carpet balanced on a shaved head. Rings in eyebrow, nose and ear. Cloths undistinguishable from those of his sons.
How things have changed in the last 50 ~ 60 years. Back then each generation had its own dress code.
I never knew my Grandmothers, but I was close to my friend’s Gran. For the twenty years I knew her, she always looked old. Dressed in black, with a hat perched on her head.
Its only natural for adults to look old to children, but even now looking at old photographs, to me the people back then still look old.
How things have changed. “In the good Old Days” Doctors looked like Doctors, today they look like Outward Bound Canoe Instructors with open necked checked shirts.
Told you about the wife going for a Flu jab.
The Nurse came out of her room, called out a name. No movement. Called out the name again, slight stirring. She turned to a woman, “Are you *** *****”,
“Yes, but I’m waiting to see the nurse”,
“I am the Nurse”
“You are the NURSE?”
“Yes”
The woman looked at her friend and silently mouth questioningly, she’s the nurse?
I wasn’t surprised by the woman’s reaction
The nurse had on trainers with tight hipsters finishing half way down her calf, revealing red and black hooped socks. Skimp top, revealing a broad band of midriff with ring in naval. No bra. Short cropped hair with one eye and one nose ring. The patients weren’t expecting her to wear a uniform, but this??
What would my friend’s Grandmother think about the way some middle-aged women dress now?
What the hell, some +50year old women get egg implants, so they can have kids. Come on act your age!!!
Friday, 22 December 2006
Horny Goat Weed, lingerie and handcuffs - a dangerous combination.
The wife had been sleeping with a smirk on her face since yesterday morning, when she had insisted we visited the bedroom - she had seen I had bought Horny Goat Weed pills.
This morning I decided to wake her. Shook her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “wake up Old Girl”. I don’t know if she was having a dream, everything happened so quickly, next thing I knew I was in handcuffs and she was marching me to the Police Station.
I didn’t even know that she had kept the handcuffs.
Ah those were the days when we were young and foolish, me dressing up as a Policeman with handcuffs and truncheon. The wife dressed as a nurse, oh those black stockings and suspenders.
The youngsters of today think they are alluring with their bare midriffs, but they pale into insignificants compared to the bare flesh above black stockings and suspenders. (Wait a moment while I let my hand stop shaking).
Lingerie. Years ago there were corsetieres. I remember my Aunty Gertrude and Annabel going to get measured for corsets. Now they were a fine sample of British Engineering, the corsets not my Aunts, though come to think of it they were - less said the better.
In the Good Old Days when we had heavy engineering industry we could build impressive “made to measure corsets“. Did you know the design of the Firth of Forth Railway Bridge is based on the design of the corset?
I was only a small boy at the time, so my Aunts thought nothing about walking around in their corsets and bloomers. Ah those pink silk bloomers with their legs clamped firmly with elastic 2 inches above the knee.
Feminists claim female liberation became possible with the availability of the birth control pill. I think elasticised bloomers going out of fashion made an equal contribution. Wearing those bloomers, it’s a miracle that I ever had cousins.
Now where was I? Handcuffed in the Police Station. My wife wanted me to be charged with an offence against the new Ageist Discrimination Act, for calling her “Old Girl“.
Have you heard, you are in breach of the Act if you send a birthday card to your work colleague? How stupid is that?
Well fortunately for me the Desk Sergeant couldn’t understand a word my wife was saying.
In the rush to get me to the Police Station she had forgotten to put her false teeth in. She keeps them in a glass at the side of the bed. The number of nights I have had nightmares after looking at the glass and its contents.
I recon Peter Benchley had the inspiration to write Jaws after seeing his wife’s false teeth.
Well the Desk Sergeant managed to pacify my wife and asked me to take her home.
Slipped a couple of Valium in her tea, so she should have a good nights sleep.
I think I’ll go out for a walk before she wakes up. No way am I going to wake her up.
This morning I decided to wake her. Shook her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “wake up Old Girl”. I don’t know if she was having a dream, everything happened so quickly, next thing I knew I was in handcuffs and she was marching me to the Police Station.
I didn’t even know that she had kept the handcuffs.
Ah those were the days when we were young and foolish, me dressing up as a Policeman with handcuffs and truncheon. The wife dressed as a nurse, oh those black stockings and suspenders.
The youngsters of today think they are alluring with their bare midriffs, but they pale into insignificants compared to the bare flesh above black stockings and suspenders. (Wait a moment while I let my hand stop shaking).
Lingerie. Years ago there were corsetieres. I remember my Aunty Gertrude and Annabel going to get measured for corsets. Now they were a fine sample of British Engineering, the corsets not my Aunts, though come to think of it they were - less said the better.
In the Good Old Days when we had heavy engineering industry we could build impressive “made to measure corsets“. Did you know the design of the Firth of Forth Railway Bridge is based on the design of the corset?
I was only a small boy at the time, so my Aunts thought nothing about walking around in their corsets and bloomers. Ah those pink silk bloomers with their legs clamped firmly with elastic 2 inches above the knee.
Feminists claim female liberation became possible with the availability of the birth control pill. I think elasticised bloomers going out of fashion made an equal contribution. Wearing those bloomers, it’s a miracle that I ever had cousins.
Now where was I? Handcuffed in the Police Station. My wife wanted me to be charged with an offence against the new Ageist Discrimination Act, for calling her “Old Girl“.
Have you heard, you are in breach of the Act if you send a birthday card to your work colleague? How stupid is that?
Well fortunately for me the Desk Sergeant couldn’t understand a word my wife was saying.
In the rush to get me to the Police Station she had forgotten to put her false teeth in. She keeps them in a glass at the side of the bed. The number of nights I have had nightmares after looking at the glass and its contents.
I recon Peter Benchley had the inspiration to write Jaws after seeing his wife’s false teeth.
Well the Desk Sergeant managed to pacify my wife and asked me to take her home.
Slipped a couple of Valium in her tea, so she should have a good nights sleep.
I think I’ll go out for a walk before she wakes up. No way am I going to wake her up.
Thursday, 21 December 2006
Horny Goat Complex Herbal Pills and Bad Feet
Following yesterday’s blog, I received a very cryptic message about Horny Goat complex herbal pills. Took it to be a suggestion to stop people parking too close to my car.
Have you seen the way an old Billy goat behaves when he gets excited - pees all over himself, and what a smell?
Who would want to park next to someone who pees over himself?
Come to think about it most old men already have problems with the water works.
Or had I got it completely wrong, and it was a suggestion that I should crush the pills and rub them on my feet?
Googled Horny Goat Weed and looked up:
www.evitamins.com/pr...
Didn't bother to read the description of what it’s used for - too many words.
But under - Recommended Use:
“As a dietary supplement, take two capsules daily. May be taken 60-90 minutes prior to physical exertion“.
So it is efficacious for the old feet.
Went to the local super market, the girl at the inquiry counter said they didn’t stock Horny Goat Weed. She suggested I tried the pet shop.
Woman in pet shop called me a dirty old man. And told me to leave the shop. Odd behaviour.
Tried the Chemist, very nice young lady behind the counter smiled and winked (perhaps she had dust in her eye). Told her I wanted it for my feet - peculiar reaction, she giggled. If she had my feet she wouldn’t laugh.
By the time I got home my feet were killing me, so thought I’d take double the recommended dose.
Unexpected reaction, it did nothing for my feet but I felt an overwhelming desire to head butt the door. Also some strange stirrings in the nether region.
Caught the wife reading the pill bottle, she smiled and had a twinkle in her eye. Said she wanted to show me something in the bedroom.
A combination of the wife and the side affects of Horny Goat Weed - no energy left to type.
Don’t know if my feet are better, I got no feeling from the waist down.
Have you seen the way an old Billy goat behaves when he gets excited - pees all over himself, and what a smell?
Who would want to park next to someone who pees over himself?
Come to think about it most old men already have problems with the water works.
Or had I got it completely wrong, and it was a suggestion that I should crush the pills and rub them on my feet?
Googled Horny Goat Weed and looked up:
www.evitamins.com/pr...
Didn't bother to read the description of what it’s used for - too many words.
But under - Recommended Use:
“As a dietary supplement, take two capsules daily. May be taken 60-90 minutes prior to physical exertion“.
So it is efficacious for the old feet.
Went to the local super market, the girl at the inquiry counter said they didn’t stock Horny Goat Weed. She suggested I tried the pet shop.
Woman in pet shop called me a dirty old man. And told me to leave the shop. Odd behaviour.
Tried the Chemist, very nice young lady behind the counter smiled and winked (perhaps she had dust in her eye). Told her I wanted it for my feet - peculiar reaction, she giggled. If she had my feet she wouldn’t laugh.
By the time I got home my feet were killing me, so thought I’d take double the recommended dose.
