The Name Game

I recently was forwarded a mail by a zealous pastor commenting on the US elections. Whilst I fully agree that everyone is entitled to their own opinions I was disturbed by the playground politics angle, where he chose to associate the name McCain as "son of Cain" and place it into a biblical context to denigrate the Republican candidate. Now, I do not suport McCain even in he slightest, but it makes me angry when people in positions of influence (like the pastor) try to whip up a frenzy of fear over NOTHING!!! Good Lord, there is enough legitimate shit to bash McCain and the Republicans over, why be so pathetic as to choose his name? It just makes you look as damn stupid as those who point out Obama's middle name is "Hussein".

Anyway... you know me, I couldn't resist... here is my reply:

Dear Sir,

I was forwarded this mail by an ex-colleague and was intrigued. Whilst being from the UK I am not a registered US voter, and despite the fact that I personally would like to see Obama become President, I find your analysis of John McCain's name not only gob-smackingly ludicrous in it's assumption that a name from a non-English background would have a literal English meaning without tracing the translations, but also borderline superstitious in the assumption that the name we are born with will dictate who we are.

The commonly accepted history of the name McCain is that it is the Scots equivalent of the Irish McKean, which is itself an anglicisation of Mac Iain, or "son of Iain" - not "son of Cain"!. With Iain / Ian being a variation of John the surname McCain is essentially the same as the surname Johnson. Another less likely origin is that it is a contraction of "McCathan", meaning "son of a warrior" which, whilst perhaps ironic in this case, certainly does not make all McCains violent!

But if you are going to judge a man on his name have you considered where the name Obama comes from? The surname Obama appears when the Europeans colonised Africa and enforced family names on tribes who had, until then, only had first names. What most did was (as in our own cultures) take their fathers name as a surname (I believe the word "surname" derives from the idea that it was your "sire's name" anyway), which in this case was first bestowed on Barack Obama's grandfather. The name is taken from the Luo verb meaning "to be twisted" or "to be slightly bent", probably relating to a deformity that B.O.'s great-grandfather may have been born with. In any case "twisted" and "bent" are two connotations with which the Senator probably would rather not be associated!

Please, please... vote Obama. But do not be so childish as to take McCain to task over his name! It just makes the whole thing petty.

Cheers m'dears!

Bah Humbug!

You all know I'm a miserable cunt when it comes to Christ-almighty-when-the-fuck-will-this-nightmare-end-mas, and I'm not about to change for any of you wankers. So fuck off, the lot of you!

Cheers m'red-nosed-reindeers!

On the Dole

In the current piece by Clairwil, about her hairdo, she makes some mention of the DSS (Department of Social Services) in the UK, which brought back a few memories that I have decided to share...

My first job on leaving school (I didn't go to Uni straight away) was actually working at the DSS (or rather the ESJ - Employment Service Jobcentre - as it was called at that point). I never graduated to be one of those desk jockeys who 'jobseekers' had to explain themselves to, I just did the signings for dole money and sometimes worked on the job search desk.

One thing that struck me was that everyone always banged on about the lazy youngsters who were happy on the dole or who were working and signing on, yet for the most part I saw young people genuinely desperate to get a job - to be able to move out of home, settle with a girlfriend, whatever. Those who came in dragging their feet actually tended to be those who had been made redundant from middle-management in their late-forties and who had adopted an "I'm better than this" attitude... those who were often the ones moaning about the young scroungers!Yet I felt sympathetic to them too - it's a bitch of an age to become unemployed, to be deemed 'obsolete'.

Since then I have been on the other side of that desk more times than I care to remember and, frankly, I find it humiliating. I hated having to queue up for cash that was barely able to sustain a bloody gerbil, especially when I was able and willing to work. It's depressing feeling your mind rotting as it goes unused... but, having worked at the ESJ and having a sense of ethics, I was always honest about my earnings. Until.......

Being the go-getter I was I signed on to a temp agency and secured a week long assignment pretty much straight away. Over the course of the week I would earn a half-decent wage and, although I would lose a weeks dole money and housing benefit, I would be a bit better off and feel able to hold my head high. Or so I thought, until I went in and declared my earnings...

My signing on day was a Wednesday. As such the week that I worked had stretched across TWO weeks of benefits. The amount earned was enough to cancel out my dole money for both those weeks. I looked at the figures and I was still slightly better off so, despite feeling this was a little unfair, I let it ride. Then my housing benefit envelope arrived...

