Thursday, December 22, 2011

Christmas Is Annoying...ish.

Great. It's that time of year where everyone pretends to be nice to everyone else. The houses of those on benefits can be spotted from space, due to having more Christmas lights than a large Christmas lights shop, and shares in Poundland take a massive jump thanks to sales of spray on snow.

I'm going to make this a relatively short blog entry, as I'm really busy making mince pies, wrapping presents, giving to charity and watching Christmas movies- the same excuses that you give to someone you've bumped into on the street and haven't seen for ages, and don't really want to talk to, so pretend you're really busy, rather than stand there making awkward conversation about the weather, what they're up to for Christmas, and suggesting arranging that drink that you'll never get round to having.

Don't get me wrong, I do love this time of year. There's just bits of it that really annoy me. Like Jugglers. I've been Christmas shopping about 6 times this year, and there seems to be an unusually high amount of Jugglers. Why do they come out at Christmas? As if at this festive time of year, I'm going to find juggling any less shit than at any other time of the year. And then there's those weirdos with home made trousers that do that thing with two sticks joined by a piece of string, where they toss a large spinning cotton reel in the air, and then catch it again. At no point in life, or in any occupation, would this be of any use to anybody.Stop tossing large cotton reels in the air and then catching them. It's irritating.Irritating for adults.And kids.

Christmas crackers annoy me as well. I like them, don't get me wrong. The hat is amusing, if you can get it on your head without ripping it, the rubbish joke always gets a groan if the person reading it out can get to the punch line before everyone else guesses it, but the gifts inside are an utter waste of time, and always a massive disappointment. There is not one person in this country who doesn't have, lying around in a drawer somewhere, a large plastic hair clip, a small set of playing cards, a plastic fish, or a miniature set of screwdrivers.

I also don't get the whole fuss about Christmas dinner. It's surely just your average Sunday lunch, but dressed up with a jazzy name. It's still meat, vegetables, and gravy, but add a bit of honey, some extra herbs and whatever Jamie, Nigella, Gordon or those two Geordies with beards suggest, and suddenly it's the meal of the year.

In terms of presents, they say 'it's better to give than to receive', but what I like to say is 'receiving is king.' I love getting presents.I'm like a small child, and get that feeling inside my stomach like being on a roller coaster, It's the whole anticipation of what it could be. Mind you, I'm 32, and still haven't mastered the art of pretending to like a gift,and I bet you haven't either. It's especially hard when you're in a room full of people watching you open said gift. All I can say is, praise the Lord for eBay. If you ask the person who's bought you the gift if they have kept the receipt, it kind of gives away the fact that you think their gift of a musical towel is horse shit.

My dear Grandad died earlier this year. I miss my Grandad every day, but his death has eased my Christmas gift burden, mainly because I never had any idea of what to buy him. For the last 20 years, he has received nothing but chocolates, or handkerchiefs. Old people are the only thing to have kept the Handkerchief makers in business. All old people must have very bad runny noses, because everyone will have bought their Grandparents hankies at some point. I think it's lucky my Grandad had well built oak cupboards in his bedroom, because if the top shelf had ever broken, he would have met his death many years ago in a nasty hankie crushing incident. He had literally hundreds, most of them purchased by me. Sadly, he died of old age, but his hankies were sent to a clothing charity, stitched together, and are now being used as giant marquees in Afghanistan. My Grandad was a legend. You could say my Grandad truly was.... the Hankie Chief.

Happy Christmas to all of the 4 people who will read this. Find a space in your drawers somewhere, there's some miniature screwdrivers heading your way.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Suicidal Dentists.

 Why is it, that 3 days before my dream holiday, I develop horrendous tooth ache, when i don't get it at any other time of the year? I`ll tell you why. Because dentists are bastards. They have a clever secret way of secretly planting a secret 'toothache creating' miniature device inside your mouth, that is timed to go off just before a major event, so you HAVE to visit the dentists. They pay your hairdresser a small annual fee to inform them of when you are going away on holiday. Why else does the hairdresser always say " Going anywhere nice this year?" It's not because they care. They don't give a shit. It's because they get a fee for any info they can pass to the dentist, almost like a police informant. The dentist then uses this info to plant the tooth damaging, nerve attacking time bomb in your mouth during your routine checkup, so it goes off right before your holiday.See, Bastard.

So I thought I'd tell you about my trip to the dentists. I hate the dentists. Only 4 things scare me in life. Flying, men who wear skin tight jeans, flying with men who wear skin tight jeans, and the dentists. Everything about the dentists I loathe, from the softly spoken receptionists, to the out of date magazines in the waiting room, normally 'Bella' or 'Woman's Own'. This particular trip was for root canal, which I knew was going to be nothing but a painful experience.

There isn't room for me at the local NHS dentists, so I have to go private, and I'm sure the
exceptional fees I get charged pay for the shiny new uniforms they seem to be wearing every time I go there. Their figure hugging white tops that show a fraction of cleavage are definitely designed to lure you into a false sense of security and to relax. It would be like facing the executioner in medieval times, and as you approach the chopping block,you notice they are dressed in matching panties and peep hole bra, in an effort to ease your nerves. Well it doesn't work Mr Dentist. No matter how hard I try, I can't relax. So much so, that no matter what time of year it is, I have to go dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, as I sweat so much out of pure undiluted fear.