Unexpected reaction, it did nothing for my feet but I felt an overwhelming desire to head butt the door. Also some strange stirrings in the nether region.
Caught the wife reading the pill bottle, she smiled and had a twinkle in her eye. Said she wanted to show me something in the bedroom.
A combination of the wife and the side affects of Horny Goat Weed - no energy left to type.
Don’t know if my feet are better, I got no feeling from the waist down.
Wednesday, 20 December 2006
Car Parking and Medication
Have you seen the way women push supermarket trolleys? Totally oblivious to other shoppers. Charging around corners, trailing screaming kids behind them, who in turn leave a trail of half empty biscuit and sweet packets. Then they just leave the trolley in the middle of the aisle when they go on walkabout looking for (well they haven’t decided yet what they are looking for).
Who can blame me for feeling nervous when I park my car in the supermarket car park.
Warning - keep away from my car.
It’s a green Morris Minor, with a nodding dog on the back-shelf, a vase of plastic flowers stuck to the windscreen, air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror and a soft cushion for the wife on the passenger’s seat - haemorrhoids, bless her.
No not haemorrhoids, adenoids. The one that gives earache.
Soon as we get into the car the wife is off, “mind that car“, “slow down”, “speed up“. A soft cushion works a treat, she falls asleep, and I save having earache.
Its embarrassing when you get medical terms wrong. The doctor was most confused when I asked him for Viagra for my feet. I had heard that it helps you stand up longer. My feet really hurt, after I have been in a long queue at the super market.
I’ve told you before, that my wife likes a little cuddle on a Sunday morning. She got it into her head that she would like more than a cuddle. So she got stuff to “help me” (you know what I mean). She knew the stuff started with a V.
I tell you that Valium is magic, it’s the best sleep I had for ages.
Now where was I, yes keep away from my car?
If anybody parks too close, I stick a potatoes right up their exhausts. However if the car has hubcaps, I put three or four small pebbles in one of the back wheel hubcaps. When they drive off the rattle from the back wheel makes them think their rear bearings have broken.
Car what car? Have Bus pass will travel.
Who can blame me for feeling nervous when I park my car in the supermarket car park.
Warning - keep away from my car.
It’s a green Morris Minor, with a nodding dog on the back-shelf, a vase of plastic flowers stuck to the windscreen, air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror and a soft cushion for the wife on the passenger’s seat - haemorrhoids, bless her.
No not haemorrhoids, adenoids. The one that gives earache.
Soon as we get into the car the wife is off, “mind that car“, “slow down”, “speed up“. A soft cushion works a treat, she falls asleep, and I save having earache.
Its embarrassing when you get medical terms wrong. The doctor was most confused when I asked him for Viagra for my feet. I had heard that it helps you stand up longer. My feet really hurt, after I have been in a long queue at the super market.
I’ve told you before, that my wife likes a little cuddle on a Sunday morning. She got it into her head that she would like more than a cuddle. So she got stuff to “help me” (you know what I mean). She knew the stuff started with a V.
I tell you that Valium is magic, it’s the best sleep I had for ages.
Now where was I, yes keep away from my car?
If anybody parks too close, I stick a potatoes right up their exhausts. However if the car has hubcaps, I put three or four small pebbles in one of the back wheel hubcaps. When they drive off the rattle from the back wheel makes them think their rear bearings have broken.
Car what car? Have Bus pass will travel.
Tuesday, 19 December 2006
Supermarket Master Plan
I can’t wait for Saturday, discovered a new ploy to disrupt the young’ns shopping in the super market.
Yesterday I was unintentionally held up at the checkout. The bar code on the chicken was damaged so the young man at the checkout couldn’t scan it; also part of the number code was missing. Took ages for a staff member to get a replacement.
That gave me an idea I thought I would try:
Get a trolley full of goods - small individual items, so it will take longer to swipe.
I would damage the bar and number code of one item so it cannot be swiped.
I would then put on my oh-dear-let-me-help-you-face, “it will be quicker if I go and get a replacement, than wait for an assistant to get one”.
I would then leave the store. Leaving behind a queue waiting for my return.
My first idea was for the item to be the last one. But on second thoughts it should be about half way. That way when they realize I had disappeared; it would take additional time to clear the items left on the belt.
The downside of the plan is. Having left the store, I wouldn’t have the pleasure of witnessing the wrathful faces of the people in the queue.
Of course I could return, look directly into the face of all in the queue, giving them my oh-silly-me-smile. I could then take my time putting each item into the bags. Then the piece de resistance would be, after several minutes searching each pocket, give a broad oh-silly-me-smile, “would you believe it, I’ve left my wallet at home”. Broad smile to all the queue and leave.
The last option is a good plan but unfortunately it’s against my religious principles - totally against the beliefs of a devout Nonconformist Fundamentalist Coward - I’m afraid I would run the risk of being lynched.
While it’s nice to upset the young‘ns shopping it’s not worth sacrificing my life.
I’m really getting worried about the way my mind is working.
Some times I think I’m getting bitter and twisted - surely not?
Yesterday I was unintentionally held up at the checkout. The bar code on the chicken was damaged so the young man at the checkout couldn’t scan it; also part of the number code was missing. Took ages for a staff member to get a replacement.
That gave me an idea I thought I would try:
Get a trolley full of goods - small individual items, so it will take longer to swipe.
I would damage the bar and number code of one item so it cannot be swiped.
I would then put on my oh-dear-let-me-help-you-face, “it will be quicker if I go and get a replacement, than wait for an assistant to get one”.
I would then leave the store. Leaving behind a queue waiting for my return.
My first idea was for the item to be the last one. But on second thoughts it should be about half way. That way when they realize I had disappeared; it would take additional time to clear the items left on the belt.
The downside of the plan is. Having left the store, I wouldn’t have the pleasure of witnessing the wrathful faces of the people in the queue.
Of course I could return, look directly into the face of all in the queue, giving them my oh-silly-me-smile. I could then take my time putting each item into the bags. Then the piece de resistance would be, after several minutes searching each pocket, give a broad oh-silly-me-smile, “would you believe it, I’ve left my wallet at home”. Broad smile to all the queue and leave.
The last option is a good plan but unfortunately it’s against my religious principles - totally against the beliefs of a devout Nonconformist Fundamentalist Coward - I’m afraid I would run the risk of being lynched.
While it’s nice to upset the young‘ns shopping it’s not worth sacrificing my life.
I’m really getting worried about the way my mind is working.
Some times I think I’m getting bitter and twisted - surely not?
Monday, 18 December 2006
Is blogging just a big waste of time?
Spent yesterday afternoon trying to attach a counter to my Web site. Puzzled why it needs to have so many noughts as hardly anybody visit’s the site.
By now, World wide there must be at least one hundred people producing blogs. I guess all the blogs are recorded somewhere on papyrus or vellum. But what will happen when more people start producing their own blogs? The only solution will be to store them on a Sinclair ZX 81 computer. But the day will come when another ZX81 will be required. Until one day there will be a room full of them just dedicated to storing blogs?
But what will happen when the room is full? The choice will be either to delete all the blogs and start again, or buy a bigger computer. Before that day comes, action should be taken to save all blogs. We should have a Save the Blog Day. When people will pay to wear red noses, and the money collected can be used to purchase floppy discs to store the blogs on.
I see the day, when there will be so many floppy discs the parts of Wales not flooded to provide water for England, will be used to store all the floppy discs.
Some lucky person will be able to say, my blog discs are stored in Llanfairpwllgwyn-gyllgogerychwyrn-drobwllllantysilio-gogogoch.
Blogging is the modern day equivalent of sacrificial fires. As in days of old, worshippers felt good lighting their fires, but only achieved in contribute to global warming. So too bloggers feel good producing all their unread blogs, while hastening global warming.
By now, World wide there must be at least one hundred people producing blogs. I guess all the blogs are recorded somewhere on papyrus or vellum. But what will happen when more people start producing their own blogs? The only solution will be to store them on a Sinclair ZX 81 computer. But the day will come when another ZX81 will be required. Until one day there will be a room full of them just dedicated to storing blogs?
But what will happen when the room is full? The choice will be either to delete all the blogs and start again, or buy a bigger computer. Before that day comes, action should be taken to save all blogs. We should have a Save the Blog Day. When people will pay to wear red noses, and the money collected can be used to purchase floppy discs to store the blogs on.
I see the day, when there will be so many floppy discs the parts of Wales not flooded to provide water for England, will be used to store all the floppy discs.
Some lucky person will be able to say, my blog discs are stored in Llanfairpwllgwyn-gyllgogerychwyrn-drobwllllantysilio-gogogoch.
