Revised Highway Code Rule #43: Speed Bumps
When driving your vehicle along a single carriageway that has speed bumps in place, you may drive down the middle of the road (indicated by a broken white line for your guidance) in order to avoid having to reduce your speed for the aforementioned obstacles. You have full priority; any oncoming vehicles are fully obliged to deviate their course, moving over to the kerb, or indeed come to a complete stop if necessary, in order to not prevent you from your right of way. If it appears the oncoming vehicle has not noticed you and your intended course, you should hold your main beam and/or horn in order to alert the unobservant driver to your presence.
Note: Under no circumstances give up your right of way. Do not move over to the left of the guidance line.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Monday, 13 December 2010
Just say No
I know, I know, it has been quite a while since I last blogged. I'm sorry, but I've been busy. Ok, truthfully now, I haven't blogged because as many of you know, I knock up these illiterate ramblings during my working hours whilst my boss is picking the kids up from school, placing her full trust and confidence into her team that we are all responsible enough to carry on with our daily duties uninterrupted by her absence. Obviously, this trust is somewhat misplaced, and I have been what you could call "busted". I don't call it busted, as I haven't actually been caught out yet on account of my self believed incredible slyness, however I am now forced in a routine of having to document every task I've done complete with start / end times and detail of task. I guess I'll have to start writing these in my own free time like everyone else, just until she gives up trying to catch me out, or I'm sacked, which ever. Said boss however, has phoned in sick today (bless) so it's back to business as usual for me (hoorah!).
Well, while the cat's away, and all that…
Annoyingly, now that I have the opportunity to blog away uninterrupted without expectations of doing some actual work getting in the way, I find myself with little to write / rant about, even though I have been involved in not one but two, TWO separate but almost equally strange "road rage" incidents over the last couple of days (since when did they start handing out driving licenses to the blind and retarded?) but alas, I am without enough mental material in which to form a lengthy rant about. Strange, since I actually enjoy these instances usually, and even allow extra time on my journeys to engage in such opportunities where presented. No, I haven't been taking valium, before you ask.
All this talk of work, plus some annoying bint this morning attempting to engage with me in conversation by means of informing me that there are only 12 days 'til Christmas (yes, I know, I've opened the door on my advent calendar this morning, now fuck off. Conversation declined.) reminds me that this week brings the arrival of the office Christmas party plus the much suffered Team Meal. Neither of which I will be going to. I recently overheard a colleague say "my husband doesn't let me go to work Christmas parties, he says they are just overflowing cauldrons of sexual tension which has been built up all year". This woman's husband must really love his wife, even if she did inadvertently share his dominance and trust issues with all in earshot, as he clearly (and rather wrongly) believes that somebody would wish to not only take the drunken opportunity to crack on to her at the Christmas party / orgy, but actually finds her remotely attractive whilst of a sober disposition the rest of the year. He may very well view her through rose tinted glasses and see the woman he first met all those years ago, where as I have the benefit of not being so deluded, and can see her as the rest of the world does; she's not pretty. Not only is she pear shaped, she is actually shaped like a pear, literally. Her backside is so spectacular, when I picture her in my mind (which I inadvertently find myself doing as I write this) there are no legs in my image, as she has the tapered form of some sort of illegitimate love child of a Russian doll (the big one, obviously) and a Weeble. I'd like to be given the opportunity to reassure this woman's husbands that she will be very safe from having to beat them off with a stick, so to speak, as not only will there be no stick, I can absolutely guarantee there will be no "them".
Fears of having to beat off the drunken advances from the departments 'women' folk and fight my way out from smothering under a pile of bingo wings and floral polyester frocks whilst my eyes burn with the stinging musky fragrance of the best perfume Avon has to offer, although sickening to even contemplate regardless of how highly unrealistic the scenario, is not the reason I am not attending this years corporate festivities. I simply do not want to. Even though it can be quite amusing watching the pervy Finance managers drool all over and eventually approach for the entertainment of all who witness the attractive female staff they hired on the self believed merit of "being in there" based on nothing more than the provocative style of dress adopted for the interview, no amount of stifled hilarity at the expense of other's sexual failings or company paid for alcohol and dried out turkey can persuade me to spend my own free time with the very same dregs of existence that challenge my previous best levels of despair whom I tolerate surprisingly well for 7.5 hours a day Monday to Friday. There are a few individuals within the company who I do enjoy chewing the fat with and putting the world to rights over a free pint*, but unfortunately this number is miniscule in comparison to those who I just cannot justify to myself breathing the same air as where avoidable, so until this number is balanced a little more evenly, my answer remains as No. Just no. Whilst disappointingly there was no option on the reply to the email invitation to the additional team meal out for "you cannot possibly imagine the immensity of my sheer lack of desire to witness you chew food" I had to make do with simply Yes or No. I made up for this by hitting the "No" button firmly, four times, just to get my point across.
*Disclaimer: In the unlikely event that someone from work is reading this, I am probably not referring to you.
Well, while the cat's away, and all that…
Annoyingly, now that I have the opportunity to blog away uninterrupted without expectations of doing some actual work getting in the way, I find myself with little to write / rant about, even though I have been involved in not one but two, TWO separate but almost equally strange "road rage" incidents over the last couple of days (since when did they start handing out driving licenses to the blind and retarded?) but alas, I am without enough mental material in which to form a lengthy rant about. Strange, since I actually enjoy these instances usually, and even allow extra time on my journeys to engage in such opportunities where presented. No, I haven't been taking valium, before you ask.
All this talk of work, plus some annoying bint this morning attempting to engage with me in conversation by means of informing me that there are only 12 days 'til Christmas (yes, I know, I've opened the door on my advent calendar this morning, now fuck off. Conversation declined.) reminds me that this week brings the arrival of the office Christmas party plus the much suffered Team Meal. Neither of which I will be going to. I recently overheard a colleague say "my husband doesn't let me go to work Christmas parties, he says they are just overflowing cauldrons of sexual tension which has been built up all year". This woman's husband must really love his wife, even if she did inadvertently share his dominance and trust issues with all in earshot, as he clearly (and rather wrongly) believes that somebody would wish to not only take the drunken opportunity to crack on to her at the Christmas party / orgy, but actually finds her remotely attractive whilst of a sober disposition the rest of the year. He may very well view her through rose tinted glasses and see the woman he first met all those years ago, where as I have the benefit of not being so deluded, and can see her as the rest of the world does; she's not pretty. Not only is she pear shaped, she is actually shaped like a pear, literally. Her backside is so spectacular, when I picture her in my mind (which I inadvertently find myself doing as I write this) there are no legs in my image, as she has the tapered form of some sort of illegitimate love child of a Russian doll (the big one, obviously) and a Weeble. I'd like to be given the opportunity to reassure this woman's husbands that she will be very safe from having to beat them off with a stick, so to speak, as not only will there be no stick, I can absolutely guarantee there will be no "them".