On this particular occasion, as it was going to be a long procedure, I was offered a choice of DVD to watch, which could be viewed on the TV screen that was on the ceiling. Genius idea I thought, what a great way to try and take your mind off things, as I know their figure hugging white tops that show a fraction of cleavage that are definitely designed to lure you into a false sense of security and to relax, don't work. There was a choice of several movies, and what was the first movie I came across.............Saw. Definitely not a movie that would ease my abject terror of all things dental.

I won't go into too much depth about the procedure, but needless to say, i was amazingly brave, so much so, that the dentist said "wow, you're amazingly brave, possibly the bravest person I've ever used my dentistry skills on", and you could see the dental technician was thinking that as well, even from behind her full face mask.

However, If I was a World War II soldier, and had been captured behind enemy lines, and was thrown into a dark, dirty cell for interrogation by torture, and the torture was dental work, I would give away every secret ever entrusted to me within the first minute.

"Before I start up this drill (imagine saying this in a scary German accent, much like the ones used in Allo Allo, or perhaps a Japanese accent, not unlike Jackie Chan), you are going to tell us the whereabouts of your British base, and where your attack plans are, and....."
"Let me stop you there. There's no need to even plug the drill in, our base is in the old abandoned mine, and the attack plans are in the first desk of the makeshift office, second drawer down...."  I think you get the idea. Dentists are my nemesis.

So why is it that so many of them are rumoured to commit suicide? I'll tell you why. They get so pissed off with their dental technicians, who's sole job is to operate that weird sucking machine that sucks the water and saliva out of your mouth (but what they actually do is constantly stick it to your tongue, so you get to suffer a near death experience, as you slowly choke on your own mouth juices), that they feel totally undermined any undervalued, so go home and bury themselves alive under a heavy pile of £50 notes, that they have just been paid in their astronomical pay packet, and suffocate to death. Either that, or the theory that loads of dentists commit suicide is utter horse shit.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Breasts

I went to the gym yesterday evening, and was quite literally amazed at what I saw. No, it wasn't a beautiful woman in skin tight gym gear, sweat glistening off her firm, perfectly shaped breasts. Nor was it a very muscular man lifting weights so heavy that it literally defied gravity. In the changing room, after my shower, there was a man stood at the mirror,naked, holding a hair dryer, blow drying his testicles.

I was transfixed. I have never seen, or in fact known, of a man using a hair dryer to dry his pubic hair. Now even for the hairiest of men, such as a soft porn star from the seventies, even with a large growth of testicular pubic hair, and with the hair dryer at the maximum heat setting, the hair would be dry after no more than a vigorous twenty or thirty seconds of drying. But this man was drying the area for about five minutes! Five minutes without moving the hair dryer away from his testicles, perhaps to his head and then back to his testicles, to dry his hair and scrotum at the same time in a kind of 'multi dry' procedure, thus speeding up his exit from the gymnasium.

It wasn't so much the fact that he was blow drying his testicles that amazed me. It was the fact that it was a packed changing room, and he clearly had no shame what so ever about what he was doing. I get a bit embarrassed just being seen naked by another man in the changing room. I would have been a bit self conscious, if not massively embarrassed, had I been seen in a similar activity to this man. It then got slightly weirder.. He stopped blow drying his testicles, and then leaned in close to the mirror, to style his hair. 'Fairly normal' I thought, 'maybe he is embarrassed about being seen drying his nads, so he's trying to act normal, by doing normal things that you would do in the mirror.'

Wrong. He then returned to the hair dryer, and began drying his anus.

He oozed disgustingness, so much so, that I think I have possibly invented a new word to describe him. Is disgustingness a word? Who knows. Either way, he was it.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

I Hate Dog Nerds

I decided to get myself a dog roughly 11 years ago. She's called Molly, and is a Golden Retriever. Although, to be fair, I think the breeder had stretched the boundaries of the trade description act, as she should be known as a Non Retriever. She never brings anything back.Ever. As dogs go, she's pretty useless, but is still part of the family. I take her for a walk to the local park every day, but the park is where my problems lie.



The park is populated by what i'd call 'dog nerds.' They are the sort of people who's profile picture on Facebook consists of them and their dog in some sort of amusing costume. They buy their dogs jumpers for the winter (God only knows how dogs kept themselves warm all those years before humans invented dog coats), and they talk to their dogs in a high pitched voice, similar to that of a 3 year old Alan Carr.These are the people I try my very, very best to avoid, but somehow, like some sort of dog nerd magnet, they always seem to tag on to me. And I mean always.They walk around as if we're old friends, with an un-nerving ease, matching me pace for pace.

Annoyingly, their conversation is limited to pet based topics. They ask the same old questions, always about dogs. If I was to say something run of the mill like "When are you going on holiday?", or "The weather has been poor of late, hasn't it?", I fear they may beat the shit out of me, for breaking the 'dog nerd dialogue' code. I am however unlikely to say "The weather has been poor of late", because I was not born in the 1800's.