Blogging is the modern day equivalent of sacrificial fires. As in days of old, worshippers felt good lighting their fires, but only achieved in contribute to global warming. So too bloggers feel good producing all their unread blogs, while hastening global warming.
Sunday, 17 December 2006
Visit to Post Office
You miserable lot! Here I am on my death bed, and not a bunch of grapes from one of you. Not even a pip. Thanks very much, I don’t think!!!!
Don’t tell me I’ve heard all the excuses before. You couldn’t get near the fruit stall for all the old age pensioners and their shopping trolleys.
Really been suffering, hallucinations had a terrible vision of Gordon Brown having sex - like a slug slithering over a tomato. Grateful it wasn’t Margaret Beckett, those teeth nibbling on a carrot.
Sunday morning, temperature, not up to having my Sunday morning cuddle. “Up”, at my age, that word gives an inaccurate description irrespective of my temperature. But its nice to give the wife a cuddle on a Sunday morning, keeps her happy. And when she’s happy she lets me use her computer. Everything is hers, until it breaks down and I have to pay to replace it.
Hope I’m better by tomorrow; have to go to the Post Office. Before I would say “nipping to the Post Office”. But I can’t nip anymore since they closed the two sub-post offices close to us. Now it’s a case of organising an expedition to the main Post Office in town. Main Post Office - that’s a laugh. The Old Post Office building is now a wine bar, the Post Office is now in a shed!!
Expedition is the correct word - it’s like Scott going to the Antarctic. There’s the journey there for a start. Then you got to take all the camping gear and provisions you will need for the days you spend in the queue. Last time I was there, there were so many Policemen; I thought I had walked into a robbery. Turned out the woman at the front of the queue had been there for four days and her daughter had reported her missing.
What happens when you finally get served? Asked for a book of stamps. Woman behind the counter asked if I was going on holiday. Thought “how nice and polite, what a change an assistant who is pleasant”. Wrong, it turned out she wanted to sell me travel insurance. When I told her I wasn’t going anywhere, she asked if I had thought to switching to Post Offices Telephones. I only wanted a book of second class stamps (second class- I’m not going to pay more for them to lose my letters). Well I think they get lost - I never get replies to all my letters of complaint.
(Tip don’t send e-mail complaints they only have to hit the delete button. Always send a letter, that way they have to go to all the trouble of opening it before throwing it in the bin. Also if the company has a free mail address use that - that way you save on stamps and they pay for your letter - at least you get a little bit of revenge).
Now what was I going to say? It’s gone clean out of my head. Perhaps I’ll remember latter.
Don’t tell me I’ve heard all the excuses before. You couldn’t get near the fruit stall for all the old age pensioners and their shopping trolleys.
Really been suffering, hallucinations had a terrible vision of Gordon Brown having sex - like a slug slithering over a tomato. Grateful it wasn’t Margaret Beckett, those teeth nibbling on a carrot.
Sunday morning, temperature, not up to having my Sunday morning cuddle. “Up”, at my age, that word gives an inaccurate description irrespective of my temperature. But its nice to give the wife a cuddle on a Sunday morning, keeps her happy. And when she’s happy she lets me use her computer. Everything is hers, until it breaks down and I have to pay to replace it.
Hope I’m better by tomorrow; have to go to the Post Office. Before I would say “nipping to the Post Office”. But I can’t nip anymore since they closed the two sub-post offices close to us. Now it’s a case of organising an expedition to the main Post Office in town. Main Post Office - that’s a laugh. The Old Post Office building is now a wine bar, the Post Office is now in a shed!!
Expedition is the correct word - it’s like Scott going to the Antarctic. There’s the journey there for a start. Then you got to take all the camping gear and provisions you will need for the days you spend in the queue. Last time I was there, there were so many Policemen; I thought I had walked into a robbery. Turned out the woman at the front of the queue had been there for four days and her daughter had reported her missing.
What happens when you finally get served? Asked for a book of stamps. Woman behind the counter asked if I was going on holiday. Thought “how nice and polite, what a change an assistant who is pleasant”. Wrong, it turned out she wanted to sell me travel insurance. When I told her I wasn’t going anywhere, she asked if I had thought to switching to Post Offices Telephones. I only wanted a book of second class stamps (second class- I’m not going to pay more for them to lose my letters). Well I think they get lost - I never get replies to all my letters of complaint.
(Tip don’t send e-mail complaints they only have to hit the delete button. Always send a letter, that way they have to go to all the trouble of opening it before throwing it in the bin. Also if the company has a free mail address use that - that way you save on stamps and they pay for your letter - at least you get a little bit of revenge).
Now what was I going to say? It’s gone clean out of my head. Perhaps I’ll remember latter.
Saturday, 16 December 2006
Super market Pranks
Few days ago went with the wife to the Doctor’s Surgery. She had a 10 o’clock appointment for a flu jab. I don’t qualify for one (deemed to be expendable - kill the old men off first).
She had to wait until past 11 o’clock. We were sharing the section of the Waiting Room set aside for the Emergency Clinic. (If you haven’t got an appointment, you wait there for hours to see a Doctor). Most of the people there should have been in bed.
Try phoning up to get a Doctor to make a home visit. You have to have a certificate signed by 10 Doctors certifying you are too ill to attend the surgery, before a Doctor agrees to make a home visit.
People coughing and wheezing all over the place. One poor woman lying across two chairs.
The result - last night started coughing, sweating, shivering - I got the BL**DY flu!!!!
What’s worse it’s Saturday. I had planned to make a visit today to at least three supermarkets.
Walk around with my empty trolley, block the aisle. Ask young mothers (especially ones with unruly kids) to hand down items from the top shelf, take one look at the item, hand them back and walk away. Never say sorry or give an explanation. Even the most placid get annoyed by that. (I hear them “muter muter ignorant old man”).
Buy only one item in each store, (I do my weekly shop on Tuesday morning, - hardly any parents with kids or old people around - I‘m not stupid).
Where was I? Buy one item in each and pay by cheque. You can’t imagine the queue you can build-up behind you when you pay by cheque. Few minutes searching every pocket for the cheque book. With luck the Check-out Attendant hasn’t a pen - always good for another couple of minutes. Then look for your glasses. All the time you must turn around and look at the ever increasing queue and smile. That really gets them really really annoyed when you smile.
On a good day, I recon I can (unknowing to them) recruit 4 youngones per queue to the “Grumpy Training Scheme”.
It gives a great sense of satisfaction when you know you have recruited the next generation of Grumpy Old Farts. You were there at the start of a lifetime of complaining and general indignation
But here I am suck indoors with a thermometer stuck up my bum!! One good fart and I could shoot the wife right between the eyes. It’s her fault in the first place that I got the flu. (Why is the thermometer stuck in my arse not in my mouth - my wife says that‘s the place you have to put it - she saw it done that way on a vet programme on TV).
She had to wait until past 11 o’clock. We were sharing the section of the Waiting Room set aside for the Emergency Clinic. (If you haven’t got an appointment, you wait there for hours to see a Doctor). Most of the people there should have been in bed.
Try phoning up to get a Doctor to make a home visit. You have to have a certificate signed by 10 Doctors certifying you are too ill to attend the surgery, before a Doctor agrees to make a home visit.
People coughing and wheezing all over the place. One poor woman lying across two chairs.
The result - last night started coughing, sweating, shivering - I got the BL**DY flu!!!!
What’s worse it’s Saturday. I had planned to make a visit today to at least three supermarkets.
Walk around with my empty trolley, block the aisle. Ask young mothers (especially ones with unruly kids) to hand down items from the top shelf, take one look at the item, hand them back and walk away. Never say sorry or give an explanation. Even the most placid get annoyed by that. (I hear them “muter muter ignorant old man”).
Buy only one item in each store, (I do my weekly shop on Tuesday morning, - hardly any parents with kids or old people around - I‘m not stupid).
Where was I? Buy one item in each and pay by cheque. You can’t imagine the queue you can build-up behind you when you pay by cheque. Few minutes searching every pocket for the cheque book. With luck the Check-out Attendant hasn’t a pen - always good for another couple of minutes. Then look for your glasses. All the time you must turn around and look at the ever increasing queue and smile. That really gets them really really annoyed when you smile.
On a good day, I recon I can (unknowing to them) recruit 4 youngones per queue to the “Grumpy Training Scheme”.
It gives a great sense of satisfaction when you know you have recruited the next generation of Grumpy Old Farts. You were there at the start of a lifetime of complaining and general indignation
But here I am suck indoors with a thermometer stuck up my bum!! One good fart and I could shoot the wife right between the eyes. It’s her fault in the first place that I got the flu. (Why is the thermometer stuck in my arse not in my mouth - my wife says that‘s the place you have to put it - she saw it done that way on a vet programme on TV).
