I recently visited a new shopping mall complex just up the road from BBC Television Centre (don't bother, dump) and as part of the process had to sit through an arse-numbingly dull health and safety induction.
To be fair, it is a necessary step in this process, but it wasn't really aimed at people like me who were nipping onto the site for half an hour to check on progress. It was more aimed at construction types, as references to rat urine-borne diseases and vibration white finger were discussed. All very important and serious for the hard hat brigade I'm sure.
However, to say this induction erred on the side of overkill would be something of an understatement.
For example, you're not allowed to rape people. Straight up (pardon the pun), if you are caught sexually abusing someone then you're booted off the site (no mention of prosecution was made, leading me to believe that it's worth the risk to perverts if they know the feds don't get involved).
You're not allowed to have a cack in the street. You read that right; your are forbidden from "urinating or defecating anywhere but in the facilities provided". I'm not overly sure of the types of people hired to work on these projects but you have to wonder what's gone before to make this warning necessary.
Another point that drew a titter from around the room was "don't smoke near flammable liquids of gases". Thanks for that, squire. I was just about to check on my petrol collection by lighting a match. Idiots.
All in all, 45 minutes of my valuable life were wasted, as 30 minutes after that I was off the site and going home. However, when the urge struck me in White City tube station, I made my way to the toilets rather than dropping my trollies in the middle of the platform. Maybe it wasn't such a waste of time after all...
Friday, 22 August 2008
Friday, 15 August 2008
Olympic breaks? Give it a rest...
It makes a nice change to moan about something topical. Usually I wax aggressively about stuff I've seen on my way home or on the Internet with only the slimmest of connections to my awesome readership, but today I can talk about something that's actually happening: those Olympics everyone keeps banging on about.
I've got nothing against the Olympics; it's a great sporting event. The time difference means I've not seen a great deal of what's happened but I'm picking up the main bits on the radio and to be honest, the good stuff (running and throwing and that) hasn't started yet so I'm not really that arsed.
However...
Why are the swimmers being rested from races? The GB women's team, who were a good bet for the gold, failed to qualify from the heats cos they'd rested two of their better swimmers who'd already swam that week. That's right - earlier that week a 19-year-old career swimmer who trains every day had to have a bit of a rest from racing. Presumably because she was a bit tired.
I wish I could do that; I've had a difficult day at work so I get rested by my boss until a more important job comes along. In a word, absolutely pathetic. If you ask me (which you won't), if you need to have a rest having swam 2 days ago you're either not training properly or you're shite at it. Good day.
I've got nothing against the Olympics; it's a great sporting event. The time difference means I've not seen a great deal of what's happened but I'm picking up the main bits on the radio and to be honest, the good stuff (running and throwing and that) hasn't started yet so I'm not really that arsed.
However...
Why are the swimmers being rested from races? The GB women's team, who were a good bet for the gold, failed to qualify from the heats cos they'd rested two of their better swimmers who'd already swam that week. That's right - earlier that week a 19-year-old career swimmer who trains every day had to have a bit of a rest from racing. Presumably because she was a bit tired.
I wish I could do that; I've had a difficult day at work so I get rested by my boss until a more important job comes along. In a word, absolutely pathetic. If you ask me (which you won't), if you need to have a rest having swam 2 days ago you're either not training properly or you're shite at it. Good day.
Friday, 8 August 2008
Good video + reasonable product = horse
Has anybody seen the new DFS advert? It's basically set to "Rock star" by Nickelback but pinches their video idea by having several different people miming the words to the song. The only subtle difference is in the original there are Playboy bunnies and famous rock types whereas the advert contains middle-aged blokes and tubby women from Keighley.
I suppose some people (namely the people who put money into this bilge) could argue that the fact I'm talking about it proves that it works as a marketing ploy, but I can genuinely say that I was so transfixed by the utter cackness that whatever product they were hawking completely passed me by. I dunno, settees or summat.
