Category: Rant

Seriously, what is this country coming to?

The flag of the United Kingdom (3:5 Army version).

Or, perhaps, what has it already gone to? I’ve only been back her a week or so and I’m sick of the place already. Don’t get me wrong, life up in Perth with the folks is laid back and relaxed. But there are things which just don’t feel right and news stories that are driving me nuts.

A daft one to start with. All of the bins along the main road into Perth have been removed. If there’s somewhere you expect to see a bin, it’s by a bus stop. They’ve all gone. So rather than pay someone to empty them, someone’s decided that they’ll just take them away. Maybe they’ll be replaced, but I doubt that very much. I might look into this and see if the council have an answer.

[Update: the bins are back – new ones. So only bad planning, not a removal of a public service]

Then there’s a budget and the general economic mess. Gordon Brown refusing to apologise and people making more fuss over some potential letters to “smear” some other sleazeballs. As if we don’t have enough problems without parlimentarians calling each other names. Pathetic. I wouldn’t trust these overgrown schoolchildren to cook their own dinner, let alone run a country.

The decision to only allow about 100 Gurkhas to apply for residence is a complete disgrace as well. We hand out millions each year to lazy, good-for-nothing, workshy filth who can’t even be bothered to look for a job… and turn our backs on people who fought for our country every bit as bravely as any British soldier. Disgusting. I don’t think there are words strong enough for me to describe how repugnant we must seem to push them away as we are.

If we’re bothered about “thousands” of people trying to move here then the solution is simple. Check their military record and if they were a Gurkha, let them in. And stop giving money to the chavs who just spend it all on drugs, booze, fags, crappy gold jewellery and Sky TV. Let those ******** starve until they find a job. That’s not what these brave men fought for, nor my grandad, nor anyone else.

And a final one. Just one incident, but similar things have happened before, and recently. A young girl, 11 years old, shot while queuing for an ice cream on Merseyside. The shooter described as being about 16 or 17 years old. Shot her then cycled away.

What. The. ****.

I am so thankful she seems to be OK as far as shooting victims go, but it just staggers me that something like that can happen in this country. An isolated incident, a one-off by a loony.. OK. But this kid was part of a gang, and it’s happened in the past. How can this keep happening?

In a week that’s seen St George‘s go by with barely a blip outside of some mentions on Twitter and the like, I should have been proud – for a day – to be English. Instead, I’m ashamed. Not to be English as such. But of the state my country has fallen into.

Yes, I know England‘s just one part of Britain but I see myself as both English (born) and British (bred). They are, to a large extent, one and the same to me. And I’m saddened at the state I find both of them in now.

Is it too late to dig ourselves out of this hole? I genuinely think it is, short of some kind of major upheaval in the social and political systems of this country. We need someone in charge who’s not afraid to strip away the last 40 years and get back to some serious basics. Strip people of a lot of their “rights” (criminals, chavs, filth who run our streets, politicians…) and make people realise that they can’t get away with this any more.

Because right now they can. And will. And do.

And that’s just not good enough for my country.

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Post Office Piss Off

P1170269
Vucking Rubbish

Today the Post Office (and therefore it’s four subsidiaries) announced that it was in the black for the first time in four years. Incredible given the current economic climate, but perhaps not so surprising given its still near-monopoly position in a lost of cases.

However, I can tell you one thing that they’ve managed to do which would explain their financial stead-footedness: they’re ******* ****. Still.

I’ve railed on about the post before, and today I found another example. Last week I ordered some laptop memory from a company called Offtek. I had it sent recorded delivery and expected it in a couple of days, maybe a week as the post at Leah’s is particularly ****. I think Hanoi is the only other place I’ve been with such regularly inexplicable delays.

I remember from one argument a few years ago, that the Post Office now promise to deliver your mail by midday (remember when you got it before breakfast?), yet Leah’s arrives around 13:30 each day. Not that it makes any difference to someone who’s working as they won’t be in to collect anything that requires a signature anyway.

Regardless, I got an email from a member of staff at Offtek earlier. My package had been bounced back to them as the postie couldn’t find the right letterbox and gave up. For ****’s sake. Without giving her address away, Leah lives on the third floor of a 3-floor block of flats. There are two flats on each floor.