Friday, 15 December 2006
Dragons & Virgins
A dragon’s life isn’t too bad, since those stupid knights on horseback stopped charging at them.
There was one fellow, called George, don’t know what happened to him, but he made a nuisance of himself. Every Saturday, he’d be chucked out of the pub, for cheating at skittles, he’d climb on his horse, and off he’d go to fight a dragon. But he’d make sure the only dragon he ever challenged was so old it could hardly sum up enough energy to fart, no need blow a flame. Some hero was George, one fart and he was blown off his horse. Poor old George, he had ideas well above his station. Got it into his head that one day he’d become a national hero. Even employed Max Clifford to be his publicist. Max had the bright idea that George should give away tee shirts with red cross emblem. Last I heard of George was when he was a contestant on “Ye Oldie Big Brother”.
These days’ dragons lead a very peaceful life. If you go through Llanybydder you can see the children of the Polish immigrant workers playing with the young dragons.
The perfect dragon sausage is made from a 92 year old dragon. The traditional way of killing a dragon is by sacrificing a young virgin to it. At 92, it doesn’t take many virgins for it to die, with a smile on its face, of exhaustion.
Unfortunately, there is now a problem of supply and demand. The increased popularity of dragon sausages has resulted in an increased demand for virgins. The Welsh Dragon Breeders Association (WDBA) has run a recruitment campaign but unfortunately without much success. They tried using immigrant virgins, but the dragon’s insisted on having young Welsh virgins.
I don’t think there will be an improvement until the conversion of the factory in Llanelli is completed. But even then it will take time to retrain the workers from pickling onions to making chastity belts.
There was one fellow, called George, don’t know what happened to him, but he made a nuisance of himself. Every Saturday, he’d be chucked out of the pub, for cheating at skittles, he’d climb on his horse, and off he’d go to fight a dragon. But he’d make sure the only dragon he ever challenged was so old it could hardly sum up enough energy to fart, no need blow a flame. Some hero was George, one fart and he was blown off his horse. Poor old George, he had ideas well above his station. Got it into his head that one day he’d become a national hero. Even employed Max Clifford to be his publicist. Max had the bright idea that George should give away tee shirts with red cross emblem. Last I heard of George was when he was a contestant on “Ye Oldie Big Brother”.
These days’ dragons lead a very peaceful life. If you go through Llanybydder you can see the children of the Polish immigrant workers playing with the young dragons.
The perfect dragon sausage is made from a 92 year old dragon. The traditional way of killing a dragon is by sacrificing a young virgin to it. At 92, it doesn’t take many virgins for it to die, with a smile on its face, of exhaustion.
Unfortunately, there is now a problem of supply and demand. The increased popularity of dragon sausages has resulted in an increased demand for virgins. The Welsh Dragon Breeders Association (WDBA) has run a recruitment campaign but unfortunately without much success. They tried using immigrant virgins, but the dragon’s insisted on having young Welsh virgins.
I don’t think there will be an improvement until the conversion of the factory in Llanelli is completed. But even then it will take time to retrain the workers from pickling onions to making chastity belts.
Thursday, 14 December 2006
Charles Prince of Wales to breed Organic Dragons
Since it has become public knowledge that the Prince of Wales has purchased a Welsh farm,
news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/...
the local rumour mill has been in full production.
It is believed the Prince will use the farm to breed organically reared Dragons.
The spokesperson for the Welsh Dragon Breeders Association (WDBA), Elvin Lewis (aged 49), stated:
“Since its establishment in 1986, the WDBA has been in the forefront of the Dragon conservation program. While there are still 30 breeding pairs in the Brecon Beacons, and it is rumoured that there are a few dragons living in remote inaccessible valleys in Snowdon, the main population of dragons can be found in number of farms located in the Upper Tywi Valley. We would welcome Prince Charles joining the Association, and consider there is commercial potential in establishing an organic dragon meat market.”.
WDBA’s enthusiasm is not shared by everyone. The Welsh Glacier Monitoring Unit (WGMU) in a press release state:
“It is a well known fact, that during the mating season, male dragons spout, at least 6 times per hour, 30 ft long flames from their nose. The artificially high concentration of male dragons in the Upper Tywi Valley, has resulted in an increase of 3 Deg. C in the annual average ambient temperature. This has resulted in an accelerated melting of Welsh Glaciers. This year the run off from the Llangadog Glacier together with the higher than average rain fall in August resulted in flooding of parts of the Lower Tywi Valley.”
One of the casualties of the flood was the Annual Virgins Dance. The dance thought to originate in ancient times, when a virgin was given as sacrifice to pacify the wroth of dragons roaming over the West Wales Mountains.
One of the dancers, Blodwyn Williams (aged 14), on hearing the dance had been cancelled, tearfully stated that she and her friends had been practicing for months, and had to wear chastity belts for three years to ensure they would participate in the dance. She said with the onset of winter, the poor TV reception and the chaffing of the belts, she feared she wouldn’t qualify to participate in next years dance.
A BBC spokesperson, categorically denied poor TV reception was due to transitional shock waves caused by low flying dragons. He stated that while TV transmission masts had not been designed to attenuate the effects of transitory shock waves, the conversion of Ferryside and Llanstephan to purely digital service had been pre-planned, and had nothing to do with low flying dragons.
Future neighbours of Prince Charles, John James John (aged 36) and his wife Gladys (aged 74) were pleased the Prince had purchased Llwynywormwood estate, they wished him well in his Bed & Breakfast business. Their only concern was “ if he does keep dragons we hope he will keep them under control, we have enough trouble with pigeons landing on our chimney”.
news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/...
the local rumour mill has been in full production.
It is believed the Prince will use the farm to breed organically reared Dragons.
The spokesperson for the Welsh Dragon Breeders Association (WDBA), Elvin Lewis (aged 49), stated:
“Since its establishment in 1986, the WDBA has been in the forefront of the Dragon conservation program. While there are still 30 breeding pairs in the Brecon Beacons, and it is rumoured that there are a few dragons living in remote inaccessible valleys in Snowdon, the main population of dragons can be found in number of farms located in the Upper Tywi Valley. We would welcome Prince Charles joining the Association, and consider there is commercial potential in establishing an organic dragon meat market.”.
WDBA’s enthusiasm is not shared by everyone. The Welsh Glacier Monitoring Unit (WGMU) in a press release state:
“It is a well known fact, that during the mating season, male dragons spout, at least 6 times per hour, 30 ft long flames from their nose. The artificially high concentration of male dragons in the Upper Tywi Valley, has resulted in an increase of 3 Deg. C in the annual average ambient temperature. This has resulted in an accelerated melting of Welsh Glaciers. This year the run off from the Llangadog Glacier together with the higher than average rain fall in August resulted in flooding of parts of the Lower Tywi Valley.”
One of the casualties of the flood was the Annual Virgins Dance. The dance thought to originate in ancient times, when a virgin was given as sacrifice to pacify the wroth of dragons roaming over the West Wales Mountains.
One of the dancers, Blodwyn Williams (aged 14), on hearing the dance had been cancelled, tearfully stated that she and her friends had been practicing for months, and had to wear chastity belts for three years to ensure they would participate in the dance. She said with the onset of winter, the poor TV reception and the chaffing of the belts, she feared she wouldn’t qualify to participate in next years dance.
A BBC spokesperson, categorically denied poor TV reception was due to transitional shock waves caused by low flying dragons. He stated that while TV transmission masts had not been designed to attenuate the effects of transitory shock waves, the conversion of Ferryside and Llanstephan to purely digital service had been pre-planned, and had nothing to do with low flying dragons.
Future neighbours of Prince Charles, John James John (aged 36) and his wife Gladys (aged 74) were pleased the Prince had purchased Llwynywormwood estate, they wished him well in his Bed & Breakfast business. Their only concern was “ if he does keep dragons we hope he will keep them under control, we have enough trouble with pigeons landing on our chimney”.
Wednesday, 13 December 2006
Prime Minister's Question Time
Wednesday morning and I feel a grump coming on.
People get Monday morning feeling, I get Wednesday lunchtime feeling.
I must have a strong stomach, because I can eat my lunch and watch Prime Minister’s Question Time at the same time.
Do you watch Prime Minister’s Question time?
I do not know which is worse, Tony Blair or the toadies who sit behind him. Have you heard the questions they ask? “Would the Prime Minister agree that he is a wonderful inspirational leader, that New Labour is the best thing since sliced bread that the government is the best government ever, while those members opposite (scoff) are devoid of any ideas?” And the answer, “(stand gloat, yes I am wonderful), I agree with everything my Friend has said, since 1997 we have ….,….,……, and yes the party opposite is a shower”. Cheers, howls.