There's a fine line to be drawn between memorable adverts and shite in my opinion. Take the gorilla playing the drums for example. Utter tripe (except for the song - a tune regardless of Collins' involvement) but because it was kept simple I know it was for Dairy Milk. You see - simple but effective. Sadly I've got no interest in chocolate but it's a start. Their next effort was an utterly bizarre scenario of airport vehicles having some kind of a race down a runway. The whole thing was saved by setting it to the awesome "Don't stop me now" by effeminate vest-botherers Queen, but even then you're so frightened by the whole experience that you've probably turned off before the slogan is shown.
In conclusion, the only place Nickelback should be seen and heard is the hit parade, and even then you should exercise caution. I'm off to buy a sofa.
I suppose some people (namely the people who put money into this bilge) could argue that the fact I'm talking about it proves that it works as a marketing ploy, but I can genuinely say that I was so transfixed by the utter cackness that whatever product they were hawking completely passed me by. I dunno, settees or summat.
There's a fine line to be drawn between memorable adverts and shite in my opinion. Take the gorilla playing the drums for example. Utter tripe (except for the song - a tune regardless of Collins' involvement) but because it was kept simple I know it was for Dairy Milk. You see - simple but effective. Sadly I've got no interest in chocolate but it's a start. Their next effort was an utterly bizarre scenario of airport vehicles having some kind of a race down a runway. The whole thing was saved by setting it to the awesome "Don't stop me now" by effeminate vest-botherers Queen, but even then you're so frightened by the whole experience that you've probably turned off before the slogan is shown.
In conclusion, the only place Nickelback should be seen and heard is the hit parade, and even then you should exercise caution. I'm off to buy a sofa.
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Good news: Suffering will end...in 1996
In a not completely surprising story, I was a bit hungover this morning. 2 bottles of wine (each) and a few shots of Sambuca while watching James Bond and playing rummy had left me in a delicate state this morning. That said, I managed to drag myself out of bed, take the piss out of the Mrs for feeling worse and head home.
You can imagine I wasn't entirely enamoured, therefore, when a little old couple knocked on the door. Before I'd opened the door (the window was open and the telly on so I couldn't cower) I spotted the small colourful pamphlet in her hand and knew what was about to happen. They were Jehovah's Witnesses.
To be fair the conversation was done in 30 seconds. They were very friendly and pleasant, passed on the pamphlet and told me to get in touch if I had any questions. I closed the door, fed the paper to the cats and went back to what I was doing.
A bit later I thought I'd have a read of this tripe and was amused to read about how the Bible tells us that suffering will soon be over. Terrorism drugs and STD's are rife in today's society but The Good Book has told us we'll all be alright in a bit. All we need to do is hang on.
All very feasible (if you're a brainwashed prick with tunnel vision) but there was one slight problem. It was exactly the same as the pamphlet I was given by another old couple at my mum and dad's house 12 years ago. As far as predictions for imminent endings go, this was pushing it a bit.
I got the same spiel last time; did I want world peace? Did I think it was possible? Blah fecking blah. It doesn't matter how much you profess the Bible as the universal answer to everything - the simple fact is it's a load of old bollocks. There are no dates or times specified in these amazing predictions, so why should anybody buy the concept of world peace being just around the corner. I was never going to be taken in by something as pathetically myopic and self-serving as this, but for those of a weaker mental structure, you're going to have to work a bit harder to convince them if you ask me.
Nobody I know has any real religious views so I doubt I'm going to upset anyone, but if these God Squadders want us to take them seriously, it might be an idea to update their promotional material every once in, oh I don't know, a decade. Amen.
You can imagine I wasn't entirely enamoured, therefore, when a little old couple knocked on the door. Before I'd opened the door (the window was open and the telly on so I couldn't cower) I spotted the small colourful pamphlet in her hand and knew what was about to happen. They were Jehovah's Witnesses.
To be fair the conversation was done in 30 seconds. They were very friendly and pleasant, passed on the pamphlet and told me to get in touch if I had any questions. I closed the door, fed the paper to the cats and went back to what I was doing.