...with no cheque, just a letter. As I had been signed off as working for two weeks I was no longer entitled to housing benefit for that month. I quickly did the maths and worked out that, with all my enthusiasm for work and my honesty and integrity, I was actually quite a bit worse off than I would have been had I just sat at home watching daytime TV.

So I will come clean. Since then, whenever I have been on the dole, I have not shied away from earning a few pounds here and there doing odd jobs for mates without declaring it. If I have had longer term or reasonably well paid contracts then, yes, I have told the relevant people - I am, at heart, an honest man - but I won't be shat on like that again for doing the right thing. Oh, and on one occasion I deliberately failed an interview that the ESJ had sent me to because I knew that it would lead to exactly the same situation.

So in their eagerness to clamp down on those abusing the system the bureaucrats have inadvertently created new abusers, ones who don't actually want to cheat or lie but who are getting the shitty end of the stick if they don't. Do they even realise that they are partly to blame...?

Cheers m'dears!

I hateses it, I do...

I hate people who get lazy and rehash old posts on their blogs to make it look like they have actually created some output. But, then again, I fucking hate Hallowe'en more... so here is what I said about it last year in my post entitled "Shallowe'en"...

"Call me a miserable old cunt, but I really hate Hallowe'en. Seeing all the twats dressed up wandering around pubs in devil horns and black capes thinking they look so cool and 'fun-loving'... bollocks, you look like wankers. Especially those men who use it as an excuse to dress as a schoolgirl. Look, I have no problem with cross-dressing or anything, but just admit who the fuck you are for the rest of the year too. Don't use this one solitary night as an excuse to let your repressed urges out. It's just sad.

And all that "trick or treat" bullshit... what does it actually teach our kids? That it's okay to go around essentially threatening old folks. "Give us some sweets or we'll do something bad to you" - that's what it translates as. And to do it all whilst hidden behind masks? It's Dick Turpin and his ilk all over again - "Stand and deliver, your money or your life"! Fucking bastards..."

(as posted at http://averagetosser.blogspot.com/2006/10/shalloween.html )

Over on her blog FatMammyCat expresses a love for the "Holiday" (although as All Hallows Day is actually today, November the 1st, perhaps it is then that is the "Holy-day"?). She says that it is nice because it is a short one... Bollocks. That's only because she doesn't live in Sinless City where it's been going all fucking week. Still at least we don't have to put up with a teddy-bear wearing a Jason Vorhees mask as a "Guy" on November 5th (Guy Fawkes night, to all you non-Brits). There's nothing like a good celebration of burning Catholics, is there...

Cheers m'dears!

Criminal Pettiness

Sinless City is a small place, in the grand scheme of things, despite it's inflated sense of self-importance. But it is a world leader (or certainly highly ranked) in many fields so it's ego is just about acceptable. One thing that seriously lets the place down, however, is the national press - not so much the articles and editorial (as biased as they usually are) but the Letters to the Editor.

Now, in Scotland there is a rag called The Daily Record, a paper I often used to buy when I lived in England simply because it was the only one with decent coverage of Scots football. In the letters to the editor in that publication you would often find quite pathetic gripes and parochial matters more suited to a weekly local paper than a national daily. But nothing, not one thing, compares to the crap that people feel compelled to write about to the Daily Propaganda, Sinless City's national broadsheet.

Okay, to be fair we have recently had a very worthy debate raging about the repeal of a law criminalising homosexuality. THAT is something deserving of national media! But last week, amidst all the passionate arguments, one letter caught my eye...

I did tear it out with the intention of reprinting it on this blog but, unfortunately, it has disappeared... so instead I will have to give you the gist of the content, which somewhat lessens the absurdity factor but should at least make the point.

This woman was complaining about bad behaviour in restaurants. Was it smoking that bothered her? The attitude of staff? Hygiene issues? No... the thing that disgusted her so much that she absolutely had to vent her anger to the whole nation was the way that people squeezed their napkin and hot towel packets to open them, creating a "pop" sound in the process.

Two words for you. Path. Etic. I know that, technically, that should only be one word but I feel that this case is deserving of the space in between the syllables.

My god, there are some cunts out there...

Cheers m'dears!

Spam, spam, spam, scam...

