Category: Uncategorised

Paddy’s day

We’re getting ripped off over here. An email just went round reminding us that, as it’s St Patrick’s Day, the Irish office is closed until tomorrow.

Jammy ********. Why don’t we get the day off for St George’s Day? I mean, it’s not like the Irish need a designated day to get pissed and have a good time. We, on the other hand, do seem to need the encouragement.

Mind you, I think they’re a little half-hearted this year. Come on – it’s a Thursday. They may as well make tomorrow a holiday as well – I can see enough people ringing in with “migraines” as it is.

Da Vinci Code

The Catholic Church, eh? What a bunch of idiots. Over the last week they’ve broken their “official silence” over Dan Browns novel and decided to have a whinge about it.

Now, I have a few issues here. Number one is that I’ve bought the book, but not read it yet so they’re spoiling it for me.

Number 2 is that the peddlar’s of the World’s Most Popular Work Of Fiction are whinging about someone else’s Work of Fiction contradicting theirs. Hello? Important word in there? FICTION. If you’re looking for Da Vinca Code in a bookshop, where do you look (aside from the bargain bin by now)? Yup – fiction.

Not documentary. Not political history. Not popular science. Not religion.

******* FICTION.

The same section where the Bible should be kept.

Did I ever hear Isaac Asimov complaining about the fact that not every book with robots in followed his 3 Laws of Robotics? Or Bram Stoker having a go when people took liberties with the vampire and Dracula myths?

The one thing the church don’t seem to have realised that all their doing is raising interest in the novel. OK, so devout Catholics might shun it or whatever, but anyone else who’s avoided the book may decide to check out what all the fuss is about… *kerching* for Mr Brown.

Mind you, at least they’ve not launched a fatwah on him. Given the choice between the Catholics and the Muslims, I know which I’d rather have a grudge against me. Unless I was a Rangers supporter.

Bloody NHS

Backstory first. I used to be with a doctor/clinic I really liked. Good staff, good opening hours and so on. I moved house about 4½ year ago. I rang up shortly after to make an appointment and inform them that I’d moved. Just like the Post Office, they said that as I was now on the wrong side of a main road, I was out of their catchment area and I had to look elsewhere.

Bugger.

Well, there’s a clinic at the end of my street – literally. It’s about 50 yards away. I rang them up but they were “full”. This despite the fact that me moving in must have meant that someone else moved out… (three someone else’s in fact). They directed me to a surgery in Thornton, a short drive away. Who said they couldn’t take me as I was in the wrong postcode. By the time I ended up with a surgery with a vacancy, it was three times the distance away as the one who refused, and also in a shitty neigbourhood where I’d not have left my car.

One call to the Leeds Health Board later to register a complaint and – lo – the one at the end of my street had a sudden vacancy.

Anyway, time has moved on and once more I want to pop in to see the doc. Nothing serious, just a check-up and that as I’ve not had one in ages and I fancy getting an idea of how I stand healthwise. So I ring the surgery to make an appointment.

Without boring you with the back-and-forth, it turns out that the surgery only has a doctor present 2 or 3 days out of 5. I cannot book an appointment, no matter how far in advance – it’s purely “ring on the day”. And I don’t even ring them, I’ve got to ring their sister surgery for reasons which weren’t exactly forthcoming.

No wonder we’re turning into a nation of overweight, unfit, sick individuals. Between the UK work ethic (“expected” overtime, long hours) and the inability of a health service to let you plan in an appointment in advance there’s no alternative than the just let illnesses and bad habits run on. The last time I needed a doctor, I went to casualty and felt bloody bad about it as I didn’t feel it was really an emergency. Sadly, it was my only recourse.

If it’s possible to book a dental or optical appointment weeks in advance, why not so with a medical one?

No funny punchline, folks. It’s just too bloody annoying.

Mmmmmmm…. Swarfega…

How come when I burp, it’s all bubbly?

Habit-forming

I’ve just found out I’ve passed my project module (yay me, etc). This means that it’s pretty much a given then this year is my final year and I’ll be able to finally rest at the end of it and get my degree.

Explain, then, why I just spent about 40 minutes on the Open University‘s website picking at more courses.

Will someone please sit me down and explain to me in very simple words and phrases that I need to take a break? Thank you.

Got my mark back for last year’s OK project and (thank FECK) I passed!

Just.

