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So, you've made it this far, good. There isn't anything to be scared of. Well, not much. Remember, if you see something you agree with, or disagree with, and you just can't help yourself, have a moan too. |
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What am I moaning about today? |
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JEANS HANGING DOWN: I just don't get this, youths wearing their jeans so low that their arses are hanging out. Is it because you're a bad mofo gangsta, or just that you can't afford a belt? Or is it a precaution against chafing? Whatever reason, I don't really want to see what brand of kecks you're wearing, let alone your hairy arse as I walk behind you. They all seem to be bow-legged too, waddling in a bizarre fashion that looks most uncomfortable and ungainly. This is not some strange phenomenon, or a rare medical condition, it's because if they walked with their legs straight, like normal people, their jeans would fall right down to their ankles. And why do so many of these young lads also seen to be holding their crotch as they walk along? It's added protection for keeping their trousers up, just in case they're presented with a difficult obstacle and they're forced to walk like God intended. These "dudes" are one not-so-giant leap away from losing their jeans altogether. Give me strength. |
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Other stuff I've got off my chest
CYCLISTS: If you must insist on keeping fit, fine, just don't inflict your radical, crazy ways on us lazy no-goods, especially when we're rushing to get somewhere. The last thing we need is some cretin in unflattering spandex shorts weaving about in the middle of the road, stubbornly refusing to stay as close to the kerb as possible. Listen, if you can manage to maintain a steady line in the gutter, not only does it allow motorists to overtake you and continue rushing to wherever they've got to rush to, it also reduces the risk of you being flattened, unintentionally or otherwise. So it's in your best interests too! Failing that, why not ride on the pavements and terrorise pedestrians instead, that would be far more entertaining. NB: Coming soon, a moan about cyclists riding on the pavements, terrorising pedestrians blah blah ..................................................................................................................................................................... WEARING SUNGLASSES INDOORS: It's not cool, and it's certainly not clever. It doesn't make you look like Jack Nicholson, or a rock star, or a diva. It just makes you look what you are: a prick. And probably a vain, stuck-up-your-own-arse one at that. ..................................................................................................................................................................... SPITTING IN THE STREET : It's a disgusting habit. Never mind that it can spread disease (swine flu or, in the olden times, tuberculosis), it just looks awful and is revolting. I don't enjoy having to tread carefully on the pavements in order to avoid big blobs of gob every where. If the guilty gobbers must do it, please at least pick a place where they can't be seen and where people can walk without fear of slipping in a humongous greenie. Such as their own back garden. Or France. (I'm sure those spit-happy Frenchies would open their arms to such kindred spirits.) So attention spitters: Next time you're standing outside a nice restaurant in the middle of a busy city centre, hawking up a globule of gunk and preparing to dispense it on to the pavement, just pause and say to yourself “What would my mother think?” If that doesn't stop you, then your mum is probably as bad as you are and we should all be blaming her. ..................................................................................................................................................................... "SICK": I overheard a couple of lads talking the other day and one of them said: “I'm sick at golf.” I took this to mean that he involuntarily vomits as soon as he steps foot on the first tee. However, after some more ear-wigging, it turns out that what he meant was that he is actually very good at golf. If anything, I would have thought “sick” meant that he is very bad at it, because there's not a lot good about sick is there. Or have these young scallies just developed an early appreciation of irony? Anyway, it got me thinking that I really am old and out of touch with the youth of today etc, as you do when you pass a certain age. But then a little bit later it dawned on me. It's not me at all, it's these kids, they just talk utter crap. I do wish they'd talk proper! (And oh yes, the “sick” lad was, predictably, wearing his trousers down to his knees with his under-crackers on show. But that's a previous moan which you can find somewhere by scrolling down below.) You said ... I could not agree more. The half-witted nature of some of today's "Yoof" is really quite dazzling in its denseness. As I was saying to the wife the other day,we might have been daftly exuberant as kids but, today, these kids are so myopically sheep-like that they would fasten a plastic joke dog-turd to their head if Jordan and David F-ing Beckham told them to.....My, I feel better now I've got that off my chest. - Trevor Jackson, via email .....................................................................................................................................................................
