Children's names - not a massive bone of contention it has to be said. Aside from calling your firstborn Adolf Judas or trying to work 'Glitter' in there somewhere, you can't really go wrong.
You would expect that this blog to be aimed at that cretinous element of society who see their kids' names as something of a status symbol, and insist on calling them exotic or frankly ridiculous names even though they live in Widnes. Try it - go to your local high street (if you can stand the smell) and shout 'Oi, Destiny'. I'd be surprised if less than a dozen toddlers turn round.
Anyway, my gripe name-wise is nobody's using old-fashioned names any more. What with all this R'n'B and Yoof Culture all the good names are being passed over. We're in serious danger of running out of Anitas and Denises if we're not careful. "That's hardly a bad thing" I here you splutter, but I think it is. When I was growing up, everybody knew a couple called Denise and Steve. It was like some kind of social law, and stood for all that was stable and true in my formative years. That's all gone out of the window now, as Justins and Anthonys take over.
Peters. Colins. Grahams (and to a lesser extent Graemes). They're all going. Lindas. Lauras. In grave danger. It's all bloody Jacobs and Thomas' now.
The biggest problem we're facing is the Government is always banging on about the environment these days. Apparently, being 'green' and watching your carbon footprint wins votes, so they're not arsed about the fact there are less than 16,000 Darrens left in the UK. I'm bringing this to your attention now before it's too late. When the Prime Minister is called Jake, don't come running to me...
Sunday 28 September 2008
Friday 26 September 2008
(Fog)light up my life
It was a bit foggy on the way to work today, so you know what that means. People who can usually be filed under 'normal' or 'right-thinking' suddenly become rebranded as 'cretins'. Every possible light is on, including foglights. Check previous vitriolic posts about that very subject, but prepare for coarse language.
The thing is, the hilly nature of my route to work means you start off in fog and rapidly move out of is as you descend. This doesn't seem to make any difference to the other drivers though, who adopt a 'better safe than sorry' policy of leaving their lights on despite the fact they're now being blinded by the sun.
What really gets me though is when I'm in a line of traffic, reasonably well spaced out (distance-wise, not mushroom-wise) and travelling at a decent speed, so I only bother putting my sidelights on rather than the full gun. There's drivers within a few metres to the front and the back so I'd be very disappointed if they couldn't see me and we had some kind of collision. However, there's always one jackass coming from the other direction, sporting the aformentioned Wembley-on-wheels light configuration, who flashes you as if to say "You've not got enough lights on. You'll end up killing someone, possibly of the middle class. Oh the humanity!". Or summat.
If I had the time, the next time this happened I'd U-turn, pursue the braindead wankjacket, accost them at the next junction, pin them up against a wall and politely ask them the following question:
"If I need to put more lights on, squire, how did you know I was there?"
The thing is, the hilly nature of my route to work means you start off in fog and rapidly move out of is as you descend. This doesn't seem to make any difference to the other drivers though, who adopt a 'better safe than sorry' policy of leaving their lights on despite the fact they're now being blinded by the sun.
What really gets me though is when I'm in a line of traffic, reasonably well spaced out (distance-wise, not mushroom-wise) and travelling at a decent speed, so I only bother putting my sidelights on rather than the full gun. There's drivers within a few metres to the front and the back so I'd be very disappointed if they couldn't see me and we had some kind of collision. However, there's always one jackass coming from the other direction, sporting the aformentioned Wembley-on-wheels light configuration, who flashes you as if to say "You've not got enough lights on. You'll end up killing someone, possibly of the middle class. Oh the humanity!". Or summat.
If I had the time, the next time this happened I'd U-turn, pursue the braindead wankjacket, accost them at the next junction, pin them up against a wall and politely ask them the following question:
"If I need to put more lights on, squire, how did you know I was there?"
Wednesday 24 September 2008
There's a problem, but I can't put my finger on it
Has anyone heard this story of a Labour MP who is suing some bloke who's dog allegedly bit his finger off when posting pamphlets? I say 'allegedly' because of the utterly bizarre nature of the story, as follows:
- Bloke gets home and finds a severed finger on his doormat
- Lobs it in the fridge and rings the Feds
- Nobody comes forward so after a few months he chucks it away
- 18 MONTHS later, this clown rocks up demanding his finger back and some compo
How the hell has he gone 18 months without complaining about this?! Did he look down at his hand one day, notice the missing digit and start hunting around the house, assuming he'd put it down somewhere without realising? I'm not a doctor, but I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that if you had your finger bitten off, you'd know about it pretty sharpish. The blood and missing finger would be a clue for a kick-off.