A bit later I thought I'd have a read of this tripe and was amused to read about how the Bible tells us that suffering will soon be over. Terrorism drugs and STD's are rife in today's society but The Good Book has told us we'll all be alright in a bit. All we need to do is hang on.
All very feasible (if you're a brainwashed prick with tunnel vision) but there was one slight problem. It was exactly the same as the pamphlet I was given by another old couple at my mum and dad's house 12 years ago. As far as predictions for imminent endings go, this was pushing it a bit.
I got the same spiel last time; did I want world peace? Did I think it was possible? Blah fecking blah. It doesn't matter how much you profess the Bible as the universal answer to everything - the simple fact is it's a load of old bollocks. There are no dates or times specified in these amazing predictions, so why should anybody buy the concept of world peace being just around the corner. I was never going to be taken in by something as pathetically myopic and self-serving as this, but for those of a weaker mental structure, you're going to have to work a bit harder to convince them if you ask me.
Nobody I know has any real religious views so I doubt I'm going to upset anyone, but if these God Squadders want us to take them seriously, it might be an idea to update their promotional material every once in, oh I don't know, a decade. Amen.
Friday, 1 August 2008
Camp as a....well....campsite
"Holiday, celebrate" wittered Mockney sex-fiend Madonna 20 years ago. And she was right. Going on your holidays is a time to celebrate. It's that time again, and I strong-armed the Mrs into staying in this country again, so we went camping in North Yorkshire.
In a phrase, it was quality. I could've easily killed half a dozen people in cold blood with a rubber mallet but eventually everyone left me alone and we were cool. The tent flew up, the fold-up grill was spectacular and I went to the pub every single day I was there. That's the holiday of kings.
Interestingly, we had a celebrity aside while we were there. Returning to the site from another pub trip we noticed a Rolls Royce hooked up to a tiny caravan. As a labelled the driver 'eccentric' it dawned on us that Top Gear's finest James May was in our vicinity. We had a good old gawp as we went past but that was pretty much the end of it, save for most of the other campers trying to be the most informed about his attendance.
A few minutes later we went to the loo and en route bumped into Oz Clarke. Then the penny dropped; they were filming another series of their wine adventure. This was confirmed when I spoke to the man himself, who was massively anti-Scot and and anti-Welsh in the 60 or so seconds we chatted, but we parted on good terms and left them to it.
They filmed for a little over 24 hours then disappeared, although as the Mrs said "the shine has been taken off slightly". It is clear that filming is a drawn-out process, but this was just silly. The final cut may be different, but I reckon they will use about 10 minutes of the footage they took in their programme. They kept restaging scenes and at one stage I'm sure they faked a puncture. Time will tell but it's clear that all that on-screen chemistry is manufactured for the good of the show.
Anyway, in summary, a good time was had by both. We got a lot of reading done, went wandering and the Mrs even turned to Carlsberg when her wine ran out. If that's not slumming it, I don't know what is...
In a phrase, it was quality. I could've easily killed half a dozen people in cold blood with a rubber mallet but eventually everyone left me alone and we were cool. The tent flew up, the fold-up grill was spectacular and I went to the pub every single day I was there. That's the holiday of kings.
Interestingly, we had a celebrity aside while we were there. Returning to the site from another pub trip we noticed a Rolls Royce hooked up to a tiny caravan. As a labelled the driver 'eccentric' it dawned on us that Top Gear's finest James May was in our vicinity. We had a good old gawp as we went past but that was pretty much the end of it, save for most of the other campers trying to be the most informed about his attendance.
A few minutes later we went to the loo and en route bumped into Oz Clarke. Then the penny dropped; they were filming another series of their wine adventure. This was confirmed when I spoke to the man himself, who was massively anti-Scot and and anti-Welsh in the 60 or so seconds we chatted, but we parted on good terms and left them to it.
