Scumbags & Scrotes and Carbon Footprints

As I only needed some Greek yoghurt for the other half's dhal I decided to risk it and stopped off at the skanky Sainsburys rather than unnecessarily increasing my carbon footprint by taking a tiny diversion to either big Tescos, big-new Tescos, old Tescos or the small (& slightly less skanky than Sainsburys) Tescos. 

(Morrisons is obviously out of the question as the traffic's hell and Asda, while conveniently situated, can't be relied upon as half the stuff you want is usually out of stock and of course shiny-new-newest Tesco's no good as it isn't quite open yet)

Is it only me that wonders how such a small area can support so many supermarkets?  And I haven't even mentioned the 'other' Morrisons, the three Aldis, two Lidls and a Farmfoods.  We only need a Waitrose for a full-house but the Giro to ISA ratio is way too high for them to ever consider setting up shop.

So, Greek yoghurt from skanky Sainsburys it was - after all, I'd only be in there for a couple of minutes and the chilled aisles with all the fresh stuff is on the opposite side to the ready meals and special brew.

Am I a snob?

I once had to sit on a bus for a very long time looking at the back of a lice infested head - I could see things crawling through the hair; hair that had passed through greasy to the other side.  Ever emptied the bathroom bin and had to remove a lump of hair deposited there from a plug hole - it's dried out and has a greasy but dusty feel to it and sets your teeth slightly on edge?

This lice infested hair looked like that - like it was dead, all clumpy and knotted and matted and just really really manky.  And then there were the clothes that looked like they'd been used to wipe down an oil spill.  Polluted would be an understatement.  And then there was the smell.  The smell was a mixture of stale sweat and other bodily fluids with subtle overtones of public toilet, wheelie bin, curdled milk and damp.

Having to sit on an overcrowded bus on a very hot day for a very long time in close proximity to a very very dirty, smelly scumbag makes you promise yourself never to have to do it again which was why I tended to avoid skanky Sainsburys - the store itself was fine it just had an unfortunate customer base.

So yes I am a snob if being a snob means disliking having to be near dirty people.  There is no reason whatsoever for being so dirty - and I'm not talking about a bit of body odour or the guy that's popped in on his way home from work after cleaning out the slurry pit or cleaning a septic tank.  Everyone's entitled to a day's grace.  Its the smell of the habitual soap avoider.  No one should be too busy, too tired or too poor to have a wash every day, brush hair& teeth and change (to wash) clothes every couple of days.

Anyway, those incensed by my unforgiving attitude will be please to know I got caught - punishment for my judgemental ways I guess - well done Mr and Mrs Karma!

Today I had the pleasure of being caught between a cage of semi skinned milk and a whole family troupe of Scrotes.  I'm not a particularly fastidious person myself but when your smell precedes and announces your presence with a scream of rotten odours you know it's time to say hello to Mr Water and Mrs Soap.

I don't even like dhal that much...

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Today, well ok, yesterday I started a new page - the good, the bad and the ugly.  

When I'm too tired, too apathetic or actually have something more interesting to do than write a load of guff I'll try at least to capture the good, the bad and the ugly moments, thoughts, news items etc etc that I've come cross during the day.

A bit of  cop out but no bugger but me reads this anyway!

The Last Sunday Before Monday

Sundays usually leave me feeling a little down due to the impending Monday and that back to work feeling but when you've had a whole week off that feeling's amplified tenfold and so here I am feeling as if the whole world sucks.

On the plus side the weather should soon be looking better!  (Why is it I always choose the coldest wettest week to have off?)

Photography, Me and Mental Blocks - the Journey

What is it with me and photography - admittedly I've finally made some progress and got to grips with aperture....in principle.  Well sort of.  Actually, thinking about it, I probably don't understand it at all.....well certainly not in practice.  Ok, let's start again.......

...what is it with me and photography - I just don't seem to be able to understand anything.  My other half bought me a fantastic camera a couple of years ago.  He was insistent I got a digital SLR rather than just upgrade my point and shoot.  I was reluctant as I had previous history albeit pre digital with an old Zenith my father had bought second hand as a birthday present.

That old camera was built like a brick and although it looked fairly benign it regularly had me in tears having built up my anticipation only to leave me frustrated, confused and finally resigned; a photographer I would not be.  After all my grandfather was renowned for being crap as well - it obviously ran in the family (but why was I getting all the shoddy genes?)

I used to spend all my pocket money on film and processing.  Buy the film one week then spend a few weeks taking pictures.  Week three would be sending the film off, then came the wait - the anticipation, the nervous excitement. Finally the tears.  

If I got two or three pictures out of the whole film (and I was always really good at getting the film in and managing at least 39 exposures per film) that were in focus I'd be lucky - forget exposure.  Pretty much every picture used to have it's own little sticker advising me of my mistake!  They must have thought some kid got hold of the camera.  