Fears of having to beat off the drunken advances from the departments 'women' folk and fight my way out from smothering under a pile of bingo wings and floral polyester frocks whilst my eyes burn with the stinging musky fragrance of the best perfume Avon has to offer, although sickening to even contemplate regardless of how highly unrealistic the scenario, is not the reason I am not attending this years corporate festivities. I simply do not want to. Even though it can be quite amusing watching the pervy Finance managers drool all over and eventually approach for the entertainment of all who witness the attractive female staff they hired on the self believed merit of "being in there" based on nothing more than the provocative style of dress adopted for the interview, no amount of stifled hilarity at the expense of other's sexual failings or company paid for alcohol and dried out turkey can persuade me to spend my own free time with the very same dregs of existence that challenge my previous best levels of despair whom I tolerate surprisingly well for 7.5 hours a day Monday to Friday. There are a few individuals within the company who I do enjoy chewing the fat with and putting the world to rights over a free pint*, but unfortunately this number is miniscule in comparison to those who I just cannot justify to myself breathing the same air as where avoidable, so until this number is balanced a little more evenly, my answer remains as No. Just no. Whilst disappointingly there was no option on the reply to the email invitation to the additional team meal out for "you cannot possibly imagine the immensity of my sheer lack of desire to witness you chew food" I had to make do with simply Yes or No. I made up for this by hitting the "No" button firmly, four times, just to get my point across.
I have however, surprisingly to some it would seem judging by the stereo chorus of "You're in the secret Santa? You're in the secret Santa?", opted in for the office (you guessed it) Secret Santa event, and as blind luck would have it, I pulled the name of someone from the hat which I actually quite like (and by "like" I mean I once smashed her to the floor at a works bowling night) although admittedly I'm a little disappointed to miss out on the previously thought out opportunity to purchase and gift somebody a dog turd in a bread bun (there is actually a website that will do this for you, fact!) safe in the knowledge of the scheme being "secret" as the name suggests, although by process of elimination / nosey gossips who haven't participated but insist on bugging the crap out of everyone by persisting to ask "who did you get then?", I'd probably be found out, and would have to rely on the excuse of my "sick" sense of humour to get me out of the shit.
 |
| Because nothing says Merry Christmas like "Eat Shit" |
The question now is, what do I buy someone I quite like / don't hate for the sum of £5.00?
Friday, 5 November 2010
I'm a fire starter...
Just a quick one today as I type this on a touchscreen phone whilst sat on the bus, so is as frustratingly clumsy as a pissed unicyclist with Parkinson's trying to optimistically ride out an earthquake. Plus I am without spell check, so I fear my real lack of literacy skills will be revealed, but I'll blame that on the phone.
The reason I am in this rather pungent situation is that I am on my way to meet up with my better half and to watch a massive bonfire being lit whilst wearing enough layers to conceal a self-denying teenage pregnancy, and drink neat liquor from a hip flask like an upmarket tramp desperately trying to cling on to an ounce of dignity rather than accepting fact and chugging from the bag. I don't really care for the fire myself as I expelled all my pent up pyromaniacy as a teen, but it's an excuse to stand in a field and drink myself into stupor as I spent my later teen years, which ironically is where I originally got the "setting fire to shit" phase out of my system. An added bonus to this of course it witnessing enough fireworks to cover the national deficit of a small eastern block country be blasted into the air, which Ive never really got into myself as it quite literally is like setting fire to bank notes, or as close as you can legally get without risking beheading for treason, or being thrown into an asylum le mental, but I'll happy watch others piss their money away whilst making all the appropriate "oooohhh" and "aaahhh" noises like all the other dumbfounded fucks in my way of keeping warm from the fire.
Plus, it beats staying in the house and listening to the blitzkrieg and fire engine / ambulance sirens outside, where in Bradford, bonfire night is celebrated simply by the arsonistic torching of roadside fly-tipping spots without fear of imagined reprisal by the law.
Now, must dash, I might even have a sparkler to light.
The reason I am in this rather pungent situation is that I am on my way to meet up with my better half and to watch a massive bonfire being lit whilst wearing enough layers to conceal a self-denying teenage pregnancy, and drink neat liquor from a hip flask like an upmarket tramp desperately trying to cling on to an ounce of dignity rather than accepting fact and chugging from the bag. I don't really care for the fire myself as I expelled all my pent up pyromaniacy as a teen, but it's an excuse to stand in a field and drink myself into stupor as I spent my later teen years, which ironically is where I originally got the "setting fire to shit" phase out of my system. An added bonus to this of course it witnessing enough fireworks to cover the national deficit of a small eastern block country be blasted into the air, which Ive never really got into myself as it quite literally is like setting fire to bank notes, or as close as you can legally get without risking beheading for treason, or being thrown into an asylum le mental, but I'll happy watch others piss their money away whilst making all the appropriate "oooohhh" and "aaahhh" noises like all the other dumbfounded fucks in my way of keeping warm from the fire.
Plus, it beats staying in the house and listening to the blitzkrieg and fire engine / ambulance sirens outside, where in Bradford, bonfire night is celebrated simply by the arsonistic torching of roadside fly-tipping spots without fear of imagined reprisal by the law.
Now, must dash, I might even have a sparkler to light.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Who you gonna call?
In absence of motivational occurrences to rant about this week, and (perhaps pointlessly) not wanting to disrupt the recent pattern of weekly postings I've somehow achieved, whilst obviously and more importantly not wanting to let my friend Hazel down (wave Haze!) I'll try to knock up an off-the-cuff "what I've done" type blog, so apologies in advance if this lacks somewhat in lengthy rants about petty and trivial events that seem to have (exaggeratively) plagued me, but with my seemingly natural ability to digress beyond all recognition maybe this will inadvertently turn into what I do best. I have come to the realisation that I have a tendency to go on a bit too, so maybe the lack of rant material might be a blessing and will perhaps keep the word count down a bit too, but I'm promising nothing at this stage, baring in mind I'm up to well over 100 words already.
This weekend was one of my favourite events of the calendar (no, not the celebration of the admittance of Nevada as the 36th sate in 1864), Hallowe'en, which still even as a "grown man" is eagerly looked forward to by me every year, ever since I was first allowed to legitimately go begging for E-numbers and loose change round the posh bits of the village (much to their annoyance I'm sure) whilst wearing a 'costume', by which I mean a bin liner with arm holes cut in it complete with cheap plastic mask that made my face moist with my own condensed saliva, under the guise of celebrating a ye olde tradition that I'm not convinced even now I could properly explain without the help of good old Mr Google. Of course I'm a little too tall to get away with that these days, plus I dare say if I knocked on any of the residents doors round these parts they'd either ring the police, or more likely, set their pit bulls on me, so instead I take this as an opportunity to don make up of my own and go get royally trollied whilst most importantly, not be in the house to answer the door to the hordes of kids, whose idea of 'trick' is half a brick through the living room window, and 'treat' is nothing less than tenner. Well, it beats staying at home and sitting upstairs in the dark whilst pretending not to be in and wondering if I should ring the fire brigade in advance or wait until I can smell the smoke of my smouldering car. As it turns out, the kids came round on Sunday, and my plans fell on Saturday, so I didn't actually manage to avoid this as planned at all, but I seem to have a bit of a reputation with the kids round here (edit: hang on, that sounds all kinds of wrong!) but I suppose that's what happens when your introduction to the neighbours is "Hi I'm Dan, I've just moved in at number 12, and by the way, if your kids go missing, it's because I've caught them in my garden again, and locked them in my shed". I shit you not. As a result, we only had two visitors all night, one of which was too impatient to wait for James (my housemate) to answer the door, or maybe was scared off by the sound of me shouting at James to hurry up and answer the fucking door, and another girl called Chelsea who obviously thought I was kidding when I moved in, who when James did answer the door (even though we said we'd take it in turns, but the first one didn't count as he didn’t get there in time) responded not with "trick or treeeaat" but instead with "where's the other one", meaning me. Joy.