They filmed for a little over 24 hours then disappeared, although as the Mrs said "the shine has been taken off slightly". It is clear that filming is a drawn-out process, but this was just silly. The final cut may be different, but I reckon they will use about 10 minutes of the footage they took in their programme. They kept restaging scenes and at one stage I'm sure they faked a puncture. Time will tell but it's clear that all that on-screen chemistry is manufactured for the good of the show.
Anyway, in summary, a good time was had by both. We got a lot of reading done, went wandering and the Mrs even turned to Carlsberg when her wine ran out. If that's not slumming it, I don't know what is...
Sunday, 13 July 2008
It's not hard when you're mint
If there's one thing I know about women (and to be honest, it's likely to be the only thing) it's that they all have hang-ups about their physical appearance. Not exactly a mind-blowing breakthrough I know, but just lately there's been a glut of programmes and magazine articles dedicated to the fact that all womenfolk dislike at least one part of their body. I wasn't watching them, by the way; a woman I know told me about them...
Anyway, here's the thing - the women they get to present and exemplify these issues are some of the most desirable women in Britain. Which sort of takes the shine off the point.
There was an article in a magazine which basically got loads of celebrity women to do a photoshoot without any make up on, to prove that they're just as imperfect and fallible as you or I, despite living in a mansion in Islington.
The women they chose were all well-known, but see if you can see a theme here. They chose Davina Macall, Myleene Klass and Fearne Cotton. All of them (to a greater or lesser extent) are universally fancied in this country, so it sort of spoils the illusion. I have no doubts that they have hang-ups as well, but when you're a great-looking bird it sort of smacks of hypocrisy to your ordinary Joanne Normalface or Lizzy Bigbum.
Then there was a documentary highlighting the frankly ridiculous level of touching up done to magazine photography to the extent that 8 and 9 year old lasses were being given the impression that only perfection was acceptable. It was genuinely tragic that junior school children were bemoaning the fact that their teeth were crooked or they simply weren't pretty.
The thing is, though, they got Alesha Dixon to present it. Now don't get me wrong, she wwas an excellent host and her determination to get a magazine to shoot her without any touch ups showed just how widespread the phenomenon is, but let's face it - she's one of the most beautiful women in Britain. After she'd had her hair and make up done she looked stunning in the pictures, and although critics pointed out the number of touch ups they would have done to make the picture cover-ready, to the untrained eye she still looked like a serious piece of ass.
In conclusion, it's about time people started taking a stand against the stupid ideals portrayed in the media that make all but the most rhino-skinned females feel ugly, but try using ordinary, less-than-perfect celebs to get the point across.
I'm sure Tricia Goddard is affordable...
Anyway, here's the thing - the women they get to present and exemplify these issues are some of the most desirable women in Britain. Which sort of takes the shine off the point.
There was an article in a magazine which basically got loads of celebrity women to do a photoshoot without any make up on, to prove that they're just as imperfect and fallible as you or I, despite living in a mansion in Islington.
The women they chose were all well-known, but see if you can see a theme here. They chose Davina Macall, Myleene Klass and Fearne Cotton. All of them (to a greater or lesser extent) are universally fancied in this country, so it sort of spoils the illusion. I have no doubts that they have hang-ups as well, but when you're a great-looking bird it sort of smacks of hypocrisy to your ordinary Joanne Normalface or Lizzy Bigbum.
Then there was a documentary highlighting the frankly ridiculous level of touching up done to magazine photography to the extent that 8 and 9 year old lasses were being given the impression that only perfection was acceptable. It was genuinely tragic that junior school children were bemoaning the fact that their teeth were crooked or they simply weren't pretty.
The thing is, though, they got Alesha Dixon to present it. Now don't get me wrong, she wwas an excellent host and her determination to get a magazine to shoot her without any touch ups showed just how widespread the phenomenon is, but let's face it - she's one of the most beautiful women in Britain. After she'd had her hair and make up done she looked stunning in the pictures, and although critics pointed out the number of touch ups they would have done to make the picture cover-ready, to the untrained eye she still looked like a serious piece of ass.