SMOKING AT WORK: I've got nothing in general against people having a fag, if that's what they want to do, then fair enough. I've been known to have the odd puff myself every now and then. And I'm not going to spout on about the “dangers to their (and my) health, and the fact they are killing themselves, smoking their ‘coffin nails' or ‘cancer sticks', blah blah blah”. No, what makes smoke come out of my ears is when they take the mick e y out of the rest of us at work by having umpteen fag breaks during the course of a day. Everyone is entitled to a break, but I've seen some take it beyond the extreme. Take one worker who is an avid smoker, let's call him Mr B Hedges. He starts work at 8.30am. From then until his lunch break at 1pm, he will have three cigarette breaks, lasting at least 10 minutes each. Between 2pm and 5.30pm he will have another three 10-minute breaks. That's a total of one hour a day spent satisfying his craving. Five hours per week. Over the course of four weeks, that's 20 hours. Over the course of a year, that's 260 hours! In total, that's 32-and-a-half working days he spends not working, but feeding his nicotine addiction. That's equivalent to extra six weeks off per year. It's outrageous. Now take your non-smoking, average Joe. Let's call him, er, Joe. Joe is a conscientious worker, who is entitled, by law, to a couple of 15-minute breaks during the day. But like the majority of his colleagues, he doesn't actively take those 15 minutes. He gets enough “screen breaks” from walking to the printer, or getting a coffee from the machine, or having a quick flirt with that new lass from the accounts department. All run-of-the mill stuff that forms part of everyone's days, including the smokers. But Joe and his fellow colleagues are missing out, because they're not getting the extra 260 hours off a year that Mr B Hedges does. It's a piss-poor state of affairs. I don't expect smokers to kick their habit, but I do believe it's only fair that they toe the line like the rest of us and quit smoking on work time. If I was addicted to licking lampposts, I doubt I would be allowed out of the office every hour to indulge my desire. I would be expected to do it on my own time. So come on employers, do something about this and stub it out completely. After all, it's your company time their wasting – and still getting paid for. ..................................................................................................................................................................... RUDE MOTORISTS #2: Picture the scene: You're cruising merrily down the road, humming along to your favourite driving track (probably Layla or Golden Earring's Radar Love), with the wind in your hair (if you're in a convertible), and maybe even nudging past the national speed limit of 60mph. Ooh, you devil. But you're loving the experience, and you're in a bit of a rush too, until . . . several hundred yards down the road, you see a vehicle emerge from a side road and, sensibly, it stops at the junction. As you race towards it, you're quite content to think to yourself: “He won't pull out on me, there's nothing behind me for miles, he'll do the safe and courteous thing and wait for me to pass.” Only the driver of the other car isn't safe or courteous at all. Just the opposite in fact. As you're bearing down on him, the doddery old fool (because they usually are doddery old fools), pulls out right in front of you, causing you to slam on the anchors to avoid going right up the back of him. But that isn't the most frustrating thing. Oh no. The DOF then toodles along at an infuriatingly slow pace and, typically, there's a sudden rush of vehicles coming in the opposite direction, making it impossible to overtake. You flash your lights and gesticulating in anger, but the DOF is obviously deaf and blind as well as dumb because he appears to not hear or see you, leaving you stuck in interminable driving hell until an opportunity eventually arises when you can get past (and who hasn't flicked the birdie or mouthed a few obscenities as they do so?) Why oh why don't people like this just wait at the junction until you've passed them? What in God's name possesses them to do this? Answers on a postcard, please. ..................................................................................................................................................................... DRESS DOWN FRIDAY: This occurs because, apparently, “work is fun”. Personally, I don't see what's fun about a bunch of workers dressed in shabby jeans, heavy metal ..................................................................................................................................................................... DEBIT/CASHCARD ABUSERS: I was in the queue at a well-known sandwich chain on the high street, and the person in front me – I can almost 100 per cent guarantee she was a student – paid for her £2.50 sarnie by card. By card! £2.50! I was absolutely incredulous as she went through the whole malarkey of trying to remember her number, slowly punching it in, then waiting as the machine verified the purchase, while all the time the queue behind her was getting longer and, frankly, rather irritable. The cherry on the cake was when the machine refused – the silly cow had only put the wrong number in. So we all had to wait as this interminable process was repeated. But my gripe here is not necessarily the stupidity of this individual (although she was very stupid), it's the fact that she used her card for such a meagre amount. Why do people do this? Why can't they stop at a hole-in-the-wall and put some hard cash