The choice of venue for this years fancy dress shenanigans was, originally, the same as last years, FAB Café, as not only are their fancy dress bashes legendary, but they sell Wham bars and Sherbet Fountains behind the bar (all year round, might I add) and have a food menu which includes culinary masterpieces such as fish finger sandwiches, and a bowl of Rusks with warm milk. I don't work for FAB, by the way, I'm just pointing out it's awesometicity (yeah, made up words, I'm that down with the kids) as my own opinion. Everyone goes all out for Halowe'en at FAB with the vast majority of the people all dressed up for the occasion. Well, I suppose a large cash prize for best costume will have this effect, but it really makes for an interesting night which I look forward to all year, minus the hangover days from the previous event. I rather foolishly had gone out for a "quiet drink" with my good friend Sarah the night before which rapidly turned into a full on session, meaning come the day of the big night its self, I was feeling a little rough, to say the least - damn you Revs and your very reasonably priced racks of novelty vodkas, cocktails and lack of dress code / drunk code - but after vegging out on my mums sofa all day it was time to think about getting ready, even if enthusiasm for poisoning myself further was severely lacking at this point. A quick power nap on the sofa, a promise to my better half that we "won't have a late one" (famous last words) and a swift double Jager on arrival soon sorted us out and set the pace for the rest of the night though.
For some reason I quite like acting like a big kid and getting all dressed up for the occasion, even if this does seem to surprise people - to quote my friend "You don't strike me as the dressing up type" and upon inquiring why, was told "you're a miserable old man", which is nice (I'm sorry Leah, I won't quote youagain for a while I promise) - but I do, although I can't put my finger on one particular reason without resorting to simply saying "it's a bit of a laugh" which although true, lacks definition. Maybe it has something to do with childhood nostalgia, or the feeling of taking part in an event, or the element of competition maybe, I am quite competitive, I'm told. Mainly it's just an excuse to go out, have a giggle at my own expense, and chat complete shit with absolute strangers, although the fancy dress aspect does seem to provide opportunity to some quite questionable characters that have "lost" (never had in the first place) their friends to tag along for a little bit. I'm usually pretty transparent in terms of making it absolutely clear I have no interest in exchanging pleasantries with piss annoying loners, but for some reason this ability seems to be partly lost whilst in fancy dress get up, so I have to try that little bit harder at this time of the year, without been blunt, of course. One aspect I do enjoy is being able to get away with, no, express my god given right, to judge compete strangers based purely on appearance. A lot of people put huge amounts of time and effort into their costumes for the night and I applaud them for it, and whilst there are a fair few strange choices of characters - The Dude, Vincent Vega, and Papa Lazarou for example… ok I'll give you the latter, but my point on the first two remains - over all the motley crew of costumes is pretty impressive. There is a flip side to this however (and listen up girls of Leeds because I'm probably talking about you here), whilst overall the collection of costumes is very respectable, there are of course the few examples of less respectable "efforts" that have turned up to take the opportunity of justifying to their boyfriends dressing more "provocatively" than can be spotted on the corner of Spencer Street. Having actually put a little effort in my self I'm perfectly entitled to get on my soap box about this bit, even if by "effort" I actually mean "rummage round the house for the bits of costume I've worn for the last three years running" (I'll go as something else next year I swear). Whilst turning up wearing cat ears and black lipstick with matching feather boa and knickers, or 'sexy' devil horns and ill-fitting red sequin hot pants might be classed as fancy dress down at Oceana, and might even contribute to you getting laid even if you are too fat for that nurses dress, it's not quite up to par with FAB's standards it seems. The apparent motto of "if in doubt, tits out" unfortunately won't get you in the photo archives of til-late.com here at least, so you may as well fuck off over the road to Yates and clear some space at the bar for those with massively oversized cardboard heads where you stand a much better chance. But thanks for coming all the same, and see (hopefully less of) you next year.
Eventually, and until next year, the random conversations with film characters came to an end, and it was time to try and flag down a rather bemused taxi driver (because there was absolutely no way I was walking down the road to the rank looking like this), after being wished fare well by Stay-Puffed with the parting words of "you best get yourself off home mate, you look like death!"
Budum-tsshh.
Oh and for those interested, the winner of £150 was a chap dressed as a life size Lego man. No, I don't get what this has to do with Hallowe'en either, but it was impressive all the same.
This weekend was one of my favourite events of the calendar (no, not the celebration of the admittance of Nevada as the 36th sate in 1864), Hallowe'en, which still even as a "grown man" is eagerly looked forward to by me every year, ever since I was first allowed to legitimately go begging for E-numbers and loose change round the posh bits of the village (much to their annoyance I'm sure) whilst wearing a 'costume', by which I mean a bin liner with arm holes cut in it complete with cheap plastic mask that made my face moist with my own condensed saliva, under the guise of celebrating a ye olde tradition that I'm not convinced even now I could properly explain without the help of good old Mr Google. Of course I'm a little too tall to get away with that these days, plus I dare say if I knocked on any of the residents doors round these parts they'd either ring the police, or more likely, set their pit bulls on me, so instead I take this as an opportunity to don make up of my own and go get royally trollied whilst most importantly, not be in the house to answer the door to the hordes of kids, whose idea of 'trick' is half a brick through the living room window, and 'treat' is nothing less than tenner. Well, it beats staying at home and sitting upstairs in the dark whilst pretending not to be in and wondering if I should ring the fire brigade in advance or wait until I can smell the smoke of my smouldering car. As it turns out, the kids came round on Sunday, and my plans fell on Saturday, so I didn't actually manage to avoid this as planned at all, but I seem to have a bit of a reputation with the kids round here (edit: hang on, that sounds all kinds of wrong!) but I suppose that's what happens when your introduction to the neighbours is "Hi I'm Dan, I've just moved in at number 12, and by the way, if your kids go missing, it's because I've caught them in my garden again, and locked them in my shed". I shit you not. As a result, we only had two visitors all night, one of which was too impatient to wait for James (my housemate) to answer the door, or maybe was scared off by the sound of me shouting at James to hurry up and answer the fucking door, and another girl called Chelsea who obviously thought I was kidding when I moved in, who when James did answer the door (even though we said we'd take it in turns, but the first one didn't count as he didn’t get there in time) responded not with "trick or treeeaat" but instead with "where's the other one", meaning me. Joy.
The choice of venue for this years fancy dress shenanigans was, originally, the same as last years, FAB Café, as not only are their fancy dress bashes legendary, but they sell Wham bars and Sherbet Fountains behind the bar (all year round, might I add) and have a food menu which includes culinary masterpieces such as fish finger sandwiches, and a bowl of Rusks with warm milk. I don't work for FAB, by the way, I'm just pointing out it's awesometicity (yeah, made up words, I'm that down with the kids) as my own opinion. Everyone goes all out for Halowe'en at FAB with the vast majority of the people all dressed up for the occasion. Well, I suppose a large cash prize for best costume will have this effect, but it really makes for an interesting night which I look forward to all year, minus the hangover days from the previous event. I rather foolishly had gone out for a "quiet drink" with my good friend Sarah the night before which rapidly turned into a full on session, meaning come the day of the big night its self, I was feeling a little rough, to say the least - damn you Revs and your very reasonably priced racks of novelty vodkas, cocktails and lack of dress code / drunk code - but after vegging out on my mums sofa all day it was time to think about getting ready, even if enthusiasm for poisoning myself further was severely lacking at this point. A quick power nap on the sofa, a promise to my better half that we "won't have a late one" (famous last words) and a swift double Jager on arrival soon sorted us out and set the pace for the rest of the night though.
 |
| You can literally see the enthusiasm on my face here |
For some reason I quite like acting like a big kid and getting all dressed up for the occasion, even if this does seem to surprise people - to quote my friend "You don't strike me as the dressing up type" and upon inquiring why, was told "you're a miserable old man", which is nice (I'm sorry Leah, I won't quote you
Eventually, and until next year, the random conversations with film characters came to an end, and it was time to try and flag down a rather bemused taxi driver (because there was absolutely no way I was walking down the road to the rank looking like this), after being wished fare well by Stay-Puffed with the parting words of "you best get yourself off home mate, you look like death!"