In conclusion, it's about time people started taking a stand against the stupid ideals portrayed in the media that make all but the most rhino-skinned females feel ugly, but try using ordinary, less-than-perfect celebs to get the point across.
I'm sure Tricia Goddard is affordable...
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Is this as childish as I think it is?
We've got this bloke at work who, not to put too fine a point on it, takes the piss. He's out of the door on the dot of 5 no matter what he's working on and he's always got something to say about everything discussed in the office.
I can just about live with this, but he's got a habit which proper rubs me up the wrong way. He goes to the toilet, every day, bang on 1 o'clock when his lunch hour is over. The company is effectively paying him to have a cack, and I think it's a disgrace.
It's been something of an in-joke between a couple of us in the department, labelling this clockwork occurrence as 'stool time', but in all seriousness, it just goes to show that he doesn't give a monkey's about the company and is out to get all he can from it.
So we decided to get our own back.
At quarter to one the other day, my colleague (under my duress it has to be stated, for fairness' sake) nipped into the bogs and locked the doors from the outside, giving the illusion there was no room at the inn. The doors were locked, the trap (no pun intended) was set and we sat back to enjoy the magic.
He did not disappoint.
Seconds after he'd gone for his daily and unnaturally well-timed ablutions he was back, asking us if we knew what the problem was in the toilets. Apparently both cubicles were occupied, which is quite a rare event according to him. Luckily for me I'm hidden behind from this guy so my childish giggling went unnoticed, but then my colleague (in full view) corpsed and for a second I thought the game was up. Fortunately it wasn't, and I lived to tell the tale.
The thing is, it proved beyond any doubt that he is taking the piss. If he was that desperate he would've gone to the bog upstairs. Serves him right, says I, and I hear on the grapevine that further 'attacks' are scheduled to fully ram the point home.
I'm 30 years old, by the way.
I can just about live with this, but he's got a habit which proper rubs me up the wrong way. He goes to the toilet, every day, bang on 1 o'clock when his lunch hour is over. The company is effectively paying him to have a cack, and I think it's a disgrace.
It's been something of an in-joke between a couple of us in the department, labelling this clockwork occurrence as 'stool time', but in all seriousness, it just goes to show that he doesn't give a monkey's about the company and is out to get all he can from it.
So we decided to get our own back.
At quarter to one the other day, my colleague (under my duress it has to be stated, for fairness' sake) nipped into the bogs and locked the doors from the outside, giving the illusion there was no room at the inn. The doors were locked, the trap (no pun intended) was set and we sat back to enjoy the magic.
He did not disappoint.
Seconds after he'd gone for his daily and unnaturally well-timed ablutions he was back, asking us if we knew what the problem was in the toilets. Apparently both cubicles were occupied, which is quite a rare event according to him. Luckily for me I'm hidden behind from this guy so my childish giggling went unnoticed, but then my colleague (in full view) corpsed and for a second I thought the game was up. Fortunately it wasn't, and I lived to tell the tale.
The thing is, it proved beyond any doubt that he is taking the piss. If he was that desperate he would've gone to the bog upstairs. Serves him right, says I, and I hear on the grapevine that further 'attacks' are scheduled to fully ram the point home.
I'm 30 years old, by the way.
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Not my best day
Today marks the 1 week anniversary of one of the cackest days of recent times. To say it was my 9/11 would border on sensationalism, but sometimes you have to bite the bullet and say "Yes, today was as bad for me as for the 5 thousand or so victims of the Bush administration's attempts to put a pipeline into Afghanistan. Or summat."
It started off with something that's never happened to me before, but the increasing economic downturn leaves me open to further attacks. Some (and I choose my words carefully at this point) complete and utter fuckbag nicked all of the petrol out of the company car I was borrowing for the day. Cheers, you thieving shitehawk - you could have left me enough to get to the station. Twat.
The recovery gent who attended (for ninety quid, mind) told me it was happening all the time, and that Halifax is the epicentre of this particular phenomenon. Not high on the list of life's big surprises, I thought.