Anyhows I tried everything (even a new boyfriend who just happened to be a photographer) but nothing seemed to work so to save what was left of my self esteem and sanity the camera went.  After 18 months I had 18 packs of photos and two pictures that were worth keeping, one black and white portrait of a complete stranger but so sharply focussed and perfectly exposed it was worthy of something and a silouette of an apple - ok not so great but not a blur in sigth.

So yeah, two years ago I very reluctantly received a digital SLR.  I ended up agreeing by convincing myself that my previous ineptitude was down to being a glasses wearer - my lenses were obviously getting in the way of the camera lens.  I've since had laser surgery - so no glasses no problem.  Oh boy!

It has to be some sort of mental block.  I dont consider myself completely stupid, I know I'm not stupid.  Without sounding like a complete twat I know I'm actually quite a bit above average intelligence so why do I find it so bloody difficult to grasp?  I'm hoping with either enough persistence or a sudden eureka moment it will all fall into place and I can become the happy snapper I want to be.  

I went on a days course a few months back-  after the reading of several text books failed to sink in but was left more demoralised than I thought possible.  I went with high hopes, after all I was pretty confident that I'd be fine at composition - balance, perpsctive, colour, lead lines etc, my art background was solid.  I just needed someone to show me how to use the bloody camera.  I wanted to get out of automatic and start using it as it was supposed to be used.  

I was the youngest by about 40 years apart form a couple of school kids who came with cameras provided as they were unsure if it was something they wanted to take up.  The rest, like me, were wanting to escape automatic.  

Lets just say it was a bloody disaster.  After a couple of hours in the classroom we went out to take pics, the idea being we'd have a show and tell later.  I thought I did ok and went back with hundreds of pictures full of confidence.  To be honest I was feeling pretty smug.  You tend to, I find, just before some sort of impromptu or ritual humiliation

Basically we were shown the pics - everybody else had 15-20 pictures each that we all ooh and ahhed over.  I had 4 - basically to point out the 'what not to dos.  (looking back this was actually a nine-fold improvement on the 1 in 36 but it wasn't what came immediately to mind) 

I was by-passed on the the final round the table feedback but afterwards was told they really didn't know what I it was I wasn't getting!  I said everything, they said it really isn't that difficult, I said I know (the rest of the group had proved that) but I'm still not getting it they said keep trying, I said what, pressing random buttons?  It was all very messy and I'm ashamed to say ended with tears.

Breast is Best

I would like to thank all gods, earth mothers and other deities for my mammary glands and their spectacular failure for both of my pregnancies.

Not because I didn't want to breast feed and would therefore avoid the Breastapo police sending me on a guilt trip every time they came round - preaching in the most reproachful and condescending manner without actually tutting; didn't I know I was going to end up in hell?

They could have had a field day as I was also (through choice) a single mother on benefits (not by choice) which meant my kids were absolutely going to catch every disease going, be asthmatic, be in the bottom percentile at school, be pig ugly (I'm not sure what the logic behind this one was or if there were any studies backing it up but it's what the health visitors were saying and they're as close to proper witches as is so it must have been true!) and basically fail at life.

So, like I said,  thank all gods and goddesses I had my little get out of jail free card to push in front of their noses and thus avoided being the local pariah.

Of course I wanted to breast feed; it's cheaper, more convenient, healthier (probably) and would have made me look like the responsible mother I was trying really hard to convey..... I mean be!  Luckily my breasts had other ideas and simply refused to lactate.

So why am I thanking non existent entities and feeling so lucky I had such pathetically useless equipment,  especially when according to the latest study breast fed babies also turn out better behaved?

Well both my kids turned out healthy & robust, in the top ten percentile all through school, confident, socially responsible, and mostly well behaved (both went through stroppy periods but whose didn't?) and basically real high achievers to the extent that I'm a little in awe of them both.  Had I breast fed, according to the experts, both could have ended up god-like geniuses and no body likes a smart arse.

This isn't meant as a look how good I did as a mum piece.  It's meant as a don't give in and become a statistic piece - just because the indicators lean towards a shitty outcome / tidy you away into the 'failed' pigeon-hole doesn't mean you have to accept it.  Buck the trend - it's immensely satisfying and really upsets them!

Cake or Death, Apathy and the Guillotine

I'm not a political animal. Like most people I don't know each of the party policies verbatim.  I have a vague understanding of their main points.  Last election I read through each of the big three's manifestos in order to make more of an educated choice instead of the usual educated guess.  I tried to remove the noise that surrounds any election.  I put away as many preconceptions, family traditions, historical voting preferences and in the end did what I always do and voted for the party I've always voted for.

But my point is, I voted.  Now I could go on about freedom and democracy and why it's so disgraceful to waste our hard fought for vote - especially at the moment while other nations are fighting for those very privileges.  But this sentiment has been thrown at people before and never made any difference.  We seem to be a nation of arm chair politicians - we will moan and groan and complain and winge and whine to our little hearts content so long as we don't have to get up off our arses and do anything about it! 