Budum-tsshh.
Oh and for those interested, the winner of £150 was a chap dressed as a life size Lego man. No, I don't get what this has to do with Hallowe'en either, but it was impressive all the same.
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Perhaps "fuck off" might be too kind.
Not my words, but those of lyrically clever Alex Turner of Arctic Monkeys fame, but stolen as my own. I digress, already, before I've even made reference to the point. That must be a personal achievement! Score. Anyway, my point today, is about that online popularity contest, Facebook, which has been inspired today after reading this which was posted on Facebook by my friend, who ironically, I'm going to delete for posting shit like this several times a day. Kidding Luke, kidding. I'm going to delete you for being a pretentious tit. Kidding, again. (Obviously I don't read Marie-Claire, by the way).
I love my Facebook, and rather surprisingly perhaps to some people, I actually have friends on there. For some reason, people choose to advertise their association with me and admit that, rather than just some bloke they loosely know through an unfortunate chain of mutual acquaintances, we are "friends". Just last week in fact, someone who I was quite happy to correct any assumptions people may have had, said on this very blog "you can call me your friend". Quite why she would choose to potentially slurry her reputation held by others is beyond me, but it racks up my advertised number of friends, so I'll not question her motive. Not that I'm implying she has a motive to question, of course. For a long time though I steered well clear of Facebook altogether, I just saw this as yet another site for which slightly vein or socially insecure teenagers took time out from standing in the mirror and worrying about how fat they aren't or dragging a compass across their wrist to leave "realistic" self harming marks to 'hide' attempted to participate in a blatant popularity contest poorly masquerading as a 'social networking' website, which would inevitably follow the pattern of previous contenders (MySpace et al) and practically implode after having 'it's day', making way for the next in the line. Eventually, after begrudgingly accepting that Facebook was becoming more than just a passing phase, and that "it's day" was now turning into years, and more importantly, after getting sick of hearing "you're not on Facebook??" being shrieked at me in utter disbelief as if intentionally not having a Facebook account is as insane as not having a TV in the corner of your living room, I succumbed to peer pressure and signed away any ounce of privacy (and a little self respect) I may have once believed I had. I still stand by my original beef though; interestingly, Facebook finds that your number of friends is a vital piece of information about your identity, and without giving you the option to hide this, displays yourpopularity score friend count right underneath your basic information. The next time I'm giving my particulars to someone, not only am I going to give them my name, address, date of birth and ethnicity, they are getting my friend count too. I know this information of hand, as, in protest of this contest, I specifically keep this number to exactly 100 (note to all; I am fully aware that currently I'm at 104. This will be remedied). Well, 99 just seemed a little too much like I was trying to reach 100, and anything more fails to illustrate my point - just because no one is aware I'm making a point doesn’t mean that there isn't one being made! The point is, and similarly to the point I made for years during school PE, is that if I'm going to lose at a game I don't even want to play, I'll lose by my own terms, and I'll take as many of you down with me as I can. Pick me at your peril.
Ok, so as a relative newcomer to the big book of faces, after admitting that it does indeed have it's uses, and although I'm actually pretty good at keeping in touch with people (mainly via emails sent / received at work) and make the time to catch up with mates fairly frequently without reliance of my computer, yes, Facebook makes this a little easier, especially since texting on a touch screen phone is frustratingly clumsy and a little like trying to walk in a straight line after a "quick one after work" [James: Sports bar?]. I'll also state that the photo hosting aspect is quite handy, especially for short tempered cretins such as myself that just can't be bothered going through the rather condescending "Forgotten your password? Again?" link on Photobucket / Picasa etc, even if not getting the option to approve photos my mates have tagged me in where mid sentence I appear to be taking part in a gurning competition so I have to routinely go through and "untag" myself from gets a bit annoying. Don't even get me started on Farmville and Mafia Wars, but I do particularly enjoy / abuse having a little bit of space to vent spleen from time to time (daily) and share my shorter trivial thoughts that don't end up on this blog with the lucky 100 "friends" fortunate enough to see my 'updates'. The upkeep of the golden 100 is the cherry on the social networking cake though, this is why I really love Facebook: Every time I accept a new friend, I have to find some really nit-picky reason to delete someone I have no / didn’t have any particular ill feelings about, and this is where we get back to the link to the Marie Claire article. I'll delete someone for what ever reason I see fit, I don’t need to justify or excuse this, I don’t even need to hide this, sometimes I'll even go a little out of my way to inform them as to why I've deleted them. "I c dat u hav deltd me y?" That's why. Racist / sexist / homophobic opinion / "joke"? Deleted. Every status update this week been about what you've had / are having / wish you were having for tea? Deleted. Been watching shitty music videos for hours on end on YouTube and linking every single one as an update for us all have you? Deleted. Relationship status change several times a day? You need to grow the fuck up. Oh, by the way, deleted.
You see, Facebook is nothing more than just another platform to extend my real life behaviour and for me to be a dismissive and arrogant cunt to anyone and everyone I see fit, for whatever reason I see fit, and this opportunity could not be passed, even if it does mean I have to swallow a little pride and enjoy the practicalities it provides as an added bonus. I was recently described as "acting like I own the monopoly on friendship" in a derogatory tone of voice. Hate to piss on that fire, but that's not an insult, it's as much fact as it is to call me ginger, I do (act, that is, not actually own, although that would be quite profitable I imagine). Nothing, and I do mean nothing, during my working hours, gives me as much self gratifying entertainment whilst at the same time providing me with that smug twat glow as receiving a notification to inform me I have a new "friend" request, looking to see who it is, hovering over the 'Accept' button, then clicking 'Ignore'. Feeling a little selfish and rather selflessly in an attempt to reduce these instances, I purposely keep my profile set to 'open' and have released a few statements in the past to inform potential friend requesters of the likelihood of acceptance, such as "If I went to school with you and have not been in touch with you since, it's probably because you're a twat" and also "saying 'alright' to me, back in '98, when you thought I was someone else, does not make us friends". I feel a little ripped off that this button is labelled as "Ignore" though. I'd quite like it to say "Declined". In fact, further to that, I want it to say "Declined" and inform the requester that they have had their request denied, rather than simply and in my opinion, more politely, ignored. Even better, it would be priceless if the declined notification provided a little box for me to fill in and inform them as to my thought process immediately before hitting the fictitious decline button, which would either be a quote from the good Alex Turner himself, or, depending on the nature of knowledge of one another's existence, would read something along the lines of "You were a prick in 1996, and unlike perhaps a fine wine, I somehow doubt you have the ability to have matured with age. Congratulations, you've been outdone by rotting grapes. Declined".