Anyway, £5 of fuel later and I'm on my way to Manchester, on a thankfully uneventful trip. Having said that, some uber-gimp in a Porsche Cayenne nearly rear-ended me and celebrated skidding round the queuing traffic by giving me a right mouthful. I still fail to see the correlation between his myopia and it being my fault. Luckily his wife began to kick off with him so he literally had to pull to the side of the road while she gave him a bollocking. Serves him right.
A few minutes later and I'm parked up and on my way, walking through the streets. I know what you're thinking - "But nobody's sneezed on you yet". Patience is a virtue, my friend, as no sooner had I stepped out of the car park than some prick sneezed at me. Picture the scene: we're walking past each other in opposite directions with him engrossed in a phone call when he stops dead and holds his hands out. Assuming he was about to embrace me as a long-lost relative, I took a side step, only for him to open it up nasal-style. Had I continued my original path I would have been coated Venkman-style, but my cat-like nimbility avoided a case of emphysema. Calling him a 'dirty bastard' didn't seem to make much difference, but he was on his mobile and iPod at the same time, so it's only right to cut him some slack.
After an uneventful couple of hours doing some actual work I headed home and was nearly taken off the road by some students in a Punto not paying attention to basic road signs. By now I was used to it, and laughed at their pitiful attempts to frighten me. Maybe they had a gun. Maybe they were high. Maybe they were saying 'braap'. We will never know.
So there it is; a complete donkey's arse of a day. Given that the best suggestion the loaner of the car could offer was 'get a taxi to the nearest petrol station and hire a can' (cheers for that, pillock) I can count myself lucky I didn't get killed or raped or worse. It makes you think, though; one minute, you're cruising through life in your own little world and the next, somebody punches you in the face for sneezing near them. Scary stuff.
It started off with something that's never happened to me before, but the increasing economic downturn leaves me open to further attacks. Some (and I choose my words carefully at this point) complete and utter fuckbag nicked all of the petrol out of the company car I was borrowing for the day. Cheers, you thieving shitehawk - you could have left me enough to get to the station. Twat.
The recovery gent who attended (for ninety quid, mind) told me it was happening all the time, and that Halifax is the epicentre of this particular phenomenon. Not high on the list of life's big surprises, I thought.
Anyway, £5 of fuel later and I'm on my way to Manchester, on a thankfully uneventful trip. Having said that, some uber-gimp in a Porsche Cayenne nearly rear-ended me and celebrated skidding round the queuing traffic by giving me a right mouthful. I still fail to see the correlation between his myopia and it being my fault. Luckily his wife began to kick off with him so he literally had to pull to the side of the road while she gave him a bollocking. Serves him right.
A few minutes later and I'm parked up and on my way, walking through the streets. I know what you're thinking - "But nobody's sneezed on you yet". Patience is a virtue, my friend, as no sooner had I stepped out of the car park than some prick sneezed at me. Picture the scene: we're walking past each other in opposite directions with him engrossed in a phone call when he stops dead and holds his hands out. Assuming he was about to embrace me as a long-lost relative, I took a side step, only for him to open it up nasal-style. Had I continued my original path I would have been coated Venkman-style, but my cat-like nimbility avoided a case of emphysema. Calling him a 'dirty bastard' didn't seem to make much difference, but he was on his mobile and iPod at the same time, so it's only right to cut him some slack.
After an uneventful couple of hours doing some actual work I headed home and was nearly taken off the road by some students in a Punto not paying attention to basic road signs. By now I was used to it, and laughed at their pitiful attempts to frighten me. Maybe they had a gun. Maybe they were high. Maybe they were saying 'braap'. We will never know.