I got the pass mark. But, frankly, I don’t care. It’s one year I don’t have to worry about having to repeat (and fund).

Yay me!

Cool

Which File Extension are You?

Whinging Londoners

Man U fans are at it again. Whinge, whinge, whinge. On and on about it being such a long way from Manchester to Cardiff for the semis. What do they care? They all live in flipping Hampshire – it’s right along the M4.

Fan stereotypes aside, I utterly agree with them and not just over the travelling distance. After all, we’ve got it worse than any other team. Within England, there isn’t region further from Cardiff than ourselves. Note that I said region, not team – Blyth Spartans are one English team I can mention who’d have even further to trail. And Bedlington Terriers. But I digress.

The Millenium Stadium is a fantastic place. I’ve never been in, but I’ve been around it. It looks great. I’d love to go. But venues like that are for finals. I had the same argument against the old Wembley being overused for the semis in its last year before closure. That and the fact that we had to trail all the way down the A1 while Chelsea just had to roll out of bed and into the ground.

A group of Man U fans have elected to protest the venue selection and boycott the game. I admire their stance, but they have to admit that it’s doomed to failure. If they don’t take the tickets, then someone else will. There’s no way their fans, or ours, wouldn’t snap up every available ticket regardless of how inconvenient it is to get there and back. As it stands, we have Norwich away on the Tuesday so I’m toying with taking a couple of days off work and doing both, if I get tickets.

I think Arsenal are the ones with most to gain from the choice of venue, though. They’re liable to fill their half of the stadium whereas Blackburn – on recent FA Cup ticket takeup – will likely barely half-fill theirs. The 12th man will be with Wenger as a result.

Unfair council tax

I got my updated council tax bill in this week and overall, it’s risen by a shade under 5%. I know this is fairly low compared to some areas (Sharon’s went up an unbelievable 16% 2 years ago), but still I wonder what I’m getting for my money.

OK, we now have a paper recycling scheme and a can/glass bin as part of our refuse collection service, but we still have the same whinging gits who won’t take your bin if it’s “too heavy” so the service itself hasn’t really improved.

My main gripe is that some of my cash is going to the police and some to the fire service. This, to me, is like an insurance. My house hasn’t burned down at all in the past year, but do I get back the money that went to the fire brigade? No. How unfair is that? It’s almost enough to convince one to set fire to one’s own front room to at least get value for the money.

Worse still is the fact that I’m paying as much for the police as the people next door, yet they’ve had five visits from the boys in blue in the last month. Not one sexy policewoman has knocked on my door in almost five years. This is a disgrace.

The people that used to live opposite had a fair few visits as well before they moved out. I got home early from work one day and saw two of the most stunningly beautiful women I have ever laid eyes on leave that house. Both in full police uniform. I thought some lucky bugger had just had a double stripogram for his birthday until they climbed into a squad car.

I’d happily double my council tax for that kind of attention.

Monday yawning

To get an idea of how I feel this morning, picture this: The fire bell test rings at 10:10 in the office as usual. My first instinctive reaction? I stretched my hand out to switch the alarm clock off.

Oh dear.

More neighbourly fun

Annoyingly, I missed the most entertaining part of this story. It was relayed to me by a neighbour on the other side, but hey ho.

Having gotten rid of ratboy, I suppose my luck couldn’t hold out. The house actually attached to mine (it’s a semi) is number 17. The guy who owns it, Dean, moved out about 18 months ago to live with his other half in Wetherby. Sensibly, he kept hold of the property and now rents it. Which probably covers his fuel for the commute to Bradford for work.

Dean missed all the fun with ratboy, but the family who rented the place from him until recently were pretty nice. A very young couple, their little baby girl and – I think – their granny. Very quite, in fact I barely even heard the little baby cry or anything. When they moved out, Dean said he didn’t even need to get a duster out as they’d left the place so clean.

Cue the replacements. Oh dear.

They’re not as bad as ratboy. Well… maybe in different ways. I’ve spoken to the gentleman of the household (about them dumping their rubbish in Kim’s paper recycling bin – an honest mistake and they were only trying to get rid of binbags that were blowing around which is fair enough), and it seems there’s him, his girlfriend and two teenage lads living there. The two boys I’d guess are about 14-15. Yeah – that age. I’ve already seen them round the side of the house nicking dad’s fags cos they’re "well ‘ard and smerk tabs" or whatever the Yorkshire equivalent is.