The address on the package was “Flat 3/2”. Now, this could mean two things – third floor, second flat; or third flat, second floor. As the latter simply doesn’t exist you’d think the obvious reasoning therefore is that it must be the former.

Remember that the package was recorded delivery, so someone would have to sign for it anyway. This means they could double-check. And if nobody was there to receive it, then they’d have to provide ID to pick it up at the parcel depot.

So why the **** did it end up being returned to sender? Oh, that’s right. Because the Post Office is ******* ****.

I do know someoe who works as a post-person and I don’t think she’s that stupid, so perhaps we just have a particularly workshy, brain-starved YTS-er working here. Either way, it’s bloody frustrating as I’d really like the chance to burn in the memory before I bugger off to Thailand next Tuesday.

As it is, Offtek very kindly agreed to re-send it to Andy down in London for me. And they reckon it’ll get to him tomorrow when he’s working from home. All at no additional cost to me. So thank you, Offtek. Assuming the memory works you’ll be getting a very rare recommendation from yours truly!

The Post Office, on the other hand, can **** off. I don’t care if you’re doing well if the reason for doing so is that your service is ****.

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When I rule the world

User:J.J.

Well, the UK at least. Come on, I can’t do a worse job that that fuckit who’s in charge at the moment that nobody voted for.

I’ve got a ton of ideas and I’ve listed them before but I’ve come up with another to add to the list. It’s a nice simple one. You know how the scrotes from the council estates who live off your tax money always go on about how everyone has to be polite to them? Shop workers, benefit officers, council staff and so on? And if they’re not then they complain and get recompense and apologies and waste more money and time?

Well, fight back time. All council staff will have a simple class in how to be insulting. Only those with a sharp with will be hired. People who can cut someone down verbally with barely a bat of the eyelid and who don’t mind putting someone in their place. Staff will be actively encouraged to tell someone they’re a “******* workshy waste of space” and that until they tidy up their pit of a garden and repaint the doorframes of the house they’ve been given they can “whistle for your ******* dole money, you ****“.

Make them learn that respect is earned and that being a dole-scrounging chav wanktard puts you right down the bottom of the list of people who deserve it. Somehow connecting money and respect may give these shitstains a ******* clue. It’s the only thing they seem to understand. Take away the stuff they get for nothing and watch their entire crappy lifestyle fall apart to the point where they might actually get off their bastard arses and ******* wash.

Or top themselves.

I’m happy to accept either.

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Coffee ‘n’ sugar

Coffee sugar

I don’t like coffee. I love the smell, will eat coffee cake and – although they’re not my favourite by any stretch – I’ll even eat coffee creams. However, it’s not a drink I enjoy.

To whit, another in my extremely limited series of culinary hints and tips:

How to make a cup of coffee in a shared kitchen

1) Use a ******* dry teaspoon. It only takes a second to wipe it on your trousers or whatever. Anything on it will be dropped in scalding water shortly so don’t worry about bogies you’ve wiped on your thigh. Nobody will catch a cold. But make sure the damn thing is dry.

2) Just to be on the safe side – sugar in the cup first. Note: sugar first. Not coffee.

3) A separate step for this as it seems to be beyond the grasp of most coffee drinkers despite following on so closely from rule 2. Coffee second. That’s “second”. As in after the sugar.

Stir, return to desk, enjoy.

By following these simple steps you’ll eliminate the incredibly annoying problem of dropping dollops of coffee powder into the ******* sugar and therefore stopping them ending up in my ******* cup of ******* tea. You *****.

Failing that, just drink tea and **** coffee.

Yes, I’ve had a bad day and a ******* worse cup of tea.

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Are you a member of the BNP?

Or, more accurately, were you two years ago?

Then I know where you live(d). As, potentially, does every person in the UK. Including those who’ve been bullied, intimidated, threatened and physically harmed by you and those underage ***** in Combat 18. And now you’re asking for police protection? Suck my cock you racist ********. I hope you all burn in hell once your homes have been fire-bombed.

As for those of you who bought a family membership and included your children in your blilnkered views… you make me sick.

Anyone want the list so they can find out who near them is a pathetic, small-penised, scared, reprehensible piece of **** on the sole of humanity? Take your pick: text format, spreadsheet, SQL data. The BNP‘s membership list from 2 years ago. I don’t give a **** if anyone on it gets hate mail. They ******* deserve it.

*****. The lot of them.

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