I received this e-mail today:

"Attention,the irish gaming board has held an online draw.the online draw is normally held once a month (october) and your email address has been selected along side five other winners,
contact coordinator: DR Sean Lennon (seanlennon_claimsagent10@yahoo.co.uk )
file in your claims below as you have won one million three hundred and fifty thousand euros

Name;
Telephone:
Address:
Country/position:"

Now (even ignoring the fact that the grammar is fucking appalling) we all know that crap like this is a scam... or at least you would think we do. Yet dozens of people fall for them - usually the elderly, who are often less in tune with technology and more accepting of what they are told via it. And it fair fucks me off! So I replied...

Oh, I know I am not supposed to, that it opens the door to more of the same (etc., etc.), but once in a while I feel the need to just get arsey. So I sent back my details, as follows....

"Name; Mr U. R. Acunt
Telephone: 0800 FUCK-YOU
Address: 69 Youmustthinkimstupid Street
Country/position: Uranus"

Not the wittiest reply, but I feel better. And if anyone else would like to join me in return spamming DR Sean Lennon (seanlennon_claimsagent10@yahoo.co.uk ) please feel free to cut and paste my reply, or make up your own. Even better... why not forward all the other spam you receive to DR Sean Lennon (seanlennon_claimsagent10@yahoo.co.uk ), give him a taste of his own. That's DR Sean Lennon (seanlennon_claimsagent10@yahoo.co.uk ), by the way. He's a cunt.

Cheers m'dears!

(DR Sean Lennon (seanlennon_claimsagent10@yahoo.co.uk ))

Hasta la vista, baby!

Microsoft are cunts. Utter, utter cunts. Money-grabbing, time-wasting, monopolistic cunts!

It started a couple of months back when i bought my first computer. Yes, you read that right - my first computer. Until now all my blogging and other computer-related activities have relied on computers at net-cafes and work, as well as the sloooow one my mate Horlicks has. But my new job needed me to have a laptop so I bought one. Granted, it was a cheap one, so I have no right to expect speed or a massive memory for storing porn, but I should be able to expect to do basic office-type work on it hassle free, shouldn't I? Not according to fucking Microshit...

You see, all new computers now come with Windows Vista as their operating system. No choice in the matter, that's just how it is now. Having encountered the frustration that is Vista once before I was not hugely enamoured with the idea but I thought "What the hell... about time this ol' carcass was dragged into the 21st Century. Can't be that bad, right?"... fucking Micuntsoft!

It was only at home that I discovered that Vista does not come with Office as standard. No spreadsheet, no word processor... nothing that 99.999% of computer owners use on a regular basis. All I needed the thing for, aside from net access, was those two applications, but all I got from the fuckers was a 60-day trial version of the "new-improved" Windows Office... *sigh*. "Okay, I can live with this... use the trial for 60 days, during which time I have to save up enough to rival the economic spending power of a small country in order to pay for the full version. That should suffice for now, right?"... fucking My-cock's-soft!

I soon discovered that this spanking new Office wouldn't let me do simple tasks I had taken for granted (adjusting spreadsheet margins on the 'Print View' screen; Ctrl + Y to repeat an action; etc....). What the fuck? Why not? Why make a new version less usable than the previous ones? Then a friend pointed out that as this is the trial version it probably deliberately does not allow you to do these things, as blackmail - sorry, 'encouragement' - to buy the full version straight away. Now this, to me, is stupid. Isn't that what the time limit is there for? Why give out an inadequate tool? Doesn't really make me want to get the whole package... I would say it's akin to getting a free trial sachet of washing powder that does pretty much everything except get your clothes clean. "Try our brand - it smells great and bubbles nicely, but if you actually want to remove general dirt from your garments you'll need to buy the full packet".

Now, add in to this the fact that when I tried to open Word and Excel files that other people sent me I discovered that they are not compatible with my software. Neither are my files compatible with older Windows systems. They even have different suffixes. All of which makes the wonderful new and improved Office facility completely fucking useless to me.

Oh, and speaking of incompatabilities, my printer/scanner is also now of less use than the Scotland rugby squad, despite being less than two years old. I was given it a year ago, still in its packaging, by neighbours who were leaving the country, although my lack of computing facilities meant that it stayed in the box until now. Where it will also be returning shortly.