Every conversation follows a routine pattern, and I can never be bothered to enter into them. Normally I just give one word answers, praying my phone will ring to give me an excuse not to talk to them, and I never, EVER, make eye contact.

And this is the basic thread of their conversation, dogs, every single time we start talking. Well, when I say we start talking, they start talking, I just increase my walking pace to just short of a trot, in an effort to leave them behind. But they almost always try and keep up, so to anyone looking on, me and the dog nerd look like we're in some sort of friendly,speed walking club. We're not. I hate them.

Next time I hear the immortal words " you don't mind if i walk round with you?", my answer will be "yes, I do mind". I will Judo chop their dog, and then run off in the other direction letting out an evil laugh, praying my idiot dog will follow me, so I don't have to walk back to fetch her, cursing my idea to judo chop their dog, run off in the opposite direction and let out an evil laugh. 

That is the end of my rant. I'm now off to get a picture taken of me and the dog in matching bumblebee outfits, it's time I updated my Facebook profile pic.


Monday, October 3, 2011

Money Money Money

The title to my second blog entry is not a reference to Abba, but merely an effort to make the subject quite clear to anyone who may come across this. It's about money by the way.

in the Fire Service at the moment, there's a lot of talk about our pension scheme being totally ripped apart. A bit like all public sector jobs to be fair. I've tried to read the leaflets handed out by the government on their plans for our pensions. I have read each page carefully,  then realised I haven't understood any of what I have read, so I have read them again. There's lots of long words that I have no idea of their meaning, so, to put it into simple terms, we have to pay about £160 a month more, for an extra 10 years, to get less at the end than we do now. Hmm.....I'm no pension expert, but I would say that's not the best deal. I'm 32, so my pension is a long way off, but by the time I come to retire at 60, i'll have paid enough into my pension scheme to buy a large country house, but what i'll actually get back will be enough to buy a medium sized wendy house.

Then I thought about how much I actually get paid. As a Firefighter of 14 years, I'm on about £27,000 a year.   It's not a bad wage, but some argue that all emergency services should get a lot more, as they do quite an important job. Then I saw an article in today's paper, and I have now found a new career, which I shall be applying for immediately.

This new career is as a Tube Driver. Their job involves operating a lever which makes the train go faster or slower, pressing 2 buttons, one for 'open doors', and one for 'close doors', and reading a wide range of signal colours (when  I say wide range, I mean red and green.) Not the most complicated of tasks. They don't even need to know where they're going, unlike taxi drivers, with their incredible 'knowledge', or as it's called these days, 'SatNav'. A Tube driver's elongated taxi follows a fixed route, denoted by a series of fixed rails and fixed tunnels. They don't even need to go to the trouble of knowing what station they are coming to next, as a woman with a stern but slightly sexy voice tells them and everyone else on the train. So, how on earth are they now getting a pay rise, to take their salary to above £50,000?


Next thing you know, librarians will be taking home enough money to buy all of the books ever written, but in gold leaf, that bloke who stands at roadworks in the dirty beanie hat with the 'stop/go' sign, turning it round roughly every 45 seconds, will be earning around £60,000,  and if you have 5 stars on your badge at McDonalds, you'll be rubbing shoulders with Richard Branson before you know it. Mind you, he's abnormally short, so you'll probably be rubbing shoulders with hips.

However, there is one massive disadvantage of being a Tube Driver, which I guess is why they are worth £50k.They spend so long down in the dark, damp tunnels, alone in their cab, their whole life now revolves around tubes. Everything they do or say involves tubes. They must wear boob tubes, only eat tubes of smarties, and only view life though YouTube. Oh, and you will be spending weekends outside major shopping centres, holding aloft placards, warning customers to 'Mind the Gap.'

Friday, September 30, 2011

So it Begins...

I have always wanted to do a blog, as there are always so many thoughts whizzing around in my head, and in a vain effort to try and be funny yet informative. If I am the only one who reads it, then so be it. I will look back at in years to come, I will let my future kids log on to my blog, and together, we will be able to say 'what a total waste of time that was'.

 I started to write this blog about an hour ago, but spent approximately 59 minutes trying to think up a witty title for it. But I couldn't. The problem is this...

 I went for a 6 mile run earlier, on what I think is possibly the hottest 30th of September ever in the history of all weather recordings on the 30th of September. The run has managed to drain every single drop of energy I have. I mean EVERY drop. To emphasise this, I have put the word EVERY in big shouty letters. I just can't think straight. I have no energy to think, so I opted for the unoriginal title of 'so it begins'. It doesn't exactly leap out of the page at you, but the way i'm feeling right now, nothing I have could leap anywhere. I'm just so tired. The heat has totally zapped me.

My first blog entry was supposed to be an exciting delve into the daily, action packed life I lead, but it has sadly been a shit story about why I chose a shit title for my first blog. Like I found myself telling my Mum after she read every one of my end of term school reports, I will try harder next time.

When I have some energy, and some time, and have taken a lesson in 'how to type quicker', I will post a proper blog, with actual interesting things in. But for now, and to add a bit of excitement to the end of this blog, I will type the last letter in a different colour.