Blair never answers opposition questions. Irrespective of the question, his answer is too real out a list of all New Labour’s “achievements”, then to ask a question of the Opposition Leader. Why doesn’t the Speaker pull him up and tell him its PM Question time, not Opposition Leader Question time.
Then there’s the front row, with the exception of Gordon Brown (who looks as if he is pressing his buttocks together to suppress a fart), they are all nodding in unison like dogs on the back shelf of an old Morris Minor car. Perhaps you notice John Reid because of his nodding bald head. Without implying anything untoward, but would you buy a second hand car from this man? And the previous Home Secretaries, from what I have heard of his tapes, David Blunkett was and still is emotionally damaged.
Enough, enough!!!
People get Monday morning feeling, I get Wednesday lunchtime feeling.
I must have a strong stomach, because I can eat my lunch and watch Prime Minister’s Question Time at the same time.
Do you watch Prime Minister’s Question time?
I do not know which is worse, Tony Blair or the toadies who sit behind him. Have you heard the questions they ask? “Would the Prime Minister agree that he is a wonderful inspirational leader, that New Labour is the best thing since sliced bread that the government is the best government ever, while those members opposite (scoff) are devoid of any ideas?” And the answer, “(stand gloat, yes I am wonderful), I agree with everything my Friend has said, since 1997 we have ….,….,……, and yes the party opposite is a shower”. Cheers, howls.
Blair never answers opposition questions. Irrespective of the question, his answer is too real out a list of all New Labour’s “achievements”, then to ask a question of the Opposition Leader. Why doesn’t the Speaker pull him up and tell him its PM Question time, not Opposition Leader Question time.
Then there’s the front row, with the exception of Gordon Brown (who looks as if he is pressing his buttocks together to suppress a fart), they are all nodding in unison like dogs on the back shelf of an old Morris Minor car. Perhaps you notice John Reid because of his nodding bald head. Without implying anything untoward, but would you buy a second hand car from this man? And the previous Home Secretaries, from what I have heard of his tapes, David Blunkett was and still is emotionally damaged.
Enough, enough!!!
Tuesday, 12 December 2006
Rubbish Day
Tuesday, Rubbish Day - Not a description of the blog or the day! Rather Tuesday they collect the domestic rubbish - no not the wife!!
Its hard work being a Dustbin Man. Sorry forgot, they are not called that any more - they are Environmental Cleansing Operatives, no those are road sweepers, Dustbin men are Garbage Removal Operatives. Do you notice no one has an ordinary job any more. It’s even worse when it comes to parents talking about their children, “Our John, he’s doing ever so well. He’s now a Customer Relations Interactive Executive” - he works at a Call Centre!! “Our Ann is brilliant, people agree with me she’s going to get 30 CXE’s, 15 A Levels, a degree and Doctorate in Astrophysics”. Ann is 8 weeks old, all she does is cry, eat, puke and shit. Is the colour of her shit different that they can tell she’s going to get 30 CXE’s, 15 A Levels, a degree and Doctorate in Astrophysics?
It’s a sad thing, but have you noticed when there’s a report on the news about anything happening to a child. The child is always described as the brightest, most popular pupil in the school. The bullies, those who cannot make friends and the not so bright are never the victims. The message is obvious, if you want to protect your children, make sure they are not: bright, clever or popular.
Nothing new with that concept. The Ancient Chinese were fearful, that if they were seen to love their children too much, the gods would get jealous and take their child from them. So to mislead the gods they gave names to their daughters such as “Ugly Dog Faced Shit”. You cannot imagine a Chinese parent saying “’Ugly Dog Faced Shit’ is brilliant, people can see she’s going to get 30 CXE’s, 15 A Levels, a degree and Doctorate in Astrophysics”.
I can hear the Dustbin Men, sorry Garbage Removal Operatives, outside. We haven’t got Wheelie Bins but the good old fashion bins with lids. The rubbish lorry doesn’t stop, but drives slowly down the road. This means the ‘Operatives’ have to run behind the lorry, throw away the lid, throw the rubbish in the lorry, then throw away the bin, before picking up the next bin. The result is - first I must explain our road is on a slight incline - the discarded lid rolls down the road. So I have to go searching for the lid. To identify it, first I painted the house number on it, but it travelled so far I had to add the road name, still inadequate, I finally had to paint on the town name and Post Code. The cumulative distance that lid has travelled is unbelievable - I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I see it on TV on the Holiday Travel series giving a report from Outer Mongolia.
Recycling is “The” In-subject. Every news bulletin has an item about recycle targets. Our Dustbin Men, sorry Garbage Removal Operatives, have been recycling 50% for years.
Half the bin contents are spilled on the road. So after they have gone I have to go out find the bin, pick up the rubbish and put it back into the bin. Some of the rubbish has been recycled back into the bin for so long, that we send it Christmas and Birthday cards. I guess some of it’s of archaeological interest. Last week I noticed a copy of Radio Times Dated June 1986!!
But don’t bother complaining to the Council. Have you tried phoning the Council. Get through to the switchboard, get transferred to the relevant department, explain what you want, “no not our department I think you need #####”, ask to be transferred, they either lose the connection or tell you they can’t transfer you. Start again, get through to the switchboard, get transferred to the relevant department, explain what you want, “no not our department I think you need #####”, ask to be transferred, they either lose the connection or tell you they can’t transfer you. Start again . . . .
What is it with Council workers? I know some of them, out of office hours they are normal intelligent people. But once they enter the Council Office, they become brain less.
I went down to the Council office and asked the Receptionist (chosen for the job, not for her knowledge of the Council but for her good looks - in fact having any knowledge is deemed a disadvantage). I asked to see the refrigerator. “Refrigerator?”, “Yes the refrigerator Council workers keep their brains in while they are in work”. Invited to accompany the Security Guard out of the office!!
Science is moving on a pace, last week they were talking about face transplants. In the future they will be able to do brain transplants. When that happens, don’t ask for a Mathematician’s, or Philosopher’s brain, ask for a Council workers brain “almost as new hardly been used”.
Must go now to reunite bin, lid and rubbish.
Its hard work being a Dustbin Man. Sorry forgot, they are not called that any more - they are Environmental Cleansing Operatives, no those are road sweepers, Dustbin men are Garbage Removal Operatives. Do you notice no one has an ordinary job any more. It’s even worse when it comes to parents talking about their children, “Our John, he’s doing ever so well. He’s now a Customer Relations Interactive Executive” - he works at a Call Centre!! “Our Ann is brilliant, people agree with me she’s going to get 30 CXE’s, 15 A Levels, a degree and Doctorate in Astrophysics”. Ann is 8 weeks old, all she does is cry, eat, puke and shit. Is the colour of her shit different that they can tell she’s going to get 30 CXE’s, 15 A Levels, a degree and Doctorate in Astrophysics?
It’s a sad thing, but have you noticed when there’s a report on the news about anything happening to a child. The child is always described as the brightest, most popular pupil in the school. The bullies, those who cannot make friends and the not so bright are never the victims. The message is obvious, if you want to protect your children, make sure they are not: bright, clever or popular.
Nothing new with that concept. The Ancient Chinese were fearful, that if they were seen to love their children too much, the gods would get jealous and take their child from them. So to mislead the gods they gave names to their daughters such as “Ugly Dog Faced Shit”. You cannot imagine a Chinese parent saying “’Ugly Dog Faced Shit’ is brilliant, people can see she’s going to get 30 CXE’s, 15 A Levels, a degree and Doctorate in Astrophysics”.
I can hear the Dustbin Men, sorry Garbage Removal Operatives, outside. We haven’t got Wheelie Bins but the good old fashion bins with lids. The rubbish lorry doesn’t stop, but drives slowly down the road. This means the ‘Operatives’ have to run behind the lorry, throw away the lid, throw the rubbish in the lorry, then throw away the bin, before picking up the next bin. The result is - first I must explain our road is on a slight incline - the discarded lid rolls down the road. So I have to go searching for the lid. To identify it, first I painted the house number on it, but it travelled so far I had to add the road name, still inadequate, I finally had to paint on the town name and Post Code. The cumulative distance that lid has travelled is unbelievable - I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I see it on TV on the Holiday Travel series giving a report from Outer Mongolia.
Recycling is “The” In-subject. Every news bulletin has an item about recycle targets. Our Dustbin Men, sorry Garbage Removal Operatives, have been recycling 50% for years.
Half the bin contents are spilled on the road. So after they have gone I have to go out find the bin, pick up the rubbish and put it back into the bin. Some of the rubbish has been recycled back into the bin for so long, that we send it Christmas and Birthday cards. I guess some of it’s of archaeological interest. Last week I noticed a copy of Radio Times Dated June 1986!!