All in all I have wasted about 60% of my work time and another 30% of my free time this last week trying to decipher instruction manuals, following software upload procedures that result in "Unable to complete" messages, e-mailing tech support and getting answers to completely different questions from those I had actually asked and generally hurling obscenities at the wankers who designed all this. Fucking Microbrains!

Which is why I am not typing this from my laptop but from Lovely's, which has an older, more sensible version of Windows. And also why I have had to lock all my windows, lest I hurl it out of one of them in a fit of Anti-Gatesism...

Cheers m'dears!

What does TB stand for...?

In this case perhaps Total Bastard, although I would like to go further and state this for the record - Andrew Speaker, you are a cunt. After travelling on two transatlantic flights whilst diagnosed with a particularly bad strain of contagious, highly drug-resistant, tuberculosis you have the gall to express your dissatisfaction at the way the authorities have handled your situation. Well, I'm sorry but your dissatisfaction is nothing compared to what others could have felt if they had caught TB because of your selfish actions.

I understand the fact that you were geting married and going on honeymoon, and you didn't want to ruin the 'best day of your life'. But did you ever stop to consider how many other peoples entire lives you might have ruined? The fact that no-one appears to have contracted TB (yet) is irrelevant - they could have. In fact - and I am aware of how extreme this sounds, but it is true nonetheless - you could have started an epidemic.

I say it again. Andrew Speaker - you are a cunt!

Cheers m'dears!

Lost in Translation #02

No Common Censor

Censorship in Sinless City takes a bit of getting used to. This is a country where cigarette packets bear pictorial health warnings with such graphic images as rotted feet and a dead foetus yet the London Financial Times has to place a little black square over the naughty bits on a photograph... of a statue. This is also a country where mindless violence is the order of the day on TV but they get scissor happy when BBC sitcom 'My Family' shows a husband cuddling his wife on a bed. Of course, I would opine that 'My Family' would benefit from several other cuts, but that's by the by.

Language, though - that's a whole other thing. Despite my initial shock at the word 'shit' being bandied around all over the place in a stage play for primary school kids I soon accepted that this word was not considered offensive here. It is, instead, purely descriptive, and the play was talking about bird faeces. On the other hand I will never, ever understand why the TV company decided it needs to bleep the word penis, a legitimate name of a body part... or (and I shit you not here) why they bleeped the first half of the accessory item "bum-bag" (that's a 'fanny-pack' in the States).

But these all register only mild surprise next to what I witnessed last night. Watching 'The Sopranos' on local TV is a very musical experience, with every other word bleeped. But you get used to it... it goes something like -

"Paulie, don't be a ****ing mother****er and pass me the ****ing gun before I **** **** you with my **** and pull your **** off. You ****!"

So you can imagine my disbelief when Tony uttered the phrase "She's a cunt"... completely uncensored.

Now, leaving aside the mirth that State-siders using that word always induces in me (I'm sorry, but there is something about US accents that just causes that word to lose some punch!), I was completely floored! Did I hear that correctly? Gosh-darn it, I think I did!

After an evening spent wondering how THAT word could have slipped past the censors and creating conspiracy theories in my head about some rebellious TV censor starting a cultural revolution I came in to work today and mentioned it to a colleague. "Oh, yeah" she said, with an air of disinterest. "That never gets censored. Pretty much no-one understands what that word means".

Cue me calling everyone a cunt all day...

Cheers m'cunts!

Are ad-men simply basket-cases?

The current advert for televised basketball in Sinless City has the suitably gravelly voice-over solemnly declaring that "Success awaits those who get up one more time than they fall". Sounds good... sounds inspiring... sounds butch... sounds - wait a minute! That's fucking impossible!!

Go on, try it. Fall down a few times, counting them, and also count how many times that you get back up again. I guarrantee it will be the same number. Unless you remain prone on your last fall, which will be the opposite of what the advertisement is trying to say. It is physically impossible to get up twice when you only fell once... and so on.

Stupid cunts.

Cheers m'dears!

Valentines Day and the Card Companies...

... can fuck right off 'n' all. Cunts.

A short lecture to the following persons:

1) All you people who stand side by side on the escalator blocking the through-route for those of us whose underground trains are actually at the platform.

2) All you people who think that the turnstiles and the ends of the escalators in underground stations are the perfect places to congregate and chat.

3) All you people who get on to the underground train and then stop, at the entrance, because you are now on - despite there being a dozen people behind you who would also like to board.