Like Mr Izzard once said our country could never have hosted the Spanish Inquisition - instead it would have been an insipid 'cake or death'? before retiring back to the soft furnishings with remote control.

Now the French!  The French may be synonymous with a fast retreat but they're even faster off the mark when it comes to making their voices heard over unpopular internal policies.  They seem more than happy to start another revolution providing lorries and sheep are involved.

So why are we so crap?

And then it came to me, we aren't - it's the parties and their candidates that are directly responsible for our apathy.  For the last two general elections I've voted for the lesser of all evils - non seem to deliver anything close to acceptable across all areas so you go for the one you think'll cause least damage.  It's no good voting for the Independent who mirrors exactly your views because, I'm sorry, but it IS a wasted vote.  AND perhaps that's why AV didn't stand a cat in hell's chance of getting in.  It's bad enough choosing one party that doesn't totally abhor you but to have to choose another 2, 3 or even 4 would be inhumane!

Passions Come & Go; Olives are currently in

I used to hate olives.  They were vile.  Infact they were so fucking vile they were one of those foods I couldn't even swallow in haste in a bid to get rid of the vileness but had to instead spit out before the gagging set in.

Every few years I'd have another go in a desperate attempt to join the cool crowd but I kept having the same gut churning response.  Back in the day, get-togethers were lonely dining experiences - unfortunately I seemed to have acquired friends who all thought you could be satiated sufficiently with a couple of bowls of olives and a few anti pasta dishes (my evenings still contained nuts - sophisticate I was not!)  I used to crave home-time when I could feed my empty stomach on wheetabix or toast.

What were they tasting that I wasn't? It wasn't like, oh I don't know, - peanut butter, where distastes go unnoticed.  If you don't like beetroot it isn't commented on! Eyebrows aren't raised, knowing looks aren't shared or judgements passed.

Olives are things that people salivate over, people enthuse when olives are put before them.  They are things of passion.  Olives bring people together with a warmth and shared love.

I used to sit in uncomprehending silence while the rest of the group had in depth conversations; their mutual appreciation left me feeling as if I was missing out but more importantly, as if I was somehow 'less....' , not as good....

I suppose it's the equivalent of thinking you're quite well read on joining a book club; you read a couple of books a month, you've read quite a few of the English classics (not all in school time) and loads of best sellers while on holiday but then you find yourself in a group discussing Dostoevsky, Emile Zola or Voltaire and Chekhov and suddenly you're feeling slightly inferior, a little simple, a bit green.

So what changed?  When did I have my epiphany?  Was it a knock on the head or just pure determination in order to feel part of the crowd?

I just had an olive one day and I liked it, simple as that.  I remember that first enjoyable olive was in the context of a large celebratory meal, with good wine and other good food.  I was extremely hungry and the wine was flowing so in desperation I reached out and 'hmmm'.  So I had another go and it was ok.

Maybe you have to eat your first olive in the context it was originally designed to be eaten in to fully appreciate it's unique salty flesh?  I vaguely remember I ate the whole bowl in increasing wonderment but also in silence - after all I was still new at this; I wasn't sure if they were good olives or not and therefore how much to enthuse!

My second olive experience was on my first ever holiday abroad - a couple of years ago now (but not that many - I was only just on the young side of 40).  And that's when it finally all fell into place.  All I had ever  needed was to experience the olive in it's home setting where it was king and this was where it finally made it's mark, became forever part of my psyche by entwining itself in my heart.

Olives now are not only tiny bursts of salty wonderment they are tiny vessels that instantly transport me back to warmer climes and happy memories.

And yes I have been known to get giddy when olives appear unexpectedly before me and yes I have been heard passing what sounds like expert judgement on their taste, texture, etc etc - all of which is a ball of cock as one my my favourite olives is still the cheapest super-saver type from the local superstore rather than than the lovingly stuffed queen Greek whatever from the expensive executive type deli.

I just really really like olives now and can and am as passionate as all the other olive lovers out there.

More Zen from the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Another chilled day!  Not a hundred percent sure what's going on with me at the moment - I seem to have found myself in a state of gentle chilled-ness.  I'm almost feeling calm.  Happy even.  Well maybe not happy but not permanently pissed off with something or someone.

The whole, or rather, the main reason for starting this blog was as an outlet for the rage.  The pressure valve - the safety net - the sponge to soak up my vitriol.

So has the simple act of starting this taken away my angst or have I replaced my rage with creative (and I'm using that word in it's loosest sense) thought.  Probably not.  I'm pretty sure its got more to do with the anti-depressants I've been given to help with the pain.  Apparently it's common practice to prescribe them to alleviate pain.  The pain's still pretty bad but I'm sleeping much better and I don't seem to be so down about feeling the pain...yeah, go figure!

Anyhows, I digress, where was I?