But don’t bother complaining to the Council. Have you tried phoning the Council. Get through to the switchboard, get transferred to the relevant department, explain what you want, “no not our department I think you need #####”, ask to be transferred, they either lose the connection or tell you they can’t transfer you. Start again, get through to the switchboard, get transferred to the relevant department, explain what you want, “no not our department I think you need #####”, ask to be transferred, they either lose the connection or tell you they can’t transfer you. Start again . . . .
What is it with Council workers? I know some of them, out of office hours they are normal intelligent people. But once they enter the Council Office, they become brain less.
I went down to the Council office and asked the Receptionist (chosen for the job, not for her knowledge of the Council but for her good looks - in fact having any knowledge is deemed a disadvantage). I asked to see the refrigerator. “Refrigerator?”, “Yes the refrigerator Council workers keep their brains in while they are in work”. Invited to accompany the Security Guard out of the office!!
Science is moving on a pace, last week they were talking about face transplants. In the future they will be able to do brain transplants. When that happens, don’t ask for a Mathematician’s, or Philosopher’s brain, ask for a Council workers brain “almost as new hardly been used”.
Must go now to reunite bin, lid and rubbish.
Monday, 11 December 2006
BBC’s Shameful Behaviour
This is a sad week. The BBC is closing a number of their Message Boards.
This is a blatant act of vandalism.
The BBC has failed to recognise, or has chosen to ignore, that communities have formed around these message boards.
Posters comprise of:
* mothers with young children
* housebound old people
* people housebound due to ill health
* people at work, taking a break to pay a quick visit to the board
* unemployed people
* and many others.
The great thing about the internet is everybody is equal. Everybody can contribute, they are judged: not on age, gender or race but on what they write.
The BBC boards are used to exchange information, to amuse, to provide support and comfort.
But in one fell swipe all that is to be thrown unceremoniously into the bin.
Why? The BBC says they have to use their limited resources appropriately. I can not argue against that. I buy my TV licence which funds the BBC, and I don’t want them to waste my money. But is the BBC using their funds appropriately?
Visit the BBC Points of View, Television board
http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/mbpointsofview/F1951566?thread=3697868&skip=0&show=20
Read the thread devoted to the BBC1 TV programme “Jam And Jerusalem”. To date over 370 messages have been posted. Over 95% of the messages, not so much criticise the programmes, rather tear it to shreds.
At first sight it would appear incongruous that a comedy programme has accumulated such a sustained avalanche of criticism. It has a good cast, and you can see that they are having great fun filming the show. And that, together with a crap script, is the reason for the failure. The cast members are so busy having a good time, that they have forgotten the objective is to entertain the audience.
If “Jam & Jerusalem” had not been made, the BBC would have saved enough money to finance the message boards for over a year.
Shame on you BBC. Like the cast of “Jam & Jerusalem”, the BBC have forgotten it’s audience.
I hope the posters can come together on other Web Sites, to re-establish their internet community.
This is a blatant act of vandalism.
The BBC has failed to recognise, or has chosen to ignore, that communities have formed around these message boards.
Posters comprise of:
* mothers with young children
* housebound old people
* people housebound due to ill health
* people at work, taking a break to pay a quick visit to the board
* unemployed people
* and many others.
The great thing about the internet is everybody is equal. Everybody can contribute, they are judged: not on age, gender or race but on what they write.
The BBC boards are used to exchange information, to amuse, to provide support and comfort.
But in one fell swipe all that is to be thrown unceremoniously into the bin.
Why? The BBC says they have to use their limited resources appropriately. I can not argue against that. I buy my TV licence which funds the BBC, and I don’t want them to waste my money. But is the BBC using their funds appropriately?
Visit the BBC Points of View, Television board
http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/mbpointsofview/F1951566?thread=3697868&skip=0&show=20
Read the thread devoted to the BBC1 TV programme “Jam And Jerusalem”. To date over 370 messages have been posted. Over 95% of the messages, not so much criticise the programmes, rather tear it to shreds.
At first sight it would appear incongruous that a comedy programme has accumulated such a sustained avalanche of criticism. It has a good cast, and you can see that they are having great fun filming the show. And that, together with a crap script, is the reason for the failure. The cast members are so busy having a good time, that they have forgotten the objective is to entertain the audience.
If “Jam & Jerusalem” had not been made, the BBC would have saved enough money to finance the message boards for over a year.
Shame on you BBC. Like the cast of “Jam & Jerusalem”, the BBC have forgotten it’s audience.
I hope the posters can come together on other Web Sites, to re-establish their internet community.
Sunday, 10 December 2006
Darwin's theory of Evolution - a load of Rubbish
Why do old people shop in super markets on Saturday?
Darwin called it evolution - rubbish
Being a grumpy old woman/man isn’t the result of nature, its nurture.
It takes years of training to perfect the art of complaining and being grumpy.
To ensure the tradition is continued we have to recruit new candidates.
Now if we went up to a youngster and asked them to join the “Grumpy Training Scheme”, they would just sneer.
That’s why we have to use a more subtle approach.
Get them complaining young.
It works.
Darwin called it evolution - rubbish
Being a grumpy old woman/man isn’t the result of nature, its nurture.
It takes years of training to perfect the art of complaining and being grumpy.
To ensure the tradition is continued we have to recruit new candidates.
Now if we went up to a youngster and asked them to join the “Grumpy Training Scheme”, they would just sneer.
That’s why we have to use a more subtle approach.
Get them complaining young.
It works.
Saturday, 9 December 2006
Supermarket shopping and Young People’s Annoying Behaviour
Just come back from shopping at the local supermarket.
While there I overheard a young woman complain about Old Age Pensioners doing their shopping on Saturdays. They should only shop midweek allowing young people to do their shopping on Saturday, without the annoyance of old people’s trolleys blocking the aisles.
Yes, pensioners should stop shopping in supermarkets on Saturday.
OK. Quid pro quo, in return young-ones :
Give up there seat on the bus to old people (though I guess the woman who was complaining only travels by 4x4)
Stop blocking pavements with their super-sized prams (though I guess the woman has a nanny)
Stop speaking at the top of their voices on their mobile phones on trains.
Stop using their i-pods on trains and buses (bum, bum, bum, bum, bum)
Pay cash at super-market check-outs, rather than hold up the queue, while they phone up their partner to reminder them of there PIN number.
Stop referring to their wives and husbands as “their partner”.
Start controlling their unruly children - including stopping them taking and eating sweats from super-market shelves.
I don’t know why the young-ones are so intolerant!! If they are like this now, boy oh boy, are they going to be grumpy old farts. I see this blog stretching on forever. Good on you. Grump now grump often.
While there I overheard a young woman complain about Old Age Pensioners doing their shopping on Saturdays. They should only shop midweek allowing young people to do their shopping on Saturday, without the annoyance of old people’s trolleys blocking the aisles.
Yes, pensioners should stop shopping in supermarkets on Saturday.
OK. Quid pro quo, in return young-ones :
Give up there seat on the bus to old people (though I guess the woman who was complaining only travels by 4x4)
Stop blocking pavements with their super-sized prams (though I guess the woman has a nanny)
Stop speaking at the top of their voices on their mobile phones on trains.
Stop using their i-pods on trains and buses (bum, bum, bum, bum, bum)
Pay cash at super-market check-outs, rather than hold up the queue, while they phone up their partner to reminder them of there PIN number.
Stop referring to their wives and husbands as “their partner”.
Start controlling their unruly children - including stopping them taking and eating sweats from super-market shelves.
I don’t know why the young-ones are so intolerant!! If they are like this now, boy oh boy, are they going to be grumpy old farts. I see this blog stretching on forever. Good on you. Grump now grump often.
Friday, 8 December 2006
National Health Service
Why does the National Health Service (NHS) bother to give times for appointments?
In the doctors surgery there’s a notice to say how many patients fail to keep their appointment. Last month it was 9.2%. Not surprising you have to wait so long for an appointment, by the time it comes, either the complaint has cleared or you are dead.
You have to wait months for a hospital appointment.
On one occasion I had to queue for 1 hour to make a hospital appointment only to be told they had lost my files and I would have to come back the next day to make an appointment.
You turn up early for your 10.00 am hospital appointment, and if you are lucky you might see the doctor by 11.30. Then you are told you have to allow 10 days for the result of the consultation to be sent to your GP.
So you make an appointment for 9.30 to see your GP; 10.45 you see the doctor, results, what results??
Five times I had blood tests taken, because on each occasion the results were lost.
The NHS is spending £3 billion on a new IT system. £3 billion that’s £3,000,000,000. Haven’t they heard of Hotmail which they could use to send results? Why does it take 10 days, even a pigeon could walk from to the hospital to the GP surgery in half the time?
In the doctors surgery there’s a notice to say how many patients fail to keep their appointment. Last month it was 9.2%. Not surprising you have to wait so long for an appointment, by the time it comes, either the complaint has cleared or you are dead.