4) All you people that sit on the underground trains playing very loud music on your mp3 'phones without using headphones.

5) All those people who think that it is perfectly acceptable to allow their child to sprawl across 3 seats when the train is jam-packed.

And lastly, 6) The surly teen who jumped into the seat that I had literally just vacated for a frail old lady and then sneered and shrugged his shoulders when I took him to task - you know who you are.

................

You're all cunts.



Here endeth the lesson.

Cheers m'dears!

Aholic-gate!

In today's society of addiction and greed we regularly hear about shopaholics, chocaholics, workaholics, sexaholics and any other type of "-aholic" you care to invent. But this randomly adding "-aholic" onto the end of a word has a tiny little flaw. IT MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE!

Okay, this all derives from the term 'alcoholic', as in someone who is addicted to alcohol. So it's alcohol - ic. So why the hell is someone who is addicted to shopping called a shopaholic when the should be called a shoppingic? I mean, an alcoholic isn't someone addicted to alc's, are they? Why create the addiction suffix by culling a large portion of a word that itself has fuck all to do with the addiction? And even if you do, why is it "-aholic" and not "-oholic"? Alcoholism is an addiction to alcohol, not alcahol. They're alcoholics, not alcaholics.

I cannot quite explain why, but this blatant disregard for the way in which words are built annoys the living crap out of me. If I was an alcoholic I would turn around to all those other cunts and give them a piece of my drunken mind... "Oi! You there, fatso! Yes, you with the brown sticky stuff oozing down your fingers. You are not a chocoholic. Leave my addiction-title alone and get your own. From now on you are a chocolatic. Don't argue, bollock-face! Just admit it - it makes much more sense. I am reclaiming the 'hol' to reunite it with it's 'alco', and don't you dare try to stop me!"

And while I'm on the subject, why is every political incident now labelled something-gate? All this butchery of words must be part of a conspiracy by fuckwits to overthrow the English language and replace it with gobbledygook! Let's call it "fuck-wit-gate", that'll be nice and snappy...

... hey! Could the people who insist on putting 'gate' at the end of every singly political story be refferred to as "gateaholics"? Or should we keep it snappy and just continue to use "cunts"?

Cheers m'dears!

Who is B.U.M. Tosser 2006?

The results of the music quiz are finally in! And, in reverse order, they are as follows...

In joint 3rd place we have Flying Rodent and Monstee, on a very respectable 6 points each.

Just pipping them with 7 points, in 2nd place is Gabs (send me a link and I'll add it in...)

And the winner, on a magnificent 11 points, is FMC (with a little bit of help from the paramour and her sister!). A banner for you to display proudly will be sent to you in due time, so you can let everyone know that you are officially B.U.M. Tosser 2006!

Well done to all, and thanks to everyone who took part - a full list of scores and all the answers (including those that went unsolved) can be found on the original post.


Right, now that's over with... check this out! It makes me laugh! You can't Hassle the Hoff!

And a brief message to Clairwil, who has had a spot of bother recently with some arseholes being cuntish on her site... did wonders for the hit-count, apparently... but remember this, Clairwil - Never argue with an idiot. They will only drag you down to their level and then beat you on experience...!

Cheers m'dears!

Six Degrees of Alienation

As Mick Jagger once sang, "Tah-ah-ah-ime is on my side, yes it i-is!" - and, no... that is not an answer to the still-ongoing quiz. No, today I have answered all my e-mails, paid my bills, read all the blogs I link to (and I had a fair bit of catching up, I have to say!) and... well, run out of shit to do. So I decided to try out an idea I had a while back, a numbered blog-crawl. The idea is, you choose any of the links you have on your blog, work out what number link that is, and visit it. You read it (if you haven't already) and then count down the exact same number on that blogs links. And so on, and so forth... the idea hopefully being that you might find some fun new places to visit. After all, I like all the blogs I list, and most of them like me... it should stand to reason that I will like a lot of what they like, etc... shouldn't it?

The one thing I decided was that I wasn't going to count banner links or any self referencing ones (ie, older posts)... just your average 'blogs I like to visit' shit. So, let's start at the very begining, as Julie Andrews once warbled... it's a fucking good place to start. Okay, that wouldn't quite have been her words but they work well for my Numero Uno link...

