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Other stuff I've got off my chest . . . continued |
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FLIES: As the days get warmer and the sun shines longer, one thing is guaranteed. No, I'm not talking about picnics in the park, or the sound of the ice-cream van, or skinny-dipping in the river. It's flies. Goddam bastard flies. I absolutely HATE them. Buzzing around your head, landing on your food, swimming in your pint, dive-bombing you when you're desperately trying to sleep. And why? What do they possibly achieve by all this? A big fat sod all. Really, what is the point of flies? They bring nothing but displeasure, discomfort and disease to people's lives. I wish I had some sort of fantastically futuristic, hand-held, laser-type exterminator gun with which I could blast these little blighters into oblivion. But I don't, so I will have to make do with a rolled up newspaper until then. ..................................................................................................................................................................... PLUMBERS: It's bad enough that they charge you an extortinate amount of money just to get them to come to your house. But that they don't exactly do it with any great deal of urgency, even though you explained quite clearly that it is an emergency, is what really pisses me off. You can be sitting in an igloo, or have a geyser of human waste spewing forth from your toilet or a rapid torrent of water flowing through the ceiling, it doesn't matter to them. They'll take their merry old time and nobody is going to rush them. When they do eventually turn up – just in the nick of time to save you from slitting your own throat in desperation – they'll do that thing that all tradesmen do: take one look at the problem, draw a sharp intake of breath, shake their head and go tut tut tut, before telling you they can't possibly do anything until tomorrow. Oh, and then casually mention that it's going to cost you at least £5,000 to fix. They make your blood boil, and you want to tell them to go to hell. But you know that, without them, you'd be knee-deep in the shit. Gits. ..................................................................................................................................................................... "HAPPY" NEW YEAR: Why do people allow themselves to get carried away on a tide of mis-placed euphoria just because one year finishes and the next starts? They lose all sense of rationality. It's just a change on the calendar for crying out loud. Just because it's the start of a new year, it doesn't mean things are going to be miraculously different. ..................................................................................................................................................................... THE X-FACTOR: You either love it or you hate it. Or you hate to love it. Or you love to hate it. Whichever way, there's no escaping Simon Cowell's hairy clutches. But the gloss is beginning to come off the X Factor because people are finally tuning into the notion that it is all one big con, a bit of a fix even. It is supposed to be a talent show, but really it is nothing more than an ego trip for Cowell and a ratings winner for ITV. You might say it's entertainment, whatever format it chooses. But these are people's dreams and aspirations on the line here, and they probably deserve better than to constantly see inferior, untalented bozos (see Vagner (sic) and, before him, Jedward), disgracefully kept on the show while they are voted off. This precedent was set last year. Time after time, Cowell complained, head in hands, that those silly arses Jedward remained in the competition. Yet, when he finally had the chance to get rid of them once and for all, he didn't, instead choosing to send that lovely Welsh girl, Lucy, packing. She was, and still is, a much better prospect than the Grim Twins, and Cowell knew that. But the crucial factor was that she wasn't front-page tabloid material, whereas Jedward could guarantee constant media coverage. And so we see the same patterns emerging this year. Katie Waisell does not have the X Factor. Fact. She is a mediocre singer. Fact. But she courts controversy and keeps the programme on the front pages, whereas Blackpool boy Aiden Grimshaw – “now that's what I call a pop star” said Cowell at his audition – doesn't, even though, again, he is a far superior talent. Waisell fluffed her auditions several times, forgetting her words, and the public can't stand her, making her fight for her place in the bottom-two sing-off on several occasions now. Yet Cowell astonishingly kept her in at the expense of Aiden, for the same reasons he gave Jedward their stay of execution. Shame on you Cowell. So that is why I hope Jedward's grandad Vagner wins this year. He's a crap singer, a crap dancer and he looks crap – he'll go a long way. And if he does win (please please please please) it'll stick one up flathead Cowell, and his little programme will finally look stupid for all the right reasons. Vote for Vagner! (By the way, if he wants to get Louis Walsh to start pronouncing his name properly, all he needs to do is call the little Irishman “Lewis”. That'll soon learn him.) ..................................................................................................................................................................... MIDDLE