in their pocket, there are plenty of them around? I find that it is usually the student types who do this. I've seen them at the bar and pay for a pint – just the one mind you – with their card. Is it just laziness? Or does it make them feel all grown-up? Whatever, it's bloody annoying and the only thing it achieves is holding up the people behind them and making them grumpy (even more so in my case). ..................................................................................................................................................................... CELEBRITY MASTERCHEF: My issue here is not necessarily the programme itself (even Fierce Dinosaurs are quite partial to Cordon Bleu cuisine, you know). But no, what's got me in a stew is the use of the word “Celebrity” in the title. I was expecting a feast of stars in last night's episode, the first in the new series, but it included such a list of Z-list Neil Stuke - An actor we've not heard a dickie from since the mid 1990s when he starred in cult comedy Game On - and even then he was a replacement for the original actor who played his part. Tessa Sanderson - Still harping on about the gold medal she won at the Olympics. That was in 1984, luv. Enough said. Celeb rating: 2/5 DJ Nihal - Who? Probably a big name among the Yoof Culture, but an absolute mystery to anyone who doesn't listen to Radio One. Or go to discotheques. That cheeky Scouse girl from Brookside - Never heard of her, can't even Richard Farleigh - Multi-millionaire sometimes seen on Dragon's Den. Confessed he had only been interested in cooking for two weeks, obviously doesn't need the money or exposure, so what was he doing there? Celeb rating: 1/5 Come on Beeb, splash out a bit and get some pukka names on (the chopping) board. ..................................................................................................................................................................... TAPS: The old push ones you still find, especially in antiquated pubs and crappy service stations. Okay, these were probably designed to conserve water, but they're so infuriating as to the point of being, well, pointless. You push the button, move your hand towards the trickle of water, and by the time you've reached it, it's stopped! You try again and again, in some forlorn hope that a steady stream of gushing hot water is going to magically spew out and stay like that for as long as you need to adequately wash your hands. But it never does. Instead, you're reduced to looking like an awkward fool as you attempt to hold the button down with one elbow, while manouvering both hands underneath, at the same time trying to get a squirt of soap from the dispenser that is positioned three feet away from you. “Now Wash Your Hands” blares the warning signs on the wall. Well, I would if I could. The complete flip side of this are those taps that, when you push the button, you get a torrent of water that jets out at 200mp, taking you completely by surprise and drenching your trousers so it looks like you've just pissed yourself. So much for being hygienic! ..................................................................................................................................................................... VUVUZELA HORNS: Okay, the World Cup has only just started but already these vuvuzela horns are giving me bloody earache. However, as I don't want to be accused of failing to get into the spirit of things, I've decided to approach this objectively. So what are the reasons why I hate the vuvuzela? Here goes: The constant cacophony is ruining my viewing of the World Cup. It's like a billion angry bees have got stuck in my TV set and none of them can find the way out. It's like sitting underneath an electricity pylon while the national grid is turned on to full power. I don't need this. The constant drone of the inane football commentator is bad enough, but this is ridiculous. I could, of course, press the mute button, but I fear I won't have to because the vuvuzela din will drive me deaf before long. These plastic trumpets are made to sound like elephants, but a bellowing elephant would be better any day. These horns are going to do nothing ruin the atmosphere at games and infuriate the majority of people. What's wrong with singing a good old song, for heavens sake? I pity the poor buggers playing on the pitch, they will need cotton wool in their ears otherwise they're going to be put right off their game. And what about those ordinary people who live near stadiums, especially the ones who work night shifts and are trying to get some sleep? They'd be better off moving somewhere else for a month (unless South Africa are knocked out early, which surely some folk are feverishly praying for?) Ok, what are the good things about the vuvuzela? Nothing whatsoever. So there you have it, an objective view, case closed. Conclusion: We don't want to hear the vuvuzela anymore. ..................................................................................................................................................................... CAR FLAGS: The World Cup starts this week, and that means many joyous things. But there's also a fair amount of crap that comes with it too, not least those dreadful flags you see flying from car roofs. Now, I'm as patriotic as the next man and am always keen to fly the flag for my country, but I absolutely, positively, most definitely draw the line at doing so by plonking a flag on top of my vehicle. And I only wish everyone else would too. Why? Because it looks cheap, naff and tacky. What a Chav-tastic way to support your boys! The