So, and considering the only place I post the link to this blog is Facebook there stands to be a chance some of you whom I am referring to are reading this, if I do have you as a friend on Facebook, it's because (and congratulations, you are one of few) I genuinely like you. Or you're the partner of someone I like. Or we're related.
Now, I must get on with deleting 4 of you.
PS: Spell check reveals I have typed the word Facebook (including this sentence) no fewer than 14 times. Reckon that will get me on Google? [edit] No then. Shame.
 |
| Not even glass eyes are sacred from product placement. Bastards. |
I love my Facebook, and rather surprisingly perhaps to some people, I actually have friends on there. For some reason, people choose to advertise their association with me and admit that, rather than just some bloke they loosely know through an unfortunate chain of mutual acquaintances, we are "friends". Just last week in fact, someone who I was quite happy to correct any assumptions people may have had, said on this very blog "you can call me your friend". Quite why she would choose to potentially slurry her reputation held by others is beyond me, but it racks up my advertised number of friends, so I'll not question her motive. Not that I'm implying she has a motive to question, of course. For a long time though I steered well clear of Facebook altogether, I just saw this as yet another site for which slightly vein or socially insecure teenagers took time out from standing in the mirror and worrying about how fat they aren't or dragging a compass across their wrist to leave "realistic" self harming marks to 'hide' attempted to participate in a blatant popularity contest poorly masquerading as a 'social networking' website, which would inevitably follow the pattern of previous contenders (MySpace et al) and practically implode after having 'it's day', making way for the next in the line. Eventually, after begrudgingly accepting that Facebook was becoming more than just a passing phase, and that "it's day" was now turning into years, and more importantly, after getting sick of hearing "you're not on Facebook??" being shrieked at me in utter disbelief as if intentionally not having a Facebook account is as insane as not having a TV in the corner of your living room, I succumbed to peer pressure and signed away any ounce of privacy (and a little self respect) I may have once believed I had. I still stand by my original beef though; interestingly, Facebook finds that your number of friends is a vital piece of information about your identity, and without giving you the option to hide this, displays your
Ok, so as a relative newcomer to the big book of faces, after admitting that it does indeed have it's uses, and although I'm actually pretty good at keeping in touch with people (mainly via emails sent / received at work) and make the time to catch up with mates fairly frequently without reliance of my computer, yes, Facebook makes this a little easier, especially since texting on a touch screen phone is frustratingly clumsy and a little like trying to walk in a straight line after a "quick one after work" [James: Sports bar?]. I'll also state that the photo hosting aspect is quite handy, especially for short tempered cretins such as myself that just can't be bothered going through the rather condescending "Forgotten your password? Again?" link on Photobucket / Picasa etc, even if not getting the option to approve photos my mates have tagged me in where mid sentence I appear to be taking part in a gurning competition so I have to routinely go through and "untag" myself from gets a bit annoying. Don't even get me started on Farmville and Mafia Wars, but I do particularly enjoy / abuse having a little bit of space to vent spleen from time to time (daily) and share my shorter trivial thoughts that don't end up on this blog with the lucky 100 "friends" fortunate enough to see my 'updates'. The upkeep of the golden 100 is the cherry on the social networking cake though, this is why I really love Facebook: Every time I accept a new friend, I have to find some really nit-picky reason to delete someone I have no / didn’t have any particular ill feelings about, and this is where we get back to the link to the Marie Claire article. I'll delete someone for what ever reason I see fit, I don’t need to justify or excuse this, I don’t even need to hide this, sometimes I'll even go a little out of my way to inform them as to why I've deleted them. "I c dat u hav deltd me y?" That's why. Racist / sexist / homophobic opinion / "joke"? Deleted. Every status update this week been about what you've had / are having / wish you were having for tea? Deleted. Been watching shitty music videos for hours on end on YouTube and linking every single one as an update for us all have you? Deleted. Relationship status change several times a day? You need to grow the fuck up. Oh, by the way, deleted.
You see, Facebook is nothing more than just another platform to extend my real life behaviour and for me to be a dismissive and arrogant cunt to anyone and everyone I see fit, for whatever reason I see fit, and this opportunity could not be passed, even if it does mean I have to swallow a little pride and enjoy the practicalities it provides as an added bonus. I was recently described as "acting like I own the monopoly on friendship" in a derogatory tone of voice. Hate to piss on that fire, but that's not an insult, it's as much fact as it is to call me ginger, I do (act, that is, not actually own, although that would be quite profitable I imagine). Nothing, and I do mean nothing, during my working hours, gives me as much self gratifying entertainment whilst at the same time providing me with that smug twat glow as receiving a notification to inform me I have a new "friend" request, looking to see who it is, hovering over the 'Accept' button, then clicking 'Ignore'. Feeling a little selfish and rather selflessly in an attempt to reduce these instances, I purposely keep my profile set to 'open' and have released a few statements in the past to inform potential friend requesters of the likelihood of acceptance, such as "If I went to school with you and have not been in touch with you since, it's probably because you're a twat" and also "saying 'alright' to me, back in '98, when you thought I was someone else, does not make us friends". I feel a little ripped off that this button is labelled as "Ignore" though. I'd quite like it to say "Declined". In fact, further to that, I want it to say "Declined" and inform the requester that they have had their request denied, rather than simply and in my opinion, more politely, ignored. Even better, it would be priceless if the declined notification provided a little box for me to fill in and inform them as to my thought process immediately before hitting the fictitious decline button, which would either be a quote from the good Alex Turner himself, or, depending on the nature of knowledge of one another's existence, would read something along the lines of "You were a prick in 1996, and unlike perhaps a fine wine, I somehow doubt you have the ability to have matured with age. Congratulations, you've been outdone by rotting grapes. Declined".
So, and considering the only place I post the link to this blog is Facebook there stands to be a chance some of you whom I am referring to are reading this, if I do have you as a friend on Facebook, it's because (and congratulations, you are one of few) I genuinely like you. Or you're the partner of someone I like. Or we're related.
Now, I must get on with deleting 4 of you.
PS: Spell check reveals I have typed the word Facebook (including this sentence) no fewer than 14 times. Reckon that will get me on Google? [edit] No then. Shame.
Monday, 18 October 2010
'Tis the season...
To be jolly, apparently. I'm not too sure when it was decided that the season began in the second week of October, or quite who it is that has the authority to determine the start of the season, but nether the less, we are now in the season. I have of course heard one or two people whinge "It'll soon be Christmas", but have previously dismissed these as the mumblings of sad old fuckers that quite literally have nothing else to look forward to moaning about. It was during my lunch today however, which on this occasion was 'enjoyed' in the finest of eateries, McDonalds, that I came to the realisation that it is, apparently, nearly Christmas, despite it still been October. This realisation was served in the form of been forced to suffer the same four Christmas songs played on repeat, curtsey of whoever it is at McDonalds HQ has the extremely important job of selecting the playlist for the chain of restaurants and gets to decide when they are played (perhaps this is the man that decides when Christmas starts!). After hearing the timeless sounds of Slade declare it's Christmas there really is little left to deny. God bless Noddy Holder, I hope he never dies. Not because I even remotely like the pork pie looking Brummie retard, but because upon his death, I will undoubtedly be forced to hear his gravelly trade mark rasping continuously for weeks on end. They might even manage to piss Cowell off and get a Christmas number 1 out of his rather selfish demise. This will have me resorting to inserting a 6 inch nail into each ear hole, and purposely allowing a lift door to close on my head, in an attempt to end the torture. Anyway, he's on my list of Celebrity Vampires so I'm sure I'll never have to get all melodramatic about it (I genuinely do have this list, I'm not making this up for comedic effect here, the list comprises entirely of celebrities that despite having the appearance of being constructed from cellotape then melted with a lighter and pubes hair sprinkled on top, refuse to kick the bucket. I present to you exhibit A: Bruce Forsyth. Ever seen him in daylight? It's because he's a sun fearing immortal, clearly).