Having thought about it for a while, I've only managed to come up with 2 reasons why he delayed making contact:
1) He managed to chop his own finger off (or somebody did it on his behalf)- possibly as a drunken prank or ninja-style revenge attack - and it ended up being posted through this bloke's letterbox. Fearing the cops would laugh at him, he went home and cried. 18 months later he noticed the owner of the house had a dog, so hatched a plan to blame the pooch for the incident.
OR
2) He was unable to dial the cops until he worked out how to use his other fingers, which took him 18 months.
Over to you, reader...
- Bloke gets home and finds a severed finger on his doormat
- Lobs it in the fridge and rings the Feds
- Nobody comes forward so after a few months he chucks it away
- 18 MONTHS later, this clown rocks up demanding his finger back and some compo
How the hell has he gone 18 months without complaining about this?! Did he look down at his hand one day, notice the missing digit and start hunting around the house, assuming he'd put it down somewhere without realising? I'm not a doctor, but I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that if you had your finger bitten off, you'd know about it pretty sharpish. The blood and missing finger would be a clue for a kick-off.
Having thought about it for a while, I've only managed to come up with 2 reasons why he delayed making contact:
1) He managed to chop his own finger off (or somebody did it on his behalf)- possibly as a drunken prank or ninja-style revenge attack - and it ended up being posted through this bloke's letterbox. Fearing the cops would laugh at him, he went home and cried. 18 months later he noticed the owner of the house had a dog, so hatched a plan to blame the pooch for the incident.
OR
2) He was unable to dial the cops until he worked out how to use his other fingers, which took him 18 months.
Over to you, reader...
Wednesday 10 September 2008
What not to say at an airport
You know those moments when you say something, but even as the words are still leaving your mouth you realise the mistake you're making, but you carry on anyway? Be it mentioning how legless you got to a person in a wheelchair, or how you're more of a boob man to a hot young lady with aspirins-on-an-ironing-board, you can't help finishing the sentence and making a bad situation exponentially worse.
I did that at the airport the other day.
Long story short, my hand luggage was full of network equipment. We didn't have time to post it to Dublin so I filled my bag with a firewall, plugs and enough cables to sink a moderately-sized fishing vessel. The bag went through the scanner and was unsurprisingly put in a red box for further analysis.
I half expected this so played the waiting game, then two friendly ladies took me to one side and explained that they'd have to swab the bag and its contents to ensure I wasn't Robert Reid. "No problem" says I and they cracked on.
Given the amount of stuff to check it was taking a while, and it got to a stage where nothing was said for a while. Usually this isn't an issue, but when you're in this situation, it somehow feels like not saying something is worse than actually saying something. So I piped up. And I wish I hadn't, because I said:
"I'm only bringing this over as a favour to somebody"
Oh, well done, jackass. They'll love that. Why don't you go the whole hog and shout "It's a motherchuffing BOMB, sister"?
Nothing was said for a few seconds, then she casually mentioned it and I had to quickly (and expertly, it has to be said) backtrack and explain that we should have posted it but we missed the last post so I agreed to take it as a favour for a colleague. It's a good job I'm a staggeringly handsome man or they might have been kicking seven shades of shit out of me behind the wooden partition within seconds.
They didn't, the stuff passed the test and I was on my way in minutes, but God only knows how I got away with that one. Next time I'll swim across.
I did that at the airport the other day.
Long story short, my hand luggage was full of network equipment. We didn't have time to post it to Dublin so I filled my bag with a firewall, plugs and enough cables to sink a moderately-sized fishing vessel. The bag went through the scanner and was unsurprisingly put in a red box for further analysis.
I half expected this so played the waiting game, then two friendly ladies took me to one side and explained that they'd have to swab the bag and its contents to ensure I wasn't Robert Reid. "No problem" says I and they cracked on.
Given the amount of stuff to check it was taking a while, and it got to a stage where nothing was said for a while. Usually this isn't an issue, but when you're in this situation, it somehow feels like not saying something is worse than actually saying something. So I piped up. And I wish I hadn't, because I said:
"I'm only bringing this over as a favour to somebody"
Oh, well done, jackass. They'll love that. Why don't you go the whole hog and shout "It's a motherchuffing BOMB, sister"?
Nothing was said for a few seconds, then she casually mentioned it and I had to quickly (and expertly, it has to be said) backtrack and explain that we should have posted it but we missed the last post so I agreed to take it as a favour for a colleague. It's a good job I'm a staggeringly handsome man or they might have been kicking seven shades of shit out of me behind the wooden partition within seconds.