worst one I've seen was a car which had flags protruding from all four door windows, plus one attached to the aerial on the roof for good measure. FIVE FLAGS! How many does it take to say "I'm supporting my country", surely only one? Mind you, the funny side to all this is when you see some cars whose owners have clearly not noticed that their flags have blown off, and all that remains are two shit-looking plastic sticks bending pathetically in the wind. Come on England! Footnote: Maybe you can beat my five flags, let me know if you have you seen worse. And I think a campaign should be started: Down With Car Flags! Follow the Fierce Dinosaur and we'll see if we can get up a head of steam to get rid of these items of utter crap once and for all. ..................................................................................................................................................................... WOMEN/MAKE-UP/CAR: These three things do NOT go together. How many times have I seen a woman putting on her lippy as soon as she stops at the traffic lights? Or brushing her hair? Or slapping the rouge on her cheeks? Too many times, that's how many. But it's not just women who are guilty. Men have been seen shaving when they think they've got a couple of minutes at a junction, or putting the finishing touches to the tie they started doing up as they walked out of the front door. But a guy I saw last week really takes the biscuit – he pulled up behind me at the lights and, through my rear-view mirror, I watched in astonishment as he started brushing his teeth! Give me strength! It is stupid and dangerous. Can't these people get out of bed five minutes earlier to ensure that, when they leave the house, they are suitably dressed, made up and fresh of teeth? Otherwise, it's going to prove a distraction too far one morning and they are going to cause an accident, either to themselves or, worse, some other unsuspecting, unfortunate soul. ..................................................................................................................................................................... DENTISTS: These vultures come in the same bracket as lawyers, vets and car mechanics – mercenaries who charge a fortune knowing full well you can't say no. Dentists, though, are part of the medical profession and it does sicken me somewhat that you have to pay through the nose, or the teeth in this case, for your own health and welfare. A typical trip to the dentist for a routine check-up is thus: After infuriatingly being kept waiting for over 10 minutes, you are finally beckoned in where the dentist does nothing more than have a quick, cursory poke around your gob before sending you on your way, and charging you upwards of £25 for the privilege. Then comes the bit that really makes me gnash my teeth in frustration. You then have to see the hygienist, this modern invention that surely was only designed as a way of bleeding your gums even drier. Essentially, all they do is brush your teeth, that simplest of tasks that you performed prior to your appointment, and one which you rarely have trouble administering at least twice a day. And they charge you another £30 for it! So £55 for someone to look in my mouth and someone else to brush them! As far as dentists are concerned, they're just rip-off merchants with a licence to print money. God help anyone who actually has a problem that does need sorting out. ..................................................................................................................................................................... SACHETS OF SAUCE: Okay, this might be a bit of a meagre moan, but not as meagre as the sachets themselves. You want some ketchup on your chips, you grab a sachet, fiddle to get the bloody thing open, and squirt it on your plate. Is it enough? Is it bollocks. You need four or five of them just to get a decent blob of sauce! To add insult to injury, some places will charge you 10 pence per sachet – what a rip-off (or not, if you can't get the damn thing open). You might as well buy a bottle yourself and constantly carry it around with you, so that you're never caught short for ketchup. Come on you tight-fisted catering establishments, get rid of these sachets and do the right thing – show us your bottle! ..................................................................................................................................................................... RUDE MOTORISTS #1: When a fellow driver gives way for you, whether it's from behind a parked car or at a junction, or if they let you slip into the traffic, why not acknowledge the kind gesture? All you have to do is give a wave, or nod your head and smile, or flash your headlights. You could even go a step further and offer to shake their hand, or follow them to their destination to pass on your thanks personally , or use illegal means to track down their address and send them a nice thank-you card. That may be going a bit too far but, you know what, it would be a damn sight better than doing nothing at all. To all those ..................................................................................................................................................................... CLOTHES SHOPS: If you're a bloke, you are starved of choice on the high street, especially if you live outside the big cities. This might be one of those rare occasions when you wonder what life would be like as a woman – because think of the plentiful bounty of shops you could have! Left, right and centre, there are more womens' clothes shops that you can shake a stick