You have to wait months for a hospital appointment.
On one occasion I had to queue for 1 hour to make a hospital appointment only to be told they had lost my files and I would have to come back the next day to make an appointment.
You turn up early for your 10.00 am hospital appointment, and if you are lucky you might see the doctor by 11.30. Then you are told you have to allow 10 days for the result of the consultation to be sent to your GP.
So you make an appointment for 9.30 to see your GP; 10.45 you see the doctor, results, what results??
Five times I had blood tests taken, because on each occasion the results were lost.
The NHS is spending £3 billion on a new IT system. £3 billion that’s £3,000,000,000. Haven’t they heard of Hotmail which they could use to send results? Why does it take 10 days, even a pigeon could walk from to the hospital to the GP surgery in half the time?
Thursday, 7 December 2006
Campaign against Spitting
As I stated previously, there is a frightening increase in the number of TB cases.
You would think under these circumstances the “Nanny Government” would take action against spitting.
Are children taught in schools not to spit?
This is not a racist comment but a statement of fact. Spitting is acceptable practice in some cultures. When people from those cultures come to live in this country, they bring their cultural norms with them.
The Government and schools need to run public information and education programs highlighting the health risks caused by spitting, and the plain fact that it is socially unacceptable.
There is a campaign to eradicate racism from sport, how about having a similar campaign against spitting.
You would think under these circumstances the “Nanny Government” would take action against spitting.
Are children taught in schools not to spit?
This is not a racist comment but a statement of fact. Spitting is acceptable practice in some cultures. When people from those cultures come to live in this country, they bring their cultural norms with them.
The Government and schools need to run public information and education programs highlighting the health risks caused by spitting, and the plain fact that it is socially unacceptable.
There is a campaign to eradicate racism from sport, how about having a similar campaign against spitting.
Wednesday, 6 December 2006
Why Tourists are a pain in the arse
Talk on the Radio of the drop in the value of the American dollar! My mind immediately switched to tourists. I know tourism makes a big contribution to the UK economy but tourists are such a pain in the neck. It could be any town or city which is a tourist attraction, (York, Canterbury, Edinburgh, Dublin, Cardiff, etc.) but I take London as an example, and just one part of London - Westminster Bridge.
Starting on the South Bank. First you have the London Eye and the other tawdry attractions in the former County Hall. The tourists and buskers in this area makes it difficult to walk unimpeded along the embankment. The top of the steps onto the bridge is blocked by a tout for Big Bus Tours. Walking across the bridge is impeded by tourists taking photographs - they expect people either to stop or walk on the road while they take five minutes to take a photo of the Eye. Then there are the sellers of honey coated peanuts, the Chinese selling smuggled cigarettes (why hasn’t the police acted against these). And the most ridiculous of all, those who bend aluminium coat hangers into names.
(I can just imagine in thirty yeas time an edition of “Cash in the Attic” on - ”well what have we here?”, “its Aunty Mary’s postcard holder made from aluminium wire”, “how interesting”, “what’s it worth?”, “on a good day, with the right buyers at the auction, 3p”, “ho wonderful, that will make a big contribution to the costs of our planned Caribbean cruise”.)
The steps down to the north bank Embankment are always blocked by tourists who have decided it’s an ideal location to hold a meeting to plan the rest of their lives. Tourists are oblivious of everyone around them; they block stairs, entrances and walkways. And they shout if they are talking in a foreign language.
A point in their favour, the majority don’t spit.
Starting on the South Bank. First you have the London Eye and the other tawdry attractions in the former County Hall. The tourists and buskers in this area makes it difficult to walk unimpeded along the embankment. The top of the steps onto the bridge is blocked by a tout for Big Bus Tours. Walking across the bridge is impeded by tourists taking photographs - they expect people either to stop or walk on the road while they take five minutes to take a photo of the Eye. Then there are the sellers of honey coated peanuts, the Chinese selling smuggled cigarettes (why hasn’t the police acted against these). And the most ridiculous of all, those who bend aluminium coat hangers into names.
(I can just imagine in thirty yeas time an edition of “Cash in the Attic” on - ”well what have we here?”, “its Aunty Mary’s postcard holder made from aluminium wire”, “how interesting”, “what’s it worth?”, “on a good day, with the right buyers at the auction, 3p”, “ho wonderful, that will make a big contribution to the costs of our planned Caribbean cruise”.)
The steps down to the north bank Embankment are always blocked by tourists who have decided it’s an ideal location to hold a meeting to plan the rest of their lives. Tourists are oblivious of everyone around them; they block stairs, entrances and walkways. And they shout if they are talking in a foreign language.
A point in their favour, the majority don’t spit.
Tuesday, 5 December 2006
Yobs and Teenagers
Don’t start me off on teenagers.
Recently I visited the West Country (of England). Walking behind a boy and girl (aged about 18). I couldn’t tell the boys age because he was wearing a hood. The way he was walking, rolling his shoulders, the way he was holding his hand, and from snatches of conversation heard, I deduced he was of Afro-Caribbean extraction. Typical of young men walking around South London. But when I walked past him, I recognised him to be a local West-country boy. Why do youths rush to adopt alien culture?
Another thing about youths, they chew chewing gum. No problem with that, but why can’t they dispose of the gum correctly, not throw it on the pavement (sidewalk)? Not only chewing gum, finish a can drink, throw the can on the floor, finish bottled water, throw it on the floor.
What are buses for? Spray graffiti, scratch the windows, rip seats, etc. etc.
And on a crowded bus, do youths give up their seats for an old person? No way.
And they have the impertinence to be grumpy. How dare they, who do they think they are?
Recently I visited the West Country (of England). Walking behind a boy and girl (aged about 18). I couldn’t tell the boys age because he was wearing a hood. The way he was walking, rolling his shoulders, the way he was holding his hand, and from snatches of conversation heard, I deduced he was of Afro-Caribbean extraction. Typical of young men walking around South London. But when I walked past him, I recognised him to be a local West-country boy. Why do youths rush to adopt alien culture?
Another thing about youths, they chew chewing gum. No problem with that, but why can’t they dispose of the gum correctly, not throw it on the pavement (sidewalk)? Not only chewing gum, finish a can drink, throw the can on the floor, finish bottled water, throw it on the floor.
What are buses for? Spray graffiti, scratch the windows, rip seats, etc. etc.
And on a crowded bus, do youths give up their seats for an old person? No way.
And they have the impertinence to be grumpy. How dare they, who do they think they are?
Monday, 4 December 2006
In the Dog House for wanting Broadband and grumpy about pavements (sidewalks)
I really have to be careful what I post on this blog.
My wife looked over my shoulder and saw I was considering switching to broadband. I was told in no uncertain terms, the only reason I was allowed to have Tesco Daytime dial up, was because the service terminates at 4pm. - she recons if I had broadband I would never get off “that machine”.
I do not consider my computer as “that Machine”. To me a machine needs to be oiled, has cogs and moving parts. OK a computer has a hard drive and cooling fans, but it’s not a machine.
She asked me lat week, if the house went on fire which would I rescue first, my computer or her? I made the mistake of thinking about the answer. I was in the dog house for days afterwards.
“Dog house“, I should be so lucky, if she looked after me half as well as she does her dog, I would be happy.
I’m concocting a plan, haven’t got all the details in place yet, but the scenario is convincing her that it would be to the dogs benefit if we had broadband - your assistance with the plan would be appreciated.
Today’s grump - no it’s not my wife - pavements (sidewalks).
Pavements are not there for pedestrians to walk safely on. How can they be safe, when they have been hijacked by cyclists? No.
The main reason for having pavements is to provide a money making machine for contractors (whose name predominately starts with Mc . . .).
A paving stone wobbles.
Along comes the contractor.
Lifts up the paving stone, throws a shovel full of sand under it, and puts back the paving stone.
Rain comes, washes away the sand.
A paving stone wobbles.
Along comes the contractor.
Lifts up the paving stone, throws a shovel full of sand under it, and puts back the paving stone.
Rain comes, washes away the sand. . . . .
And the contractor laughs all the way to the bank. With luck he might trip over one of his wobbling paving stones.
My wife looked over my shoulder and saw I was considering switching to broadband. I was told in no uncertain terms, the only reason I was allowed to have Tesco Daytime dial up, was because the service terminates at 4pm. - she recons if I had broadband I would never get off “that machine”.
I do not consider my computer as “that Machine”. To me a machine needs to be oiled, has cogs and moving parts. OK a computer has a hard drive and cooling fans, but it’s not a machine.
She asked me lat week, if the house went on fire which would I rescue first, my computer or her? I made the mistake of thinking about the answer. I was in the dog house for days afterwards.