They didn't, the stuff passed the test and I was on my way in minutes, but God only knows how I got away with that one. Next time I'll swim across.
Tuesday 2 September 2008
Slag + Email = Sympathy
I made the mistake of listening to omnipresent dirge-fest Radio 1 the other day. To be fair, I'd missed Moyles and Whiley was off so they were basically playing decent tunes from the last 10 years or so, which almost made the identikit blithering idiot's witterings between the tracks almost bearable.
One feature I do like about this late morning show is "Changing Tracks". For those of you not in the know, this is where someone emails in a story about themselves, usually sad or inspiring and preceding a track which reminds them of this particular time or person. They're often tragic tales but the tunes tend to be nostalgic classics, which seems to heal the pain slightly.
Anyway, the track on this particular day was chosen by some bint. I refuse to be pleasant towards here because her story was absolutely pathetic. It went something like this:
- Went travelling for a year with her boyfriend. Had a "wonderful time" (her words)
- Got home and remembered some bloke she used to work with for whom she had feelings
- Texted him and they agreed to meet up
- Had a "wonderful evening" (note the repetition here) but pulled away when he tried to kiss her because she had a boyfriend
- Spent an extended length of time to-ing and fro-ing about the other dude
- Texts him and gets no response
- Gives up then gets a reply from his sister. He's only gone and had an accident and is laid up in hospital. They agree for her to visit
- He carks is overnight before she's due to see him
- She tells her fella and he does one. She's dead sad and needs this tune to cheer her up
So basically, this bird had such a wonderful time travelling that the minute her feet touched the tarmac at Heathrow she was on the blower organising to meet some other bloke. At no point did she express sorrow about upsetting her boyfriend; the entire thing was geared towards how terrible it was for her. Just a few points:
- She dumped her fella, not the other way round
- She set up the date with the other bloke behind boyf's back
- The other bloke actually died, which is probably worse than not dying (like she did)
- She started all of this
I have absolutely no sympathy at all for her. I'm not saying she deserved it, but those who believe in karma must be nodding knowingly as they read this. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who joshed it (no idea if he knew she was already attached) and her boyfriend who was oblivious to this having spent 12 months travelling with the adulterous tart.
What made matters worse was the presenter felt sorry for her. Jesus wept. I'm seriously tempted to send in a tale about how I've murdered loads of people but my machete blade broke off in my last victim so I can't kill anyone any more. Woe is indeed me.
And the song was shit. What a gyp.
One feature I do like about this late morning show is "Changing Tracks". For those of you not in the know, this is where someone emails in a story about themselves, usually sad or inspiring and preceding a track which reminds them of this particular time or person. They're often tragic tales but the tunes tend to be nostalgic classics, which seems to heal the pain slightly.
Anyway, the track on this particular day was chosen by some bint. I refuse to be pleasant towards here because her story was absolutely pathetic. It went something like this:
- Went travelling for a year with her boyfriend. Had a "wonderful time" (her words)
- Got home and remembered some bloke she used to work with for whom she had feelings
- Texted him and they agreed to meet up
- Had a "wonderful evening" (note the repetition here) but pulled away when he tried to kiss her because she had a boyfriend
- Spent an extended length of time to-ing and fro-ing about the other dude
- Texts him and gets no response
- Gives up then gets a reply from his sister. He's only gone and had an accident and is laid up in hospital. They agree for her to visit
- He carks is overnight before she's due to see him
- She tells her fella and he does one. She's dead sad and needs this tune to cheer her up
So basically, this bird had such a wonderful time travelling that the minute her feet touched the tarmac at Heathrow she was on the blower organising to meet some other bloke. At no point did she express sorrow about upsetting her boyfriend; the entire thing was geared towards how terrible it was for her. Just a few points:
- She dumped her fella, not the other way round
- She set up the date with the other bloke behind boyf's back
- The other bloke actually died, which is probably worse than not dying (like she did)
- She started all of this
I have absolutely no sympathy at all for her. I'm not saying she deserved it, but those who believe in karma must be nodding knowingly as they read this. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who joshed it (no idea if he knew she was already attached) and her boyfriend who was oblivious to this having spent 12 months travelling with the adulterous tart.
What made matters worse was the presenter felt sorry for her. Jesus wept. I'm seriously tempted to send in a tale about how I've murdered loads of people but my machete blade broke off in my last victim so I can't kill anyone any more. Woe is indeed me.
And the song was shit. What a gyp.
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