of lippie at. Oh the unbridled joy! But what have we got? The likes of Top Man, River Island and, er, Burton (give me strength). Plus a smattering of smaller, independent shops, but those are quickly being forced out of business. The other main problem is that, judging by the clothes on the racks, some of these shops seem only to cater for a select audience. So unless you're 16, have legs like drainpipes, or are gay – all three even – you're knackered. No, if you want choice, you have to visit the ‘trendy' shops, but who really wants to fork out £140 for a pair of jeans, or £80 for a shirt (£80!), just because it's got a label with some fancy designer's name on it. Nope, looks like it's back to M&S. Or Polyester ‘R' Us. ..................................................................................................................................................................... DECLINE IN STANDARDS #1: Five words guaranteed to bring an onset of moaning misery: “When I were a lad . . .” Anyway, when I were a lad, I had a part-time job in one of the major high street supermarkets. It didn't last long because I quit after being told to get a haircut because it was “too exotic”, and also to remove my earring (it was the fashion of the time). My hair back then, before I started to lose it, was in the style of a flat top (for you kids who don't know what a flat top is, the hair is shaved into a bizarre, military-style, wedge-block-shaped thing. Aaah, the innocence of youth). However, these days, supermarket employees, and mostly the young ones at that, are allowed to get away with what the bloody hell they like, wearing all sorts of rings and studs through noses and lips, displaying hairstyles that go way beyond “exotic”, and even sporting an array of tattoos. Why have standards slipped to such a shoddy standard? It's almost as if the supermarkets are saying “we don't give a flying f*** anymore.” Maybe they don't. Perhaps all they care about is making money, rather than the consumer. So as the outrageously-haired, tattooed, pierced youth carelessly throws my groceries down that little chute, causing me to struggle to keep up as I pack them into those ridiculously flimsy carrier bags, I just want to shout: “Pull that metal spear thing out of your nose, get your hair cut and show some respect, you spotty little oik!” ..................................................................................................................................................................... APRIL FOOL'S JOKES: They're not big, clever or funny, they're just inane and tiresome. Except that one about the flying penguins. ..................................................................................................................................................................... MOBILE PHONES: Or “cellular” phones, if you're reading this in the good old US of A. But it doesn't matter what you call them, in the wrong hands they can be a real pain in the neck. What particularly annoys me are the idiots who feel they have to shout while they are having a conversation, especially when you're on a train, or walking down the street or in a shop. Why, in the name of the sweet Lord baby Jesus, do they do this? I don't need to hear you “sealing a business deal”, or telling your wife what you want for dinner tonight. Just shut the @$!& up! I suspect they do it because they're nothing more than arrogant, egotistical show-offs who like nothing more than the sound of their own voice. Well, there may be only one solution: ram said mobile (or cellular, if the Yanks are still reading), down said throat. Call(er) terminated. ..................................................................................................................................................................... MISUSE OF THE WORLD 'LITERALLY': A great many people literally do not understand the correct meaning of this word, or the proper way to use it. It is overused and I wish people would, literally, just stop! Here are a few of my favourite examples of how wrong some folk are when using this word (in future, please look it up in a dictionary or, better still, don't use it at all): “I literally dropped dead when I heard the news.” “It literally makes my blood boil.” “I was literally shattered after running all that way.” “I literally pissed myself laughing.” “He's literally slept with a million women.” “The Man United striker is literally on fire in front of goal.” “I've literally been to hell and back.” ..................................................................................................................................................................... SHOP ASSISTANTS: You've barely put a foot over the threshold before a gawky assistant with a sing-songy voice and ridiculously gleaming teeth is there, right in your face, asking: “Are you okay there, do you need any help?” Holy shit, I've only just stepped in, give me a goddam chance to at least have a look around first! To add insult to injury, five minutes later when you do need some assistance, there's no-one to be seen. Give me strength! ..................................................................................................................................................................... POSTMEN: And postwomen too, for that matter. Now, one of the things I care about most in this world is me. However, if there was no world, there would be no me. So, I am going to turn eco warrior for a brief moment and get on my environmental high horse. If you look along the ground outside your house, I guarantee you will see plenty of little red and blue