I'd like to clarify at this stage, just to eliminate any incorrect assumptions, I do not hate Christmas. I actually quite like it, which seems to surprise most people, for some reason. I get the vague impression that some people think I'm grumpy. Just last week in fact, my friend (well, technically, my girlfriends friend, but despite our continued exchanges of sarcasm, I actually quite like this girl so I'm going to refer to her as "my friend". This way I appear to have more friends than I actually do, so everyone's a winner… apart from the girl in question, perhaps) said, and I quote "You strike me as a miserable old man". Charming. Now couple this with my blatant hatred of anyone under the age of 21 years and my absolute fear of anyone under the age of 21 months, I can see why people jump to the conclusion that I may be very against the public celebration of our Lords birthday (I almost said that without sounding sarcastic didn't I?), but again, just to clarify, I'm not. Thoughtful presents, less thoughtful (but equally appreciated) money in cards, time off from work, festive massacring of escaping British prisoners of war on telly? What's not to like!?
I find that generally society is far more tolerant and nicer to each other around Christmas as there is definitely a festive spirit in the air, so long as you don't wish to breath this air whilst trying to walk anywhere / stand anywhere / queue for anything. In the interest of preserving this possibly imagined perception of festive cheer, I try to avoid the aforementioned as much as is possible, as well as reading the news about how local burglaries have taken a sharp rise this year, speaking to the neighbours about the stolen goods they have bought and how "if I'm after anything they'll sort me out", and most of all opening the front door to the groups of carol singers - and of course by carol singers I do mean gangs of hooded teenage chavs braying the crap out of my door at 10:00pm who then proceed to mutter the only line of Away in a Manger they can remember whilst trying to sneak a peak of how big my telly is or if there any decent size boxes under my Christmas tree, all for the reasonable sum of a fiver. Or the offer of a beating with the fat end of a pool cue which I rather handily keep behind my front door for such occasions, whichever.
Unfortunately the determining of the start of the season has not yet spread to my place of work, as I found out when informing my college of the soundtrack to my lunchtime and being overheard by other colleagues. The witches corner took this news as an opportunity to break out into tandem moaning (I should point out that these are the same sad old fuckers I mentioned earlier on) - which to my surprise was not about how everywhere is really busy, the fuss, or how much it all costs, but the overwhelming abundance of food. Long ago in my very first blog I promised to never write about work, and I'm not, but I am about to write about a colleague, who for fear of incriminating myself or setting myself up for an industrial bullying claim I'll refer only to as Kath. Now Kath is a self proclaimed health freak who feels the need to question everyone as to how many calories are in whatever they are seen eating with a look of judgment on her sagging face, and lives solely on a diet of dry brown toast, bananas, and cups of warm water. The warm water thing puzzled me, so I googled it - turns out warm water is a natural laxative. Lovely. Despite Kath's "healthy" diet, and contrary to her self belief, she looks like shit. Actually I take that back, at least shit has substance. She looks like what I imagine Skeletor would look like if he had an eating disorder, wore foundation, and underneath that hood had the hair of Worzel Gummage. No doubt my announcing of the commence of the season has set Kath into worrying that she may be pressured into eating a sprout on Christmas day. She disappeared for a while after she'd finished fretting about people bringing in mince pies to share around. Probably to worship Armitage Shanks after going crazy with the toast that day. I don't know how I keep this festive cheer up sometimes.
Christmas does for me determine a definite use of having a girlfriend. That came out wrong, I'm not saying my girlfriend is useless, just that as a fully grown man, her main use will prove itself at Christmas. Oh for gods sake, that came out even worse than the first time! Fuck it, it's staying. Remembering that my mum reads this crap, I'll choose my words carefully here, in fact, I'll exclude her all together from this next statement [note; mum - this does not include you]. You see, the thing is and I'm sure you'll agree, as an adult, Christmas morning sucks. If it wasn't for having a significant other, I'm pretty sure I'd have the equivalent of bugger all to open on Christmas morning. In fact I'd have worse than bugger all, I'd have what I do have; completely useless presents which have been purchased without an ounce of thought other than "must get him something / anything". I'm not talking about generic gifts like socks, for the want and joy of socks, at least I'd wear those! I'm talking about the kind of gift that will definitely be resigned to the cupboard of crap, a specific spot reserved for various useless items acquired over the years. Example - last year, after presenting my father with a jumper which I'd very carefully and rather thoughtfully purchased for him from George no less, he issued me with my present, wrapped in actual wrapping paper and everything, as opposed to being left in the carrier bag complete with receipt. I could tell from the size and weight this was a DVD box set of some description. Before I was able to even begin to get any hopes up it that it might be something I'd actually appreciate, he stated "I don't know if you're into 'owt like that" whilst I was still in the process of unwrapping it, begging the thought "why the hell did you think of buying it for me then?". This is the worst bit of Christmas, having to convincingly pretend to be grateful whilst clutching a DVD box set of The Alien Files, and sporting an insincere smile / grimace that resembles the face pulled by my mates when they insist on risking a hernia and forcing out a fart for 'entertainment' purposes. Actually, the worst bit is finding somewhere to stash something I'm blatantly never going to watch (it's a documentary series following the "adventures" of a group of amateur UFO spotters, in case you were wondering), as I can't throw it away, it was present after all. It can go in the same place as my remote control sumo wrestlers from the previous year. Having a girlfriend will at least ensure that I have something to open which I actually want, as no doubt I'll think what this is any day now and hint / tell her constantly between now and the big day. I'm not completely selfish; I'll obviously buy whatever she tells me to buy for her!
I suppose all this somewhat premature talk of festivities is my own fault really, I brought it on myself no doubt for having a Christmas pudding that I spotted hiding on top of the cupboard for tea. Yes "for" tea. Well, I had some custard that was going out of date. Waste not want not, and all that. Again, it's not that I don’t like Christmas (reiterated for those that my be missing the point here) it's just that I don't like thinking about Christmas as early as October, especially when there are other events that come before it on the calendar such as Hallowe'en (complete with appropriate apostrophe to satisfy the grammar Gestapo), the annual celebration of a foiled terrorist burned at the stake (one for the kids, that), and more importantly, my own birthday, which comes before Jesus' every year but for some reason is not celebrated to the same degree.
Well, the playlist at McDonalds says it's so, so I guess it's so, even if it is still 10 whole weeks away. So let me be the first so say to you all, Merry Christmas, fuckers. Oh, and by the way, a little while ago I read something of interest that I thought I'd share with you; statically, you're more likely to have an accident in your own home than anywhere else, and the odds shoot through the roof on Christmas day. Interestingly, the most common cause of injuries treated at A+E is not through mum's insisting on using a steak knife as a screwdriver to fit batteries to a kids toy and inadvertently impaling their palm, or even gung-ho dad's lopping off a digit whilst hazardously carving the turkey tanked up on brandy to try and make the day more bearable. No, the most common injury on Christmas day is children with broken limbs from falling down the stairs whilst wearing novelty slippers. Tra-la-la-la-laa, la-la-la-laa.