So, yeah.  I had another Zen day today.  Started off with an amble round a farmer's market; they seem to take all the urgency out of the day.  They set a different - a slower pace and somehow everything becomes calmer.  I noticed how people took the time to smile in passing, I even exchanged a few words with total strangers - simple acknowledgements that we were in the same zone.  All very.. I have no word.  It was just really really nice (please don't hit me english teacher!*)

I'm not normally a people person.  No one I know would ever accuse me of being a people person.  I try and avoid contact with people at all costs.  I have to work with people and I'm ok with that, occasionally in the past I have gotten to know people through the simple longevity of an assignment or post that I have developed a friendship.  These people understand I am not a people person.  These people also know in order to maintain the friendship they will have to do all the work and accept that in return they get nothing more than me - they either accept this or move on; sometimes I may notice. I have family and do my duty when required.  Close family seem to forgive me my distance and know I love them in my own way.  They know if needed I'm there.

So when I say I exchanged words with strangers it's not a statement to be taken lightly or easily dismissed.  It's on the same level as I swam the channel in a bear suit.  It has significance.  It needs to be acknowledged as something out of the ordinary - a significant change in behaviour.  Not only did I exchange words with complete strangers I took time out to enjoy the entertainment.

I'm not sure how to convey the gravity this statement also has - the entertainment involved children and children are like people but worse.  Most people accept that I'm not totally abnormal for not liking people at face value but tell someone that you don't like children and you may as well have just grated the face of a bunny rabbit whilst jumping up and down on a puppy dog.  I really really don't do kids.  My kids will be the first to back me up on this statement.  They never heard about baa baa lambs and bunny wunnies, coochie choochie woo and ooos a good widdle baby wen never passed their eardrums.  And while it may have resulted in an exceptionally advance vocabulary for their ages I don't think they came out of it too damaged or traumatised.

Where was I?  Yeah, so I'm talking to complete strangers and watching kids do cute (probably - I have no references to benchmark against) things and then, to top it all off I start initiating conversations!  Those polite 'I'm really terribly interested' sort of conversations that I used to turn my nose up at, shun or snigger at as being pointless and meaningless but here I am getting a bit of a buzz from it!

I obviously need time to process all this and understand what it means and how I actually feel about it.  I also need to write an email to a stall holder who's asked if I'd take some photo's of her produce (jewellery not eggs or cheese or something else you'd expect to find at a farmers market) which, and I'm not sure how, I agreed to do.

However, before all that I need to embrace my classicist-ness, mourn romanticism and figure out what it actually means.

Baby steps.

*see later post, if I ever get round to it, re the reason my English sucks (apart from just being crap at English)

Simple Pleasure Lures and Turing Brakes

The week started, (and for the purposes of today's blog, this week started last Friday) on a beach in North Wales.  Somebody obviously failed to tell the climate fairies it was a bank holiday & the climate fairies in turn forgot we were still in April so while many were still in a wedding feeding frenzy, glued to the TV but with one eye on the weather outside, I was celebrating my extra days holiday watching the waves and collecting pieces of sea smoothed glass.

I'm not sure why I've started collecting bits of broken glass worn smooth by the continual churning of the sea.  Its kinda cool though that bottles discarded by kids having an illicit drink can produce tiny gems of individual beauty.  Last year it was pebbles with holes, the year before discarded lead fishing weights, spinners and lures. Who know's what it'll be next year.  Whatever it is, spend a couple of hours on beach contemplating life and everything seems a little sweeter and a little less self important.  The only drawback is the growing piles of stone, pebbles and bits of discarded tackle I've accrued but each is a small reminder of a day enjoyed and a treasure found and wondered at.

Saturday was nearly as Zen.  And while not an active participant, I was there in spirit - providing wisdom and moral support whilst watching the men folk digging over the allotment.  Still very much in the embryonic stage so not holding out on being completely self sufficient for a while yet but a strangely evocative yesteryear kind of place to sit back in a deck chair with a transistor radio and the smell of fresh loam.

The evening went slightly up tempo following the last minute star find and purchasing of tickets to see Turin Brakes.  Still can't quite figure out how they've ended up playing such small intimate venues for small change and almost felt guilty being there enjoying it so much..... but only almost.

I was surprised at how short they were though! - which left me wondering if longevity & fame has to some extent a dependency on stature.  This ponder was strengthened by a vague recollection of either hearing or reading of other famed persons being caught with or known to wear uplifts.  I mean they really were incredibly short,  it's not something I was expecting - you don't imagine them being so short when you're listening to them.

It was very strange standing there enjoying the music while my 'other' voice was screaming 'but look how short they are!' and variations to that effect every few minutes.   It didn't help much when my 'other' voice's conscience started telling it to shut up and listen.  Meanwhile I was watching me listening to me telling me (keep up) I shouldn't be listening to either of them and wondering how much more morphine I needed to last the night out.  I'm not sure I came to any consensus to anything by the end of the second encore other than people shouldn't be dismissed for being short unless they were cocks as well.

Was bloody murder trying to fold myself into a sitting position and driving myself home after standing for 4 hours but didn't regret a minute and came away feeling privileged to have been there!