Anyways, dad works nights. The kids get up early, and I think they share the bedroom through the wall from mine. And they like dance "music". ********. 7:30 on a Saturday morning – "dumph dumph dump dumph woooeee wwoooeee" etc. Not all that loud, but loud enough to wake me. A return salvo of the entire God Hates Us All album by Slayer at full tilt and it seemed to scare them enough to turn it down.

This is small fry stuff, though. Since they moved in – about a month, give or take – there have been four visits by the police. Sadly, I’ve missed them all bar one including the other Friday night’s apparently highly entertaining offshoot from "The Bill".

I went out for about an hour. The boys in blue arrived 10 minutes after I left, and left 10 minutes before I got back. Grargh.

Two vans of them, banging on the doors asking for some person or other. Steve (the nice neighbour) was obviously somewhat interested so had a word with some street urchins about what was happening. "He’s stabbed someone," quoth they, "with a potato peeler."

Sorry, but if I walked into a kitchen looking for a weapon, my eyes would most likely fall up on the bread knife. Or the carving knife. A potato peeler is a little unambitious if you ask me. If you want something small enough to fit in your school shorts, take a flipping steak knife or something. Pointy and serrated. Anyway, I digress.

Police barge into the property and yells of "Get out of there!" and "No!" abounded. A decision was made to "Kick it in and get the ****** out", a task that was duly accomplished amidst great thumping and splintering.

Said sprog was dragged out into the street yelling about having bare feet (diddums). Someone was sent in to retrieve his Reeboks and he vanished in the back of a van, (hopefully) never to be seen again.

Funnily, it’s been quiet next door since so I’m wondering if it was his stereo that was waking me up. In which case, good riddance ya ****.

Dean was a little perturbed. He asked me to keep an eye out after the first innocuous police visit so wasn’t too chuffed when I told him what had happened that Friday.

More fun next door yesterday. I was just getting ready to head out to watch the match when there was a bit of a commotion heard through the wall. Some yelling, a bit of screaming, a few thuds. I’ve heard nowt from them in 2 weeks either.

I think the lass that lives there chucked someone out – a lad about 15 years old. He stormed off, yelling about wanting to borrow a pound for the bus into town. Then he came back a couple of minutes later wanting to borrow a coat – loudly. "And I suppose you’ve called the police again, haven’t you, you bi…."

*BBRRRRMMMMM* WOO WOO WOO *SCREEEEECH*

Bang on cue. The little scrote shot off like a rat out of a pipe round the back of the house and the two coppers chasing him didn’t seem to catch him up. The second police car to arrive didn’t cut him off either. Shame.

I spoke to Dean and he’s not been able to find out what’s going on yet. The police won’t give him any info until he attends a West Yorkshire police station with details proving he’s the house owner and not just Joe Nosey Public. He’s popping down on Wednesday when they’ve said they’ll be able to tell him everything he needs to know.

With any luck, they’ll be out of there in a week. Happy happy, joy joy.

‘Cos I forgot to email the flipping file home. Here goes:

Old clothes

After arriving at work and being accused of mimicking a throwback to the seventies with my bright orange shirt and equally bright green tie, conversation drifted on to other outmoded fashions.

I remember being about 8 and having red corduroy trousers with a plastic badge on one of the pockets featuring the Muppets. I also had at least one 100% nylon t-shirt with a superhero print on it. I think I had Captain America and Spiderman. Both had a big picture of the fella himself and a 3-4 panel cartoon.

I wonder how many of those t-shirts melted themselves onto screaming youngsters in front of open fires before someone thought that maybe cotton made better clothing?

Any more embarrassing clothes you used to have as a kid? If any woman say they still have their school uniform, I want photographic proof. Even better if it barely fits any more.

Klingons on the starboard bow

I got an email from someone on helpdesk asking us to urgently chase up a query because "the SLA is 90% breached". Am I the only one who conjures up images of a fat Scotsman in a red shirt running round shouting "Cap’n! She canna tak it any mair! The SLAs are 90% breached and we canna channel any mair current from the Dylithium crystals!"

Bugger. I thought I would be.

Another one pops their clogs

Dave Allen has shuffled off this mortal coil aged 68, leaving a lonely stool sat on a stage. A wonderful, dry, foul-mouthed Irish comedian I never got to see enough of his material.

Now will the Grim Reaper please stop offing these nice people and start on ******* like Bush, please?