LANE HOGGERS: You know who you are. You "drive" smack bang in the middle lane of the motorway, pootling along at 60mph, eyes fixed on the road ahead, never daring to deviate, tunnel vision, while all around you is wide open space. PULL OVER INTO THE SLOW LANE, YOU IMBECILE. I just don't understand how, or why, these people are completely oblivious to what they are doing. Did they take their driving test? Do they know anything about the highway code? Do they know anything at all? They drive me crazy ..................................................................................................................................................................... ESCALATORS: Not escalators per se, more the dim-witted people who use them, who get off and then stop right in their tracks (in my experience, they are usually doddery old folk) to see where they want to go next. What about the people behind you who also want to get off? GET OUT OF THE WAY! Everyone knows that if you don't clear the gap your feet will get sucked in and you'll be shredded, so please leave a clear space for us to safely disembark the moving stairs and go about our business. Walking is NOT that difficult. ..................................................................................................................................................................... SUPERMARKETS. Why do they insist on changing their aisles around? Some of these stores are like all-consuming behemoths, so it's hard enough as it is finding a tin of baked beans without a SatNav. When you do eventually get used to the thing you want being in the same place, they decide on a shift around so that, next time you go in, you haven't got a clue where you are. Instead of eating steak you're making do with a pot noodle. When you do get used to the new look, guess what, it's all change again. And so on. ..................................................................................................................................................................... PERCENTAGES. How can you give 110%? Or 200%? Or 1000% Some people do. “I gave it everything I had, 150% effort.” I'd like to know how they do it. Maths is not my strong point, but I know that you can only give 100%. Any more makes you either superhuman, a mathematical genius, or a deluded liar. I know which one I'm guessing at. ..................................................................................................................................................................... ART CRITICS. Don't they talk a load of old crap. Utter nonsense. Just say what you see, instead of the pretentious rubbish that usually spews from your silver-spooned mouths. I don't believe a word what you say, and nor does anyone else. And I'm willing to bet that even the artist you are critiquing will say “eh?”. Shut up. BUS DRIVERS. When in a queue of traffic and the lights go red, instead of stopping at the pedestrian crossing like normal motorists, leaving a clear path for the aforementioned pedestrians, park your bus across the entire width so that, when the green man is lit, no-one can walk across, forcing them to have to walk around and squeeze past. Oh, hang on a minute, you already do. Idiots. And while we're at it, when you're indicating to pull out and a kind motorist lets you back out on to the road, try remembering the gesture and returning the compliment once in a while. Ingraits. ..................................................................................................................................................................... RELIGIOUS ZEALOTS IN THE STREET. While some would admire their dedication to the cause, trying to herd up new followers, I find them a major irritation. I do not want to hear how Jesus saved my soul while I'm partaking of a quiet stroll through the city thoroughfare, and nor do I want my peace disturbed by their jingly-jangly, out-of-tune “songs”. A bit like litter, I want it kept off the streets, thank you. ..................................................................................................................................................................... LACK OF MANNERS. People who do not say thank you when I hold the door open for them. I will not bother next time. In fact, I might even slam it in your face. ..................................................................................................................................................................... NECK TIES. And what a pain in the neck they are. Rushing for work, trying to tie the knot, and invariably it takes several attempts as the long bit is too long, or too short, or the knot is too small, or too big, or too tight. Aaaargh! The answer: no more stuffy dress codes. Or a clip on. ..................................................................................................................................................................... FOOTBALLERS. How many times in one sentence can you use the phrases: “At the end of the day” . . . “To be honest” . . . “I mean” . . . “Absolutely” . . . Amazingly, if you're a footballer, a great many. ..................................................................................................................................................................... TEXT SPEAK. 