PS: Sorry dad, if by some unfortunate miracle and much to my embarrassment you've found and read this, but can we stick to socks this year please. Or a BigTrak! Or a BMX!! Or a Skalextrix!!! So, socks then.
 |
| I rest my case. |
I'd like to clarify at this stage, just to eliminate any incorrect assumptions, I do not hate Christmas. I actually quite like it, which seems to surprise most people, for some reason. I get the vague impression that some people think I'm grumpy. Just last week in fact, my friend (well, technically, my girlfriends friend, but despite our continued exchanges of sarcasm, I actually quite like this girl so I'm going to refer to her as "my friend". This way I appear to have more friends than I actually do, so everyone's a winner… apart from the girl in question, perhaps) said, and I quote "You strike me as a miserable old man". Charming. Now couple this with my blatant hatred of anyone under the age of 21 years and my absolute fear of anyone under the age of 21 months, I can see why people jump to the conclusion that I may be very against the public celebration of our Lords birthday (I almost said that without sounding sarcastic didn't I?), but again, just to clarify, I'm not. Thoughtful presents, less thoughtful (but equally appreciated) money in cards, time off from work, festive massacring of escaping British prisoners of war on telly? What's not to like!?
I find that generally society is far more tolerant and nicer to each other around Christmas as there is definitely a festive spirit in the air, so long as you don't wish to breath this air whilst trying to walk anywhere / stand anywhere / queue for anything. In the interest of preserving this possibly imagined perception of festive cheer, I try to avoid the aforementioned as much as is possible, as well as reading the news about how local burglaries have taken a sharp rise this year, speaking to the neighbours about the stolen goods they have bought and how "if I'm after anything they'll sort me out", and most of all opening the front door to the groups of carol singers - and of course by carol singers I do mean gangs of hooded teenage chavs braying the crap out of my door at 10:00pm who then proceed to mutter the only line of Away in a Manger they can remember whilst trying to sneak a peak of how big my telly is or if there any decent size boxes under my Christmas tree, all for the reasonable sum of a fiver. Or the offer of a beating with the fat end of a pool cue which I rather handily keep behind my front door for such occasions, whichever.
Unfortunately the determining of the start of the season has not yet spread to my place of work, as I found out when informing my college of the soundtrack to my lunchtime and being overheard by other colleagues. The witches corner took this news as an opportunity to break out into tandem moaning (I should point out that these are the same sad old fuckers I mentioned earlier on) - which to my surprise was not about how everywhere is really busy, the fuss, or how much it all costs, but the overwhelming abundance of food. Long ago in my very first blog I promised to never write about work, and I'm not, but I am about to write about a colleague, who for fear of incriminating myself or setting myself up for an industrial bullying claim I'll refer only to as Kath. Now Kath is a self proclaimed health freak who feels the need to question everyone as to how many calories are in whatever they are seen eating with a look of judgment on her sagging face, and lives solely on a diet of dry brown toast, bananas, and cups of warm water. The warm water thing puzzled me, so I googled it - turns out warm water is a natural laxative. Lovely. Despite Kath's "healthy" diet, and contrary to her self belief, she looks like shit. Actually I take that back, at least shit has substance. She looks like what I imagine Skeletor would look like if he had an eating disorder, wore foundation, and underneath that hood had the hair of Worzel Gummage. No doubt my announcing of the commence of the season has set Kath into worrying that she may be pressured into eating a sprout on Christmas day. She disappeared for a while after she'd finished fretting about people bringing in mince pies to share around. Probably to worship Armitage Shanks after going crazy with the toast that day. I don't know how I keep this festive cheer up sometimes.
Christmas does for me determine a definite use of having a girlfriend. That came out wrong, I'm not saying my girlfriend is useless, just that as a fully grown man, her main use will prove itself at Christmas. Oh for gods sake, that came out even worse than the first time! Fuck it, it's staying. Remembering that my mum reads this crap, I'll choose my words carefully here, in fact, I'll exclude her all together from this next statement [note; mum - this does not include you]. You see, the thing is and I'm sure you'll agree, as an adult, Christmas morning sucks. If it wasn't for having a significant other, I'm pretty sure I'd have the equivalent of bugger all to open on Christmas morning. In fact I'd have worse than bugger all, I'd have what I do have; completely useless presents which have been purchased without an ounce of thought other than "must get him something / anything". I'm not talking about generic gifts like socks, for the want and joy of socks, at least I'd wear those! I'm talking about the kind of gift that will definitely be resigned to the cupboard of crap, a specific spot reserved for various useless items acquired over the years. Example - last year, after presenting my father with a jumper which I'd very carefully and rather thoughtfully purchased for him from George no less, he issued me with my present, wrapped in actual wrapping paper and everything, as opposed to being left in the carrier bag complete with receipt. I could tell from the size and weight this was a DVD box set of some description. Before I was able to even begin to get any hopes up it that it might be something I'd actually appreciate, he stated "I don't know if you're into 'owt like that" whilst I was still in the process of unwrapping it, begging the thought "why the hell did you think of buying it for me then?". This is the worst bit of Christmas, having to convincingly pretend to be grateful whilst clutching a DVD box set of The Alien Files, and sporting an insincere smile / grimace that resembles the face pulled by my mates when they insist on risking a hernia and forcing out a fart for 'entertainment' purposes. Actually, the worst bit is finding somewhere to stash something I'm blatantly never going to watch (it's a documentary series following the "adventures" of a group of amateur UFO spotters, in case you were wondering), as I can't throw it away, it was present after all. It can go in the same place as my remote control sumo wrestlers from the previous year. Having a girlfriend will at least ensure that I have something to open which I actually want, as no doubt I'll think what this is any day now and hint / tell her constantly between now and the big day. I'm not completely selfish; I'll obviously buy whatever she tells me to buy for her!
I suppose all this somewhat premature talk of festivities is my own fault really, I brought it on myself no doubt for having a Christmas pudding that I spotted hiding on top of the cupboard for tea. Yes "for" tea. Well, I had some custard that was going out of date. Waste not want not, and all that. Again, it's not that I don’t like Christmas (reiterated for those that my be missing the point here) it's just that I don't like thinking about Christmas as early as October, especially when there are other events that come before it on the calendar such as Hallowe'en (complete with appropriate apostrophe to satisfy the grammar Gestapo), the annual celebration of a foiled terrorist burned at the stake (one for the kids, that), and more importantly, my own birthday, which comes before Jesus' every year but for some reason is not celebrated to the same degree.
Well, the playlist at McDonalds says it's so, so I guess it's so, even if it is still 10 whole weeks away. So let me be the first so say to you all, Merry Christmas, fuckers. Oh, and by the way, a little while ago I read something of interest that I thought I'd share with you; statically, you're more likely to have an accident in your own home than anywhere else, and the odds shoot through the roof on Christmas day. Interestingly, the most common cause of injuries treated at A+E is not through mum's insisting on using a steak knife as a screwdriver to fit batteries to a kids toy and inadvertently impaling their palm, or even gung-ho dad's lopping off a digit whilst hazardously carving the turkey tanked up on brandy to try and make the day more bearable. No, the most common injury on Christmas day is children with broken limbs from falling down the stairs whilst wearing novelty slippers. Tra-la-la-la-laa, la-la-la-laa.
PS: Sorry dad, if by some unfortunate miracle and much to my embarrassment you've found and read this, but can we stick to socks this year please. Or a BigTrak! Or a BMX!! Or a Skalextrix!!! So, socks then.