Sunday.  Sunday just was.

Death and Justice. Sycophants all!!!

Why did the news of Osama Bin Laden's killing leave me feeling uneasy?

Maybe because it was followed by pictures showing lots of rampant celebration - sound-bites depicting almost gleeish and giddy joy at his demise, maybe it was also the fuzziness almost from the start from the almighty American self appointed vigilante nation of how it 'went down'. 

And before you shout out at my stance let me explain.  I'm in no way defending or condoning any of his reported actions.  Terrorism isn't something I think of as a necessary evil, my liberal stance doesn't stretch to the indiscriminate slaughter of innocent people - no matter what race or faith they happen to be.

What I find distasteful is some of the reactions that followed; I'm honestly at a loss to come up with anybody past or living that would cause me to jump for joy on hearing of their death - yes they may be evil personified and yes they absolutely need to be held accountable and punished for their actions but celebrating the death of anybody, no matter how evil, surely makes us as heartless and ruthless and as indiscriminate and bigoted in our actions as them!  

I'm also very uncomfortable with America;, having finally found him why did they not take him captive?  Surely as the 'civilised society', always taking the moral high ground, this was the only acceptable and more importantly, the only legal path they should have taken.  Instead he was neutralised in in what they felt was a justifiable killing, even though he wasn't armed and posed no direct threat to any of the military undertaking the exercise - how can any unarmed person be classed as a viable target?  Why weren't we given the opportunity to see him face trial?

I'm not sure I'm making myself totally clear - please understand, I'm not saying that he didn't deserve justice - but here's the thing - he wasn't given any justice.  He's dead - and dead means there are no functioning glands; there is no emotion, thought, regret, fear, loss - he has totally escaped punishment, meanwhile our actions have made us look as savage as the very terrorists we say are a threat to our civilised and free society.

And again (sorry this really has upset me and I'm finding it hard to express my feelings without them being easily misunderstood)- when we see our enemy rejoicing at the death of one of ours we call them animals, we call them fanatics, we call them extremists.  So why is it acceptable to jump and sing and celebrate so vocally and not call or judge ourselves inhuman when the roles are reversed?

Not in a Royal Wedding Frenzy

Ok, here's my stance.

On the Initial Announcement:
1. Whatever, good for them - hope is wasn't forced on them as an attempt to take our focus away from the misery of the recession and public sector cuts
2. Dread of the coming months media coverage
3. On the plus side I get an extra day off work

I wasn't really fussed either way - I'm not a Royalist but I recognise they're probably one of the biggest draws this country has for the tourist trade and I don't find them all totally offensive.

After the First Months Coverage:
1. Please no more
2. Please.....
3. *sigh*

I was blown away at how many spurious connections the media could make with totally random subjects/objects/places in an attempt to stay on the bandwagon.  Like many, I also took delight in voicing loudly and proudly that I would be anywhere but in London/in front of a TV/radio on the big day and quickly switched channel/turned page when anything of a nuptial nature was on the cards.

The Preceding Weeks:
1. Oh god, please no more
2. Even some of the loyal royalist must be turning
3. What happened to proper news, why is Kate's favourite ''blankety blank'' the lead story ?

For those that want to watch the possible future king get hitched to the common northern coal miner's great great great great second niece by witchery daughter (I suspect she's the poshest commoner in the whole of this realm), thanks go to the BBC for doing the wedding video.  Great - but that's all that's needed.  Ok, maybe get someone to do a bit of a voice-over for the simple witted; plus it would be of comfort to all those people sat alone with a limp flag and piece of stale cake - to help them feel a little bit more included.  The 30 minute discussion on whether she'll be wearing satin slippers or .....ok, I'm not good on footwear but you get the idea - it's totally unnecessary.

Seven Days to Go:  
1. I am now not only past caring, I am also too abject, numb and broken to have the energy to even whimper my apathy!

I was expecting the odd documentary - I'm not stupid, this was going to be easy pickings for all those news and features editors but I have been completely blown away by the sheer amount of unnecessary drivel.  Do they really think the majority require 24/7 Wills and Kate fanaticism to keep their interest simmering?

The Eve:
1. TFInearlyF (and therefore nearly over)
2. Please god don't let the post wedding critique be as painfully drawn out.

The canteen at work was adorned with flags, there was weird jelly and other shit (actually it was the usual shit with iced union jacks stuck on).  I had my usual sandwich.

Tomorrow I will be heading out to climb a hill/walk a beach/hug a tree/chase a pirate/stroke a cow.......

......for the sake of peace, diplomacy and the future of mankind, we can at least be united on hoping the weather is kind to both of us!

Ugly Facebook Kids

I'll keep it short and sweet.

Why, oh why oh why oh why the FRICK do people insist on putting pictures of their ugly ugly kids on facebook when.....no, actually that's not the question.