1) Hotrocks, home of the sporadic Mr Brewski... his first link is to the Curmudgeon, Philip Chalinor, who I also already link to... Mr C then links first to Robert Aickman - an appreciation. All very nice, but it's a dead end with no further links. Great start, McShae! Let's try from link number 2 instead...

2) Dr Maroon's Cape to Rio... link 2 to Anti-Barney, another mutual chum... link 2 to... Google News? WTF? Back to square one, and link number 3...

3) ...which is, again, Anti Barney... his link number 3 is to Kim Ayres (how incestuous is this community!?)... link 3 to The Quiet Storm and a slightly scary yet fascinating post about coping with migraines by tying zip-locked bags of ice to your head. This is more like it! Now I'm getting out and about! Link 3 from here is... "This Page Cannot Be Found". Bollocks.

4) Straight back into the arms of Kim, whose link number 4 takes us this time to Callum and Kieran and a mildly diverting post about a missing crayon that, whilst potentially in the hands of a 2-year old, retains all the panic-power of Iran going nuclear. Nice enough... 4th link from here is I Thought I Was Driving, whose post 'Failure to Blog' looked like it was written by someone totally exhausted, and had the same power on me... There was absolutely nothing wrong with it, it just didn't grab me. But then it's all horses for courses, right?

5) On to Foot Eater's gaff, The Fishwhacker Swindle?, and his number 5, another familiar link... Bogol, by the incomprehensible Arlington Hynes. His number 5? another old sidebar-pal, Dr Evil... and a perhaps unsurprising link to Dangerous Laboratories. Unfortunately from here the trail once more goes cold.

6) El Barbudo is my link number 6, and from there... well, it was always a possibility I suppose. The mutual arse-lick fest reaches a peak when I discover that his link number 6 takes me right back here to Random Drivel. I'm begining to wonder if any of us actually know anyone else outside our own corner of the blog-iverse...

7) Horses Ass Pub, landlady one Ms Andraste (who's real name shall not be revealed... snigger!). She's doing a nice line in educating us heathens in the world of fine art at the moment, but I've already been here today and seen the picture, so time to move on to her link number 7 - Dead Pan Ann. A post about buying CD's , something close to my heart! Never heard of the first band she mentions (must be losing my touch) but I will take her recommendation on the Dylan album. I like him anyway. We're going to have to disagree about The Killers though. I'm a big fan...

But I digress... from there I get to Ramblings of a Redneck Diva, who talks about a school shooting - this is news to me, the first I have heard about it. Have these things become so commonplace in the States now that no-one bothers to report them anywhere else? It does strike me as unusual when on most days, even here in Asia, I can read in the Daily Propoganda whet Dubya had for breakfast. Saying that, her post doesn't dwell on that one incident and is instead a by turns chilling and heart-wrenching look into parents nightmare scenarios. Which made my visit to her link number 7 all the more of a surprise.

Initially I was struck by the title, Scotland of the Soul, wondering just how we Jocks had managed to become so prolific at this end of blog-land. But as soon as the blog opened my eyes were instantly drawn to one thing... the "I Stand With Israel" banner in the top right corner. Screw not counting banners. Screw only clicking the 7th link. I had to check... and I got here. My views on that are a whole other post just waiting to explode... I read the comments on the Jack Lewis site with interest, especially where it notes that Israel's enemies are killing innocent Israelis. Yes, they are. But to stand with Israel when it commits the exact same crime, killing the innocents on the other side of the fence. That's fucking blind, man. Fucking warped.

When you get used to blogging to all your online mates it's often easy to forget that you're only 6 degrees of seperation from shit like this.

Somone make me a fucking banner. I want it to say "I Stand With The Innocent Victims".

...as for the blogging by numbers thing? I lost the taste for it after that...

Cheers m'dears!

Boom! Shake, shake, shake the room / train / lift / etc...

TSsss TSsss TSsss TSsss...

Annoying, isn't it...?

TSsss TSsss TSsss TSsss...

The tinny drumbeat that emanates from the headphones of that inconsiderate bastard next to you on the bus / train / merry-go-round...

TSsss TSsss TSsss TSsss...

Still, at least it drastically reduced the number of arseholes who would parade down the street with a boom-box on their shoulders, blasting out their favoured musical genre to the whole world whether we liked it or not. And for that I choose to be thankful.