Friday, 8 October 2010
A Town Called Malice
Having given London a bit of a hard time in my last blog, you may be under the impression that I am of the belief that my "neck of the woods" is somehow superior. I am not, because it is not, so I think it only fair to give you a little insight into life on my doorstep. I am informed that there is a travel writer type chap by the name of Bill Bryson that mentions Bradford once or twice and can undoubtedly do a better job of it than I, although having never read his books I can't possibly comment on his opinion of the City, but I was sent this recently which made me chuckle, so I'll blatantly plagiarise this to validate my point:
16 Reasons Bradford is so Shit?
1. The M606 is the only dead-end motorway in Britain not to have a beach or a funfair at the end of it.
2. The Kirkgate Shopping Centre is there solely as a meeting place for crap parents to batter their crap kids without incurring the wrath of crap Social Services.
3. Heroin is not a drug in Bradford, its Breakfast, Dinner and Lunch.
4. Regeneration amounts to demolition and a giant crater that just keeps getting bigger. If this is the case, don’t stop at BD1, do every BD postcode (and HX3 just to be on the safe side).
5. Bradford police are just a call centre for providing crime reference numbers for insurance purposes. They are scared of the dark and have no legs or authority.
6. Only one person in your extended family needs a drivers licence, it just gets shared. Highway codes and traffic laws are optional.
7. You shouldn’t get a taxi in Bradford unless YOU know the way to where you’re going, Bradford cabbies couldn’t find a dog turd at Crufts.
8. Outside Bradford ‘Rita Sue and Bob Too’ is a film, inside Bradford it’s a fly-on-the-wall documentary.
9. G-G-Gareth Gates is from Bradford.
10. Peter Sutcliffe is the city’s most famous person and the reason No More Nails was invented.
11. If you sign on the dole in Bradford and DON’T own a Range Rover, you obviously haven’t filled the forms in properly.
12. The lingering impression Bradfordians have that the city is a rival to Leeds. Is it fuck, its not even close.
13. Nobody under the age of 70 will remember when Bradford actually had ANYTHING going for it. And even then it’s only because there was a war on and they got evacuated from Bradford to the countryside.
14. There's a constant need to examine your shoes for dog muck until you realise its just generally how Bradford smells.
15. When people say “Can you smell take-away?”, its actually the offal plant and the wind is blowing south-westerly.
16. Rupert Austin.
Having only in recent years moved to Bradford I can agree quite strongly with some of the "reasons" above (especially #15 - I actually work inside the "abattoir triangle". Lovely.) as I am not influenced by some sort of completely unjustified local pride, and I can only imagine the original writer of the above is of the same misfortune, and if I had to guess, I'd say this wasn't by choice and he is less than happy about it (step aside, Sigman). I am however a little disappointed that only 16 observations have been included in the list. Without even putting my mind to it I could offer a few more, such as how every plot of council owned grassy land has a horse tethered to it, how both my green wheelie bin and black wheelie bin are collected by the same bin man and are taken to the same landfill site, the fact that my neighbours think I'm a "hippy" because I recycle my glass bottles, my local Working Men's Club contains no working men - unless flogging copied DVD's or stealing to order can be classed as occupations, and that only in Bradford is "sorry I'm late, I was stuck behind a horse and cart on the roundabout" accepted as a legitimate reason for lateness by my boss. But I'll save these for another day.
Plus I have a weird OCD thing, particularly with numbers, and 16, although technically even, seems odd.
Oh, and as you may have noticed, as promised, I've changed the name of this blog. Well, if I am to keep up my squatting of this miniscule plot of the internet real estate, I think it's only fair that I at least hint at what the hell I'm actually waffling about, rather than what I originally intended to waffle about. After asking my friend Hazel what to call it, although her suggestions were all good and true ("Rant of the Day", "I Hate You All", and "Your Existence is Merely Tolerated") I decided to be a little less Emo and instead make reference to a point I made a couple of posts ago. "Simples", as I believe all the cool kids are saying these days.
16 Reasons Bradford is so Shit?
1. The M606 is the only dead-end motorway in Britain not to have a beach or a funfair at the end of it.
2. The Kirkgate Shopping Centre is there solely as a meeting place for crap parents to batter their crap kids without incurring the wrath of crap Social Services.
3. Heroin is not a drug in Bradford, its Breakfast, Dinner and Lunch.
4. Regeneration amounts to demolition and a giant crater that just keeps getting bigger. If this is the case, don’t stop at BD1, do every BD postcode (and HX3 just to be on the safe side).
5. Bradford police are just a call centre for providing crime reference numbers for insurance purposes. They are scared of the dark and have no legs or authority.
6. Only one person in your extended family needs a drivers licence, it just gets shared. Highway codes and traffic laws are optional.
7. You shouldn’t get a taxi in Bradford unless YOU know the way to where you’re going, Bradford cabbies couldn’t find a dog turd at Crufts.
8. Outside Bradford ‘Rita Sue and Bob Too’ is a film, inside Bradford it’s a fly-on-the-wall documentary.
9. G-G-Gareth Gates is from Bradford.
10. Peter Sutcliffe is the city’s most famous person and the reason No More Nails was invented.
11. If you sign on the dole in Bradford and DON’T own a Range Rover, you obviously haven’t filled the forms in properly.
12. The lingering impression Bradfordians have that the city is a rival to Leeds. Is it fuck, its not even close.
13. Nobody under the age of 70 will remember when Bradford actually had ANYTHING going for it. And even then it’s only because there was a war on and they got evacuated from Bradford to the countryside.
14. There's a constant need to examine your shoes for dog muck until you realise its just generally how Bradford smells.
15. When people say “Can you smell take-away?”, its actually the offal plant and the wind is blowing south-westerly.
16. Rupert Austin.
Having only in recent years moved to Bradford I can agree quite strongly with some of the "reasons" above (especially #15 - I actually work inside the "abattoir triangle". Lovely.) as I am not influenced by some sort of completely unjustified local pride, and I can only imagine the original writer of the above is of the same misfortune, and if I had to guess, I'd say this wasn't by choice and he is less than happy about it (step aside, Sigman). I am however a little disappointed that only 16 observations have been included in the list. Without even putting my mind to it I could offer a few more, such as how every plot of council owned grassy land has a horse tethered to it, how both my green wheelie bin and black wheelie bin are collected by the same bin man and are taken to the same landfill site, the fact that my neighbours think I'm a "hippy" because I recycle my glass bottles, my local Working Men's Club contains no working men - unless flogging copied DVD's or stealing to order can be classed as occupations, and that only in Bradford is "sorry I'm late, I was stuck behind a horse and cart on the roundabout" accepted as a legitimate reason for lateness by my boss. But I'll save these for another day.
Plus I have a weird OCD thing, particularly with numbers, and 16, although technically even, seems odd.
Oh, and as you may have noticed, as promised, I've changed the name of this blog. Well, if I am to keep up my squatting of this miniscule plot of the internet real estate, I think it's only fair that I at least hint at what the hell I'm actually waffling about, rather than what I originally intended to waffle about. After asking my friend Hazel what to call it, although her suggestions were all good and true ("Rant of the Day", "I Hate You All", and "Your Existence is Merely Tolerated") I decided to be a little less Emo and instead make reference to a point I made a couple of posts ago. "Simples", as I believe all the cool kids are saying these days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)