Ok so here's the scenario: picture of ugly kid goes up on facebook, proud parent obviously has slightly biased perception of kids attractiveness quotient - after all beauty is in the eye of the beholder so fair enough, I guess that's understandable.  However, and this IS the burning question; why do the friends of the ugly kids parents bust a gut to comment on how goddamn beautiful they are!  It's either suggesting they have equally or even uglier kids, or are in desperate need of an optician.  Why do they do this?  There's no need unless it's in the hope of the favour being reciprocated?

I have two kids.  One of which sometimes looks bloody gorgeous (when it's had a wash), other-times is as rank as a skunk, although I'll admit they're probably averaging about an 8 or 9.  The other is a different matter.  On first sight I insisted they take him back, was convinced they'd swapped him with somebody else's.  Did eventually start to feel positive in the early teens but lost all hope mid university.  Of course I love them both to pieces, always have and always will but I don't and never have and never will throw pictures of them at people in a desperate need for reassurance.

Fair do's, when you're ambushed in the office by some dimwit who thinks you give a shit, with a picture shoved under your nose, you can be forgiven for coming out with a standard response while fingers are hastily crossed behind your back.  But on facebook, there is no pressure!  There is no direct communication.  You have the option of pretending you haven't seen it.  There's no need to feel uncomfortable, no need to lie in the act of showing kindness, there is simply no need!

By all means feel free to say a silent prayer of condolence and thank god it's not one of yours but don't look a tit to everyone else that's looking at the picture of the ugly kid and wondering what you're benchmarking your comments on !

Just a Normal Day Rant

Four days off, just about managed to chill and then it's back to the grind to pay the mortgage, whoopy do!

Well aren't I the happy little soldier - how dare I be moaning about having a job, or even having a mortgage to pay, I should be bloody grateful, yada yada yada.

Well excuse me, but what the fuck am I doing with my life?  Why am I busting a gut - dosing myself up on painkillers to get through each day and getting shit hot reviews every year, just to be told there's a recession ''but we really do recognise your achievements''.  Well that's all right then isn't it! - In real terms, due to the lack of any pay rise over the last 5 years, I'm worse off than I was two promotions ago.  I'm now spending over 14% of my monthly salary of petrol just to get to bloody work, grumble, moan bitch....

Why don't I leave?  Shitting recession and shitting post op niggles are keeping me tethered to the safety of  a guaranteed bacs payment, that and the promise that I really am going to be rewarded, I'm their most valuable asset (I'll just get MUG tattooed on my forehead)!

So that's pretty much what goes through my head every day.  That and the self abuse I dole out to myself, by reminding me I've only got another 29 years left - just in case I'm not feeling shitty enough already.

I've come to the conclusion I must enjoy being a miserable old trout, any sane, normal, reasonably functioning person would be busting a gut to make changes - at the very least look for the positives.

The Journey to work for instance:
Yes, the trees look really pretty with the early morning sun streaming through their branches.  Yes, the blanket of mist gently hugging the patchwork fields, would be giving Wordsworth a hard-on.

My reality? Two tractors, a white van man, an articulated lorry and a Sunday driver.

I'm not even going to mention the three pit stops I made on the way home to pick up painkillers from the chemist - the first two didn't have any, and at the third I found I'd forgotten to get my credit card off the other half, following the impromptu Bank Holiday Shop, so left empty handed.

On the plus side, I discovered my Royal Wedding guest name would be Lady Marjory Little Orange Fish Number One Gorse.

On an even more positive note there is absolutely no chance whatsoever I will actually be going anywhere near anything nuptial on the day in question.

So it hasn't been a totally shit day after all!

Bank Holiday & not a Busy Lizzie in Sight

Why do people do it, why can't we abstain from the evils of consumerism for more than a couple of days?

I'm usually in the habit of feeling a bit smug during the bank holidays; sitting back and looking down my judgemental nose at all those panic ridden people queuing to get into the Garden Centres, DIY stores and even bloody supermarkets.

There they go, crawling along bumper to bumper, the gaps between each car so small quantum had to be invented!  Eyes to the front to avoid eye contact with the poor sod in the side street trying, like the rest, to purchase something they never knew they wanted until this morning.  Most of them grumbling, wanting to know why every other bugger has decided they need a tray of Busy Lizzies and a wind chime, and today of all bloody days!  The rest, resigned to the futility; veterans of the bank holiday shop.

But now I have to hold my hands up for I too have succumbed.  After just three days cabin fever set in, the urge came and I too joined the masses. Clutching the mighty card of credit off I trotted, I knew not where.  There was no plan,  no list of needs or even wants.

The first destination was quickly abandoned after I viewed in the distance, a row of windscreens glinting in the abnormal-for-a-bank-holiday sun.  Quick turn and off to destination two then; a stalwart for the bank holiday crowd, however, on the way I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted there and as didn't care for it much on a working day I carried on, off to join queue number three instead.

The rest of the day was spent planting the stuff I'd bought (which was totally justified as I'd lost a fair bit over the winter and just hadn't gotten round to replacing it yet - honest!) and wishing I'd bought that wind chime.