2 put it simply: I h8 it. LOL. PMSL. FRO more like. ..................................................................................................................................................................... “CAN I GET”. Someone at the food counter will say “can I get a cheese sandwhich”. Can I get? Can I get? This is not America , for God's sake, you've obviously been watching too many episodes of Friends. Try saying “Please may I have”, or “Can I have” or “I would like”. Jeeeez. ..................................................................................................................................................................... MILK FLOATS. What is this, 1973? How come, in this day and age where we are on the verge of sending someone to Mars, must we still have milk floats that travel at 4mph? During the morning rush hour? Surely you can find a quicker mode of transport that transports milk just as safely and that doesn't hold up everyone as they try and make it into work every morning? ..................................................................................................................................................................... “MATE”. Who do these people think they are that they can constantly refer to someone they hardly know as mate, pal or chum? Fine if's a one-off, like a barman pulling a pint and you say “cheers mate”. But not when someone addresses you as such four times in one brief conversation! “Excuse me mate, do you know where the train station is mate, oh it's up there is it mate, thanks mate.” I am not your mate. Or your pal. Or your chum. And if I was, I'd give you a clip round the ear for not calling me by my name. ..................................................................................................................................................................... TAMPON ADVERTS. I don't need to see this just as I am getting stuck into my chips at tea time. It puts me right off. I think I'll pass on the ketchup now, thanks. Save them for daytime TV please, or at least put them on after the Watershed. ..................................................................................................................................................................... MOBILE PHONES. This won't be the first time these contraptions are seen in this list. But on this occasion, my grumble is when people forget, or refuse, to turn them off or on to silent mode. It is particularly annoying when Ride of the Valkiries goes off in the middle of the film you are watching at the local flea pit, despite all the warnings beforehand. Turn it off or leave it behind. Damn fools. .................................................................................................................................................................... WH SMITHS: Namely, the humourless stiffs they employ to work behind the tills and the way they enforce their “penny a bag” rule. I don't mind paying a penny for a carrier bag, not a problem. What I do mind is that they never ask me if I want a bag, I always have to request one. And when I do, all I get in return is an arrogant, stuck-up and smug: “It'll cost you one pence, you know”. Ooooh, one pence. Just give me the frikkin bag!! But it doesn't stop there. The biggest selling products in Smith must surely be newspapers and magazine (that is, when those lazy arses who stand in everyone's way reading them can actually be bothered to make it as far as the till to buy it, rather than putting it back on the shelf. But that's a moan for another time.) So you would expect Smiths to have a bountiful supply of carrier bags appropriate for such an item. Yes, you would think that. But you'd be wrong. How stupid of you. But in fact, they only ever, ever seem to have bags that would fit a long roll of wrapping paper. Or a small packet of wine gums. So even though I'm (a) prepared to overlook their rude demand for a penny and (b) pay for the privilege of protecting my magazine from the elements, they never have what I want in the first place. The twats! And finally, the icing on the cake, is this: So concerned are Smiths about the environment that they charge you a penny for a carrier bag, but when they hand it over to you they stuff a handful of paper flyers and crap special offer vouchers inside as well. And what do people do with them? Throw them in a bin where it's unlikely they will be recycled properly, or discard them on pavements and road s adding to the litter problem. WH Smiths – what a bunch of utter ****s. ..................................................................................................................................................................... SMILIES. Oh, they're so much fun aren't they. Leaving a little :) or a ;) after an email or on a text. Well what if you're not in a smiley or winky mood? I suggest an alternative – Grumpies. Come on marketing people, there's a gap in the market. ..................................................................................................................................................................... ETCETERA. Note how it is spelled people. E-t-c-e-t-r-a, not e-c-t-c-e-t-e-r-a. If you don't know how to pronounce a word, don't use it. Simply maddening, frustrating, annoying etc etc |
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