Getting old - bag of shite.
It really is.
In my head I can do the stuff I did in my 20’s without thinking about it. In reality I can’t. Such as trying to run like fuck to stop a traffic warden from putting a ticket on my car a hundred yards up the hill. Fucked a ligament in my knee, didn’t I?
And it wasn’t even a sprint – it was a laboured lumbering lurch in his general direction. Arrived at my car wincing in pain and panting and pleading with this fucker in a hat with the brim pulled down onto his nose. I got there before he started writing the ticket, saving myself 60 quid. So the pain and disability over the past three weeks has been worth it.
Had I sprained my knee AND got a ticket – that would have really ruined my day. I was fifteen minutes over, so I was taking the piss. But for once I got away with it.
So for most of November I’ve been limping around like an old biddy. Can’t help thinking my earlier rant about mobility chairs has come round and bitten me in the ass.
I’ve been holding commuters up in the rush hour on station steps, as I negotiate them one at a time like some frail old soul. It’s fucking pathetic. If anyone on the tube offers me their seat and going to deck them.
It’s a bastard, growing old.
I’ve always been ugly, but age has now given me the dubious privilege of being bald fat AND ugly.
I’ve now got more hair growing out of my ass than I have on my head.
It used to be that when I woke up in the morning, I’d be very stiff – in the toilet area. These days, when I get up, pretty much everything else is stiff apart from the nob.
I have to come up for air when tying my boots up. Which is why I’ve taken to slip-ons.
Once, when I wasn’t even old – around 1995 in my late 30’s – I went to see The Verve play at Camden Town Hall (this was their first incarnation, before they split up and then got back together with all that ballady shit). I was at the bar getting a pint of some shitty fizz, and the girl asked if I was an A&R scout or something. I said no, why? She said, “because you’re older than everyone else here – I thought you might be a record company bloke.”
I promptly told her to fuck off.
Why do kids think older people have never done anything? They walk around wearing Led Zeppelin T-shirts thinking they are the shit, and not realising that us old fuckers were there when it happened, and had the original T-shirt, but it rotted with sweat and ended up being used to wipe oil off the Cortina’s dipstick. Just because I can’t get into my two-tone 32 inch bell bottom loon pants anymore, doesn’t mean I can’t dig rock and roll. I listen to lots of new shit. I love some of the stuff I listened to as a kid in the 70s, but I’m always up for something that’s happening now. I hope to be the old fucker at the gig that everyone looks at because he’s about 60 years older than anyone else there. I’m going to dive into the mosh pit with my Zimmer.
Fuck ‘em.
Yours, Bill Turnip
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Saturday, 26 September 2009
SPEAK ENGLISH DO YA??
Why is it so fucking difficult sometimes, to understand your own language when it is, (allegedly), spoken to you by some people in this country….innit?
An announcement on a tube train. Totally illegible.
“Mine de gap” - I’m OK with that – it has a resonance that you can pick up in most foreign accents. It’s anything else that stumps me. When it’s Zebidee the Jamaican pot-smoking tea-cosy-wearing boneless floppy dude dribbling into the Tannoy, I don’t stand a fucking chance.
Even the cockneys are hard work. Landan andahgraind? Fuck off mate.
The other day around the tube system in London:
Three Somali-looking schoolgirls on the tube – jabbering at high speed. I simply could not tell if they were speaking English.
Announcement on the same train – total gibberish.. Jive talk? Swahili? Who knows. Not one word understood.
Twenty feet away, some oriental bint jabbering on her mobile loudly for the whole carriage to hear. Again, couldn't tell you if it was English or Mandarin.
What crock of shit.
Yours
Bill Turnip
An announcement on a tube train. Totally illegible.
“Mine de gap” - I’m OK with that – it has a resonance that you can pick up in most foreign accents. It’s anything else that stumps me. When it’s Zebidee the Jamaican pot-smoking tea-cosy-wearing boneless floppy dude dribbling into the Tannoy, I don’t stand a fucking chance.
Even the cockneys are hard work. Landan andahgraind? Fuck off mate.
The other day around the tube system in London:
Three Somali-looking schoolgirls on the tube – jabbering at high speed. I simply could not tell if they were speaking English.
Announcement on the same train – total gibberish.. Jive talk? Swahili? Who knows. Not one word understood.
Twenty feet away, some oriental bint jabbering on her mobile loudly for the whole carriage to hear. Again, couldn't tell you if it was English or Mandarin.
What crock of shit.
Yours
Bill Turnip
Sunday, 30 August 2009
EASYSHITE
Budget airlines? Fuck off!
They’re all robbing bastards. Fly for ten quid they say. Yeah, right. It doesn’t matter where or when you plan to go, those ten quid fares just don’t seem to exist. Maybe 40 quid. Then you add all the taxes and shit, and before you know it you’re up to £70 or more. And then you realize it’s each way.
Let’s get this into perspective first, before I start ranting proper. If you can fly to some Eastern European shithole for less than a train ride from Waterloo to some UK shithole like Yeovil, then I guess it represents good value. It’s the little catches and the bullshit that gets to me. Putting aside the relatively cheap fares, when you go on any of the budget airline websites you are bombarded with all kinds of crap designed to take more money off you. Want to add Speedy Boarding? Why would I? Be the first through the doors of the departure lounge to ensure you get the seat you want. You have got to be fucking stupid to fall for that one. Everyone knows that once you get through the doors and down the ramp, you get on a bleedin’ bus. Yeah, let’s all cough up another twelve quid or whatever so we can be first on the bus that goes out to the apron and dumps you next to the plane.
That’s where the real fun starts. Having paid your money to be first on the bus, you find that although you chose to stand next to the door at the front thinking you’d be first off, the bus sweeps round in a big arc around the plane and you find that actually, you are now at the back of the bus and on the wrong side to get out – you are the last one out of the doors, and you’ve just had your pants pulled down for twelve quid and every other bastard is fighting each other up the stairs into the plane