So there it is; a complete donkey's arse of a day. Given that the best suggestion the loaner of the car could offer was 'get a taxi to the nearest petrol station and hire a can' (cheers for that, pillock) I can count myself lucky I didn't get killed or raped or worse. It makes you think, though; one minute, you're cruising through life in your own little world and the next, somebody punches you in the face for sneezing near them. Scary stuff.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
Class Vacuum
And I'm not talking about a Dyson. I'm talking about Tescos. Not to put too fine a point on it, it does my fucking head in.
I usually go in after hours but I finished at lunch yesterday so I 'nipped' in for a few things. I've put quotes around 'nipped' there cos you can't do anything like nip in there. It's a tortuous, drawn-out affair. Here are a few scientific facts about good old Tescos (or at least my local branch)
- It's a hangout for the socially alternative in the area. Have a quick look in the cafe; it's full of life forms yet to be ratified by science. They sit there in their ill-fitting suit jackets (why do they all have suit jackets?) supping tea for 5 hours to keep out of the cold. Get up, get out and get a job. Losers.
- 1 in 3 customers have a lazy eye. It's absolutely astonishing, but exactly 1 in every 3 patrons has some kind of eye condition, ranging from a tic to having one missing. I've no idea what goes on in the local area that could cause this, but the extent of eye-based trauma in beyond belief.
- The trolley 'boy' is a frustrated oil tanker captain. And a jobsworth twat. This prepubescent gimp in half-mast trousers gathers 86 trollies into a line then fails spectacularly to get them back to the pick-up point without veering wildly off course and nearly taking out the pensioners in the taxi queue. Try taking fewer at a time, you jackass. And a smile wouldn't kill you.
- The car cleaners are idiots. There are a bunch of twentysomething lads who clean your cars for a reasonable fee at your request, but they only have two sayings:
1) "You like car wash, sir?"
2) Scream at each other across the car park in aggressive, enthusiastic tones
Calm down fellas, please. You're giving me a headache.
- The till staff come to work on the Sunshine Bus. They're absolutely useless, the lot of them. The last time I looked Tescos didn't need 10 A levels and a Masters to operate their tills, but you'd think they were trying to split the atom the way they carry on sometimes. Just scan the item until you hear the beep, then pass it to me, OK? And blowing your nose enthusiastically between customers is a no-no too.
- It's home to the world's slowest walkers. If Norris McWhirter was still with us, I'm sure his stopwatch would be seeing all kinds of records broken, when the people leaving the store (usually pensioners) travel so slowly that they actually begin to go back in time. For someone like me with a purpose and place in society it is unbelievably frustrating. Stick a slow lane in for them or something.
I'll call time on the Tescos-based rant-fest there I think, but spare a thought for me the next time I have to tolerate this hovel of idiocy and slack personal hygiene.
I usually go in after hours but I finished at lunch yesterday so I 'nipped' in for a few things. I've put quotes around 'nipped' there cos you can't do anything like nip in there. It's a tortuous, drawn-out affair. Here are a few scientific facts about good old Tescos (or at least my local branch)
- It's a hangout for the socially alternative in the area. Have a quick look in the cafe; it's full of life forms yet to be ratified by science. They sit there in their ill-fitting suit jackets (why do they all have suit jackets?) supping tea for 5 hours to keep out of the cold. Get up, get out and get a job. Losers.
- 1 in 3 customers have a lazy eye. It's absolutely astonishing, but exactly 1 in every 3 patrons has some kind of eye condition, ranging from a tic to having one missing. I've no idea what goes on in the local area that could cause this, but the extent of eye-based trauma in beyond belief.
- The trolley 'boy' is a frustrated oil tanker captain. And a jobsworth twat. This prepubescent gimp in half-mast trousers gathers 86 trollies into a line then fails spectacularly to get them back to the pick-up point without veering wildly off course and nearly taking out the pensioners in the taxi queue. Try taking fewer at a time, you jackass. And a smile wouldn't kill you.
- The car cleaners are idiots. There are a bunch of twentysomething lads who clean your cars for a reasonable fee at your request, but they only have two sayings:
1) "You like car wash, sir?"
2) Scream at each other across the car park in aggressive, enthusiastic tones
Calm down fellas, please. You're giving me a headache.