Next weekend I'll go back to feeling smug, it may not make me a nice person but I'll have clean nails.

Chicken or Bad Parenting?

Why cant I say what I think when something pisses me off?  Am I just chicken or is there a deep rooted reason for my inability to grow a pair when confronted with something that I find disagreeable.  I come home from work raging because I've had more work dumped on me, been blamed for something, asked to do something I feel is wrong and while screaming inside that this is all bollocks I just get on with it.

I'll scream and shout at the tosser who's just cut me up but if given the opportunity to speak to them directly wouldn't say a word.  I see people dropping litter, parking in disabled spaces when it's obvious from the speed they then run into the shop, they're at least fully functioning in the limb department, and I walk on.

Why is this?  Why do I hate confrontation?  Why, even when it has a direct impact on me, do my lips remain sealed?  When did I learn this behaviour and how can I break it?

The big question I guess is nature or nurture?  My urge is to go down the nurturing road, I have clear memories of being told not to make a fuss, it isn't worth it, it's not our place.  My parents were concious they'd only just achieved lower middle classdom and didn't want to rock the boat -besides it's an easy cop out to blame the parents.  But if nurture is the cause why do my three siblings find it so easy to stick up for themselves, not take any shit and as a result are all successful go getters?

Perhaps it's nature then - it's just the way I am - maybe I've got a bit of a squiffy chromosome somewhere in my coding? If this is the case am I a lost cause unless all those gene therapy institutes suddenly decide the most vital area for research is the wimp gene and promptly discard all their work on cancers and genetic diseases? Or is there a why to reprogramme myself?

Either way, whether it's nature or nurture, I need to break the cycle.

So where to start?

More later.......

A Drought of Pet Hates

Some things really get my goat, twist my spine or find me ranting* to an empty room.

Many of these 'pet hates' are universally recognised and acknowledged, a few may be unique to me, but all have an impact; whether it's a manageable blip or a catastrophic show stopper that ruins my day.

One of the reasons for starting this blog was as an outlet to the daily rage I experience through the idiocy or ignorance and subsequent behaviours of others whose paths I cross on a daily basis.

Unfortunately I seem to be going through a quiet patch at the moment so as I'm lacking material for a good old fashioned rant, I've decided to dedicate todays blog to listing the most regular offenders - who knows, maybe I'll find it a little cathartic!

Being a rather 'functional' person I was hoping there was a scale of severity I could apply but there isn't, so I can't. I do however need to define what falls into the remit of a pet hate. I've therefore decided that because some behaviours are more severe than others they can be dismissed for the purposes of this exercise. Some are so nasty-bad, laws have been introduced as preventative measures; classed as criminal acts these include the usual suspects; murder, stealing; bestiality etc. Then there's those that, while not having any illegality attached, would result in an ASBO or, at the very least, a stiff letter to the Daily Mail.

Using the Pareto principle I've therefore discarded 80% of the most unsavoury acts - those too severe to be called 'pet hates', the remaining 20% I've tried to further classify into sub groups - if only to demonstrate my anal tendencies!

Personal Hygiene & Bathroom Etiquette

1. If you're gonna piss on the toilet seat clean it off afterwards - strange as it may sound I don't enjoy sitting in your piss!

2. I don't know how wee wee got on the toilet roll but however it did, don't do it again!

3. Leave the toilet seat in the same configuration as you found it, I promise to return the courtesy.

4. Why are you under the assumption that finishing the toilet roll means no one will ever need the loo again? Just replace the roll!

Visitor Etiquette

1. Whether I turn lights off when exiting a room is for environmental or economical reasons doesn't matter, either way it IS for a good reason. Why then, when you're here, do you to make sure I've maximised my wattage output? Just turn the friggin' lights off after you!

2. Shoe's aren't meant to be worn in the house, if they were why would we bother with carpets? If I wanted you to tread crap through the house every time you visited I'd ask you to!

3. See that coaster - the one on that table? Guess what, it's there for a reason! You may think otherwise but I prefer my furniture ringless.

4. I don't care how cute your kid is wipe his f**king sticky fingers before you let him get down from the table. - This is the only kid one I'm putting on today's blog - it's already got my veins pulsing. I shall save the rest for another slow day.

Out & About

1. Do I look like the twatting doorman? If someone holds the door open for you just say thanks. It takes very little effort but has massive impact if omitted.

2. On the flip side - don't let the person following you through the door break a nose - it's very basic door manners!

Door Manners
It goes like this; you go through a door, but (and it's a crucially big but) but, before letting go of the door and proceeding on your way, you look behind you to see if there's someone else wishing to use the same portal. If there is you hold the door open for them so they may pass through. If, on walking through the door and off on their way they then fail to acknowledge your polite door manners you say, "no, really, that's quite all right. Don't mind me I'm just the sodding doorman!"