“Dog house“, I should be so lucky, if she looked after me half as well as she does her dog, I would be happy.
I’m concocting a plan, haven’t got all the details in place yet, but the scenario is convincing her that it would be to the dogs benefit if we had broadband - your assistance with the plan would be appreciated.
Today’s grump - no it’s not my wife - pavements (sidewalks).
Pavements are not there for pedestrians to walk safely on. How can they be safe, when they have been hijacked by cyclists? No.
The main reason for having pavements is to provide a money making machine for contractors (whose name predominately starts with Mc . . .).
A paving stone wobbles.
Along comes the contractor.
Lifts up the paving stone, throws a shovel full of sand under it, and puts back the paving stone.
Rain comes, washes away the sand.
A paving stone wobbles.
Along comes the contractor.
Lifts up the paving stone, throws a shovel full of sand under it, and puts back the paving stone.
Rain comes, washes away the sand. . . . .
And the contractor laughs all the way to the bank. With luck he might trip over one of his wobbling paving stones.
Sunday, 3 December 2006
Call Centres
Calmed down a bit. Where was I? Yes, using farting as a relief mechanishom for frustration. Unfortunately this only works when you are face to face with the person(s) causing the frustration.
I still haven’t found any relief for the most *##*$## frustrating of activities - calling call centres!!!!
In May I switched my telephone provider from NTL to BT. I’m now trying to set up internet connection, however when I type in my telephone number to providers web sites, I’m informed I have a cable line, so they cannot provide a connection.
I was informed; if I contacted BT they would change the “Tag” on the computer, to show it is a BT line.
Friday phoned up BT Customer Services (now that’s a misnomer if ever there was one!!). I should have known I was in for a rough time when the recorded message said all their operators were busy, and suggesting I should try again on Sunday!!!! Well being in a grumpy belligerent mood I thought I would persist. Went through the usual routine of selecting one menu number after another until I finally got to a ring tone (an achievement in itself).
Hang-on listening to the ring tone. Gave the phone to my wife for a while: went to the toilet, and took the dog for a walk. Watched Neighbours, read a book. The ring tone went on and on, except for the odd message that I really should give up and try again on Sunday. Finally got through to the call centre in India, no wonder it took so long, it’s a long way for the pigeon to fly. Spoke to a very nice man, most helpful, he admitted right away that he didn‘t have a clue how to solve the problem. Now at this stage they normally cut you off, but not he, he said he would ask for advice. Back he came in less than a minute, most apologetic said he could not transfer the call but he gave me a BT number to call.
Called the BT number. Got through to some woman wanting to sign me up to BT Broadband. 888###$$#*
Started again, phoned BT “Custard” Service, spent another hour listening to the ring tone. This time got through to a UK call centre. Now I don’t want to sound racist, but why do you get more sense of confidence when you get through to a UK call centre. The Lady again was most charming, didn’t know the answer but knew a man who did.
Phoned the second BT number. Spoke to Ken. Seemed to know what he was doing. Checked his computer, “can’t understand this, there’s no Tag, you shouldn’t have a problem“. Asked him to type my telephone number into an internet provider web page. Silence. “Hum yes, it appears to say you have a cable service”. More silence, interrupted by the sound of scratching of heads.
So that is how I spent Friday afternoon and most of the evening.
The result, I still can’t register for a broadband provider, and I’m **##$$*** well more grumpy. Spent the rest of the evening farting. Result wife and dog have left me.
I still haven’t found any relief for the most *##*$## frustrating of activities - calling call centres!!!!
In May I switched my telephone provider from NTL to BT. I’m now trying to set up internet connection, however when I type in my telephone number to providers web sites, I’m informed I have a cable line, so they cannot provide a connection.
I was informed; if I contacted BT they would change the “Tag” on the computer, to show it is a BT line.
Friday phoned up BT Customer Services (now that’s a misnomer if ever there was one!!). I should have known I was in for a rough time when the recorded message said all their operators were busy, and suggesting I should try again on Sunday!!!! Well being in a grumpy belligerent mood I thought I would persist. Went through the usual routine of selecting one menu number after another until I finally got to a ring tone (an achievement in itself).
Hang-on listening to the ring tone. Gave the phone to my wife for a while: went to the toilet, and took the dog for a walk. Watched Neighbours, read a book. The ring tone went on and on, except for the odd message that I really should give up and try again on Sunday. Finally got through to the call centre in India, no wonder it took so long, it’s a long way for the pigeon to fly. Spoke to a very nice man, most helpful, he admitted right away that he didn‘t have a clue how to solve the problem. Now at this stage they normally cut you off, but not he, he said he would ask for advice. Back he came in less than a minute, most apologetic said he could not transfer the call but he gave me a BT number to call.
Called the BT number. Got through to some woman wanting to sign me up to BT Broadband. 888###$$#*
Started again, phoned BT “Custard” Service, spent another hour listening to the ring tone. This time got through to a UK call centre. Now I don’t want to sound racist, but why do you get more sense of confidence when you get through to a UK call centre. The Lady again was most charming, didn’t know the answer but knew a man who did.
Phoned the second BT number. Spoke to Ken. Seemed to know what he was doing. Checked his computer, “can’t understand this, there’s no Tag, you shouldn’t have a problem“. Asked him to type my telephone number into an internet provider web page. Silence. “Hum yes, it appears to say you have a cable service”. More silence, interrupted by the sound of scratching of heads.
So that is how I spent Friday afternoon and most of the evening.
The result, I still can’t register for a broadband provider, and I’m **##$$*** well more grumpy. Spent the rest of the evening farting. Result wife and dog have left me.
Saturday, 2 December 2006
In the beginning
I use to wonder why old people were grumpy. Why didn’t they make the most of their remaining years and have fun, smile and just enjoy life?
.
Then I retired. I do not know when it happened, (probably while I was asleep) but I must have had a brain transplant, for suddenly I had a dramatic change of attitude. Grumpiness was not only perfectly normal but highly desirable.
I have a theory; everyone has a daily quota of nervous energy which must be used up. This is normally dissipated when working, but on retiring you have to find new channels. Recognising this, I now grump with gusto. However, it must be recognised it can be embarrassing for those accompanying grumpys‘. Formerly on leaving the house my wife used to wish me “have a good day”, now its “promise, please don’t quarrel with anyone”.
My current targets (though to have full pleasure from grumping you must be flexible) are:
Not so much badly behaved children, but their parents. For *#**### sake, not only can’t they control their brats, but they stand there with a look of pride on their face, as their children wreck havoc. You see them in super markets allowing their children to open biscuit packets take a couple, and then put the pack back on the shelf.
Spitting. When I was a child, if I spat, I would not only be told off by my parents, but in their absence strangers. In the past ten years, spitting has appeared to become acceptable. I was in an underground train when I saw this slouching man gob onto the wall of the train, absolutely vile behaviour. You would think with the increase number of TB cases, the government would run an anti-spiting campaign.
Sorry, I have to break off my list - I can feel my blood pressure rising. But before I do I must extol the benefits of farting.
Sometimes it’s unwise to verbally express your grumpiness. i.e. if the parent of the unruly child is a 6ft 6” tattooed owner of a Rockwiler dog. Then how do you dissipate your anger and frustration? The answer is simple. You express all your feelings in a fart.
.
Then I retired. I do not know when it happened, (probably while I was asleep) but I must have had a brain transplant, for suddenly I had a dramatic change of attitude. Grumpiness was not only perfectly normal but highly desirable.
I have a theory; everyone has a daily quota of nervous energy which must be used up. This is normally dissipated when working, but on retiring you have to find new channels. Recognising this, I now grump with gusto. However, it must be recognised it can be embarrassing for those accompanying grumpys‘. Formerly on leaving the house my wife used to wish me “have a good day”, now its “promise, please don’t quarrel with anyone”.
My current targets (though to have full pleasure from grumping you must be flexible) are:
Not so much badly behaved children, but their parents. For *#**### sake, not only can’t they control their brats, but they stand there with a look of pride on their face, as their children wreck havoc. You see them in super markets allowing their children to open biscuit packets take a couple, and then put the pack back on the shelf.
Spitting. When I was a child, if I spat, I would not only be told off by my parents, but in their absence strangers. In the past ten years, spitting has appeared to become acceptable. I was in an underground train when I saw this slouching man gob onto the wall of the train, absolutely vile behaviour. You would think with the increase number of TB cases, the government would run an anti-spiting campaign.
Sorry, I have to break off my list - I can feel my blood pressure rising. But before I do I must extol the benefits of farting.
Sometimes it’s unwise to verbally express your grumpiness. i.e. if the parent of the unruly child is a 6ft 6” tattooed owner of a Rockwiler dog. Then how do you dissipate your anger and frustration? The answer is simple. You express all your feelings in a fart.
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