- The till staff come to work on the Sunshine Bus. They're absolutely useless, the lot of them. The last time I looked Tescos didn't need 10 A levels and a Masters to operate their tills, but you'd think they were trying to split the atom the way they carry on sometimes. Just scan the item until you hear the beep, then pass it to me, OK? And blowing your nose enthusiastically between customers is a no-no too.
- It's home to the world's slowest walkers. If Norris McWhirter was still with us, I'm sure his stopwatch would be seeing all kinds of records broken, when the people leaving the store (usually pensioners) travel so slowly that they actually begin to go back in time. For someone like me with a purpose and place in society it is unbelievably frustrating. Stick a slow lane in for them or something.
I'll call time on the Tescos-based rant-fest there I think, but spare a thought for me the next time I have to tolerate this hovel of idiocy and slack personal hygiene.
Friday, 13 June 2008
Presumably they'll Shell out...
Have I missed something? When did driving a truck become an executive position?
Now before we start, let me make it clear that I've got nothing against lorry drivers per say. They do a good job and are vital to the movement of goods around this great land of ours. However, it's not exactly rocket science is it? Other than the HGV licence you don't need any special qualifications to my mind.
Therefore, why the hell are Shell lorry drivers demanding (that's demanding) £39k a year just to drive petrol around the country? What a bunch of greedy bastards. That's a shitload more than I get paid and I know for a fact that I work harder than this lot put together on any given day. Fair enough, their hours are unsociable, but that's their choice. They can't say "Yeah, I'll work late doing a boring, repetitive job. Forty grand should cover it". Cheeky gets.
Of course, this being England, they've gone on strike. And this being England, and despite Shell making allowances for it and telling the country there'll be enough fuel to go round, that cretinous, fuckwitted element of society was out in force today, clogging up the petrol pumps (none of them Shell stations, mind) so they can get their greedy mitts on something that's far from going out of fashion. Wankers. I hate the lot of them.
It doesn't help that Shell don't employ the drivers. They get a third party company to provide the manpower, so they can happily sit back and let the argument rumble, which isn't helping anybody.
Maybe, just maybe in the future, companies and their employees will sit around the table and thrash out these problems in one go, rather than employees demanding ridiculous figures for brainless work and companies treating their workforce like shite.
That said, the vast majority of this nation's public are thick as shit, so it makes no difference what you do. Who knows what would happen if the Government said jumping off bridges onto big metal spikes was in danger of running out...
Now before we start, let me make it clear that I've got nothing against lorry drivers per say. They do a good job and are vital to the movement of goods around this great land of ours. However, it's not exactly rocket science is it? Other than the HGV licence you don't need any special qualifications to my mind.
Therefore, why the hell are Shell lorry drivers demanding (that's demanding) £39k a year just to drive petrol around the country? What a bunch of greedy bastards. That's a shitload more than I get paid and I know for a fact that I work harder than this lot put together on any given day. Fair enough, their hours are unsociable, but that's their choice. They can't say "Yeah, I'll work late doing a boring, repetitive job. Forty grand should cover it". Cheeky gets.
Of course, this being England, they've gone on strike. And this being England, and despite Shell making allowances for it and telling the country there'll be enough fuel to go round, that cretinous, fuckwitted element of society was out in force today, clogging up the petrol pumps (none of them Shell stations, mind) so they can get their greedy mitts on something that's far from going out of fashion. Wankers. I hate the lot of them.
It doesn't help that Shell don't employ the drivers. They get a third party company to provide the manpower, so they can happily sit back and let the argument rumble, which isn't helping anybody.
Maybe, just maybe in the future, companies and their employees will sit around the table and thrash out these problems in one go, rather than employees demanding ridiculous figures for brainless work and companies treating their workforce like shite.
That said, the vast majority of this nation's public are thick as shit, so it makes no difference what you do. Who knows what would happen if the Government said jumping off bridges onto big metal spikes was in danger of running out...
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