3. I'm standing in this line in order to purchase some goods. Standing in line ensures efficiency, fairness and order. It's called queueing and it's a great way to get rid of a shed load of vowels in scrabble. It may have started during the later stages of the neolithic era, it may not have really taken off until the World Wars when rationing was all the rage, I care not. What I would like our continental and overseas cousins to understand is that it really pisses me off when the unwritten rules aren't followed. Think of it as something quaint you did when visiting on your hols.

NOTE: Old ladies are, always have been and always will be, exempt from this practice. I'm not sure why, maybe it's because they have sharp elbows, mostly it's because they have a particular smell that sticks in your throat, but whatever the reason, we are all agreed they have earned the right to push in. You haven't!

Road Rage

It's late, I'm tired, you're probably losing the will to live.  This little section could take hours to complete with the accuracy to convey may rage and therefore I'm passing until I can give it the attention it deserves.  Instead I'll leave it with a few bullet points...
1. Middle lane drivers
2. Roundabout lane drifters
3. Guess where I'm going coz my blinking sticks wont tell you
4. Taxi drivers
5. Sunday drivers at 07:30 mon-fri

 * Unless committed by someone I love and then it's managed through the traditional practice of black silence - its one directional nature being felt physically from the pit of the stomach by the reproachful recipient, feared by all.

Prof Brian Cox: What I learnt today, why Shakespeare was wrong & why the Magic Roundabout killed a fantasy

There's been a lot of Prof Brian Cox on the telly machine over the last few months, much of which I've been watching and enjoying; whether it's his simple but enthusiastic series' introducing us to more complex science or his guest appearances on those slightly to the left field panel shows the BBC are so good at, he's always been good viewing.

However, watching him has led to many assumptive comments.  Apparently, being female, the only driver for my viewing should be his shaggability - which of course got me thinking.

If I was a feminist I should probably have been complaining about people assuming girls don't like/don't get/have no interest in science but I bypassed this and went straight to the burning and most important question which was (in laddish) 'would I do the Prof?'

It seems a bit of a no brainer really; he's not unattractive, it looks as if he's got all his own hair and teeth, he's obviously intelligent, and if he shows as much passion as he does on all things physics you're not going to be too quick to complain!

So what's stopping me?  (Yes, I know, this is all theoretical - the chances of me bumping into him in Waterstones as I happen to be thumbing through a suitably complex piece of text and our eyes meeting etc etc.  But, if quantum physics and /or string theory is correct -this is actually happening on one of those parallel universes out there!)

As I was saying, I was having a bit of a think.....which, if you're being pedantic, might be better described as 'having a bit of a fantasy'.....  it was all going understandably well (I'd obviously dropped a few pounds, lost a couple of years and a few other things were defying the laws of gravity and looking much perter), the opening scene was promising and all was looking pretty good but then I said his name and it all came to a jaw stopping halt.

And there we have it.  Today I have discovered I couldn't do Prof  Brian Cox (In this Universe anyway.) because it seems I find the idea of doing anything with a Brian slightly unsettling.

Of course this got me thinking a bit more - was it just Brians' or did I have an aversion to being physical with other names, and how could a name reduce what seems like a perfectly understandable fantasy with a recognisably accepted shaggable man into tatters?

On the plus side it turns out Brians shouldn't feel left out, Grahams, Alans, Si's, Nigels and Jasons also made it onto a reasonably lengthy list*.

So was Shakespeare wrong when he penned 'a rose by any other name'?  Maybe, maybe not.  Maybe this proves once and for all that it isn't love at first sight - that you can only get jiggy with it, without the aid of beer goggles, once you've got to know somebody and can therefore forgive them their unfortunate name.

But why are some names less attractive than others -is it as simple as name association; did I know another Brian who was a bit of a twat? Or can I blame my informative viewing years and the Magic Roundabout with that  miserable, moaning, arse kissing, slimy little gastropod for ruining what could have been a fairly enjoyable fantasy. (If I was a lesbian Ermintrude wouldn't get a look in either!)

So what have I learned today?  Today I've learned that unless I actually meet and get to know Prof Brian Cox I'm never going to be able to have virtual sex with him.  I've learned that Romeo and Juliet must have been pretty cool names or they'd already got to know each other before they ended up drinking poison/practising extreme self harm.  And I've learned that the Magic Roundabout had far more of an impact on my sex life*** than I or anyone else could have believed possible.

Here's to that parallel universe where I'm having much fun with Brian!

* this list started off a few** names longer but then I remembered I couldn't be averse to certain names as previous exploits had proved. 

** I suspect I maybe being stalked by 'the better half' who's under the impression my previous life was a lot less interesting than it actually was***

***If the other half has found me I'm probably putting his socks back on whilst explaining how none of this explains why he still doesn't get any - virtual or otherwise!


NB for those that know me, who are desperately wanting to point out the inclusion of Alan in the list, knowing there's an Alan in my shag pass (non laminated)- you need to understand that in all my fantasies I'd never dare call him by his name and therefore this rule doesn't apply.