rubber bands strewn across the paths and roads. Where do they come from? Why, from your lazy postie of course. I'm not saying these rubber bands are going to destroy the planet, but they will take years to bio-degrade, they cause unwanted litter and they threaten the insides of any short-sighted birds who might think they've snapped up an exotic worm. Instead, I suggest that these uncaring posties do not throw them away without a care, but take them home, where they can fashion a desktop ornamental rubber band ball, or use them for small wind-up propellers on balsa wood planes, or for tying hair into an attractive pony tail. Failing that, there is one more use for them: Flick them at the postie's ear, maybe then they'll learn. ..................................................................................................................................................................... CROC ODOR: "Croc Odor fridge, Croc Odor bin, Croc Odor eff off." ..................................................................................................................................................................... LIAM GALLAGHER: Loveable, Manc scally with a wicked sense of humour and ..................................................................................................................................................................... PIGEONS: Rats with wings. Gutter birds. Flying ashtrays. Sky rats. Winged creatures of hell. Call them what you will, it all boils down to the same thing – they are disgusting creatures. You cannot walk the streets without fear of being targeted by an unwelcome deposit on your head, or dive-bombed at any given moment, with their horrible flapping wings, beady little eyes and sharp beaks. The pavements have been so defaced by their defecation that your fear where you tread. Down with pigeons! ..................................................................................................................................................................... FACEBOOK: Love them or loathe them, social networks sites are here to stay, and Facebook is one of the biggest daddies of them all. But what's making me rumble with annoyance right now is yet another design overhaul. Why do the people at Facebook Towers keep doing this? You get used to how it looks and feels, and where everything is, and they go and change it. And this is the umpteenth time they've done this! Facebook is getting more complicated and convoluted to use, and it's putting users off. So if you're listening Facebook big-wigs – leave it alone! There's an old saying, probably even older than me and I'm one prehistoric dude, but it still rings true today: If it aint broke, ..................................................................................................................................................................... POLITICIANS: This will unlikely be the only entry for this unruly mob, but the one thing that grates me most about them is that, if one party says one thing, then the other has to say the exactly the opposite, for no other reason than because they think they have to. If one party said that there should never ever be any turds sent through the post, the other party would propose that turd mail was the way forward. Turds indeed. ..................................................................................................................................................................... BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH: Why oh why oh why does this happen, just when you don't want it to and just when you're least expecting it? You're just about to, erm, save that 1,000-word document you've been typing, or complete the final level of your game, or whatever (wink), and CRASH! – there it goes. Is it a cruel joke devised by computer geeks just to piss us off? Is Bill Gates laughing his ass off atop his mountainous pile of cash? It's no different to a random stranger entering your room and then pulling the plug straight out of th ..................................................................................................................................................................... STREET CANVASSERS: You're walking along during your lunch hour, minding your own business and aware of how precious little time you've got, and then whoosh, you're accosted by someone in a garish coloured top, grinning inanely, asking if you can spare a couple of minutes. You blurt out an excuse and rush past, breathing a sigh of relief. Now that is bad enough in itself, but these devious people think they are more cunning than they look. They spread themselves at 20-yard intervals so that, as soon as you think you're safe, another one springs into your path when you're least expecting it. After safely negotiating another escape, explaining that “as I've just told your colleague, I don't have the time”, another one looms into view. And another. And another. It's like a bloody giant slalom, and you brush each one off with the same excuse. Can't they see they'd be much better off if they positioned themselves at different spots in different locations (ideally several miles apart), rather than dotted in a straight line? And innocent members of the public wouldn't then be constantly harassed at every twist and turn – once is bad enough, but four times in 60 seconds is beyond a joke. Bugger off and leave me in peace! .....................................................................................................................................................................
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