Oh, I know how off-putting it can be whilst trying to do your suduko / crossword / join-the-dots, and how even more annoying it can be when you half-recognise the song being played and just can't quite figure it out. Personally, however, I would rather that than having your whole world drowned out by music rendered unlistenable by having been played so loud on a crappy battery-powered player that the speakers have blown and the whole sound is distorted.

But wait... now we have a new menace... the dreaded MP3 'phone! Of course, at first this was no different than your average MP3 or personal CD player in that it came equipped with headphones and all you got was the same tinny beat. But then people realised that if the earpiece on your 'phone is loud enough to for you to speak on 'loudspeaker', then...

No, you motherfuckers! No, No, No, No, NO! Sitting opposite me on the tube, ambling behind me down the street, even walking into my school office (Try that one more time, boy, and you'll be scrubbing the bastard toilets in detention!)... If I wanted to hear the music you are listening to I would have bought the bloody CD or downloaded it onto my computer, where I can listen to it properly. And when I say 'properly' I mean 'being able to actually hear and understand the fucking thing'! Because that crappy little speaker in your 'phone? it is just as distorted and useless for music as the aforementioned overpowered boom-box.

The thing comes with fucking headphones, for Christ's sake! Why make me hear your (often lousy) choice of music when I would be content with just...

TSsss TSsss TSsss TSsss...

Cheers m'dears!

Televisual Tossery

So what happened to the good old days of the BBC? Auntie Beeb, giving us slice by slice of glorious British life through those twin delights of Comedy and Drama... astounding us with documentaries explaining just how bizarre and un-British the rest of the world was... and, of course, informing us of how wonderful our country was and what rotten Johnny Foreigner was up to through its unrivalled news service. An era when programming started at 8.37am sharp and ended at bedtime, 6.02pm, with a pride-inducing blast of 'God Save The Queen' (followed by a rousing chorus of 'Knees Up Mother Brown' on every third Sunday). An innocent age when the licence fee cost thruppence and ha'penny and the Radio Times came with a digestive biscuit each week as a free gift... *Sigh*, the good old days...!

Of course that was all back in the days of my childhood when we only had BBCs 1 and 2 and their ruffian of a neighbour, ITV. Nowadays there is Satellite, Cable... you name it. And even those Neanderthal-minded technophobes who can still only receive terrestrial channels have had their quota upped with the emergence of Channels 4 and 5. All of which has sadly led to a demise in programming, leading us to be force-fed such travesties as Pop Idol and Big Brother whilst inanities like "Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps" are laughingly bestowed the rank of 'Comedy'. Even the Grand Old Soap Operas, once the bastion of British Televisual Entertainment, have had the credibility of their storylines stretched far too far by an insistence that they air 27 times a week.

Surely things can get no worse? Surely there is no more room for utter shite on television? I mean, surely the only way broadcasting could stoop any lower would be to show, oh... I don't know... a marathon masturbation session, for example - literally, a load of wank.

Oh no they wouldn't...!?

Oh yes they fucking would!

Channel 4 - the land that good taste ran like buggery from...

Cheers m'dears!

A Condemnation...

This is just a quickie to register my disgust at the fucking morons who have been making the headlines recently. There is a rivalry between Scotland and England, and a history of antagonism between the two, and as a Scot I suppose I am biased in these affairs. But nothing - nothing at all - excuses the behaviour of the utter cunt who punched a 7 year old boy for wearing an England top in a Scots park. A fully grown (I use that phrase as an indicator of size, not mentality) man walking up to a wee lad and telling him "This is Scotland, not fucking England" before punching him to the ground? Whoever you are you are a cunt of the highest degree and if I ever found you out I'd be there with a fucking tyre iron in a flash...

Add that to twat number 2 who dragged a man out of his car for wearing an England top and beat the shit out of him. The fact that he was disabled (as the papers keep pointing out) is irrelevant - it simply should not have happened. The victim has been quick to point out that it was an unusual incident and he spent that evening (black-eye and all) in the bar watching England play Sweden with his Scots pals. Apparently they were supporting Sweden, but he himself happily states that this is "just friendly banter"... unlike the guy he'd encountered only hours earlier.

This all comes hot on the heels of Scotland being praised for the way it has (on the whole) welcomed the growing immigrant population who are moving over, especially the Poles. It really fucking distresses me to see a couple of wankers drag the rest of the nation through the mud...

...but hold your horses, Tony Blair. Blaming the Tartan Army is not right. They are an organisation with proper membership and have a sterling reputation the world over. To lump all Scots fans in with these two bastards does a disservice, but especially the Tartan Army when there is no proof that either perpetrator is a member.

And a message to the Sun newspaper... do you really think you help the situation whan you state that it's a good thing that on average the Scots die younger than the English? Typical tabloid press, fanning the fucking flames!

Cheers m'dears!

'Nuff said...

My Kingdom for a Restraining Order....

Excuse me, cuntface... yes, that's right. I am talking to you. Look, I can live with the fact that even though I had to queue up for 15 minutes for my cinema ticket you deem it perfectly acceptable to cut in line because your friend just happened to be nearer the front. But little do I realise that you being in front of me is going to have farther-reaching implications...

So now I join the equally monotonous queue for snacks to discover that you are right in front of me again. I ignore your nasally whine as you chat to your companion about all kinds of shit you clearly know nothing about as I figure, "what the hell - she might be thick enough to fall for your smarm, and everyone deserves a chance at love". Yes, even a cynic like me can have a romantic side... More difficult to ignore, however, is the overpowering stench of your fucking awful cheap aftershave which hits the back of my throat so hard that the wait for a measly bottle of overpriced water is almost unbearable... But I keep quiet. After all, who am I to pick on you for your personal choices... and maybe the girl has a deeply impaired sense of smell that you are trying to penetrate as a display of your affection.

However, you shit-for-brains little fuckwit, 5 minutes queueing is ample time to work out what size popcorn and flavour drink you want. You, of course, have now reached the counter and turned around whining "oh, I don't even know" whilst your companion compliments this display with the obligatory "oh, you choose" and twenty people behind me start grinding their teeth. We are all acutely aware that the film (not the programme, the actual film) is due to start in 2 minutes and your dithering, you wankstain, is fucking monumentally unacceptable. So we wait, impatiently, as you eventually empty your wallet to pay for your own bodyweight in popcorn, sweets, drinks and nachos. Now, finally, it's my turn - watch and learn whilst I quickly order my "combo number 2, cola and salted please" and pay with the correct change that I had already taken from my wallet, even though it is now sweaty in my palm having waited so long for you. Thirty seconds later, I'm out...

...of the frying pan and right back into the fire. Because, as fate would have it, I am once more behind you heading into Screen 1. And of course the clever little man you are, armed with such foresight, you have decided to keep your tickets in your wallet, in a pocket that is damn near inaccesible to you because you are now so laden down with several years supply of snacks. This is getting all too much, I think as I hear the last of the adverts die away and notice that the lights inside are begining to dim. I offer to hold something for you... you look at me like I am some kind of serial child rapist. Well, fuck you, that's it, get out of my motherfucking way. No, I will not apologise for the six pieces of popcorn that fall to the ground as I brush past you, since they will be perfectly happy to join the dozens of other pieces that you had managed to drop whilst I was still several feet away.

At last, to my seat, getting comfy, studio logo slowly appearing on the screen... and your by now familiar head bobbing around as you also take your seat... right in front of me. If this had ever been even vaguely amusing it certainly isn't fucking funny anymore. STOP FUCKING TALKING! It's started, you twat! "What, no commercials? I like the commercials" you say to your friend. A desperate struggle erupts deep inside me as the beast within attempts to scream the words "GET HERE FUCKING EARLIER, THEN, AND SAVE US ALL THE HASSLE" into your ear. But this anger quickly gives way to sheer incredulity as out comes the mobile 'phone. I start to pray...

Okay, you are decent enough not to actually talk into it, and the ringtone is on silent... I will credit you with that level of intelligence. But when you text the light comes on - a light usually fairly unobtrusive in the sunshine or under fluorescent tubes but blindingly and distractingly obvious in a darkened cinema. Come on, for fucks sake! You're on a date watching a film that you've paid good money for... who is it that important to text? Or are you gleefully telling your friends that your date hasn't bolted yet!? And are they texting back telling you to stick your knob through the bottom of the popcorn box?

All told you have made this cinema experience one of the most miserable I have ever had. In fact, your one saving grace is that you aren't the woman five rows back who has decided to bring her crying two year old to see X-Men 3. And to her I have only one thing to say. GET A BABYSITTER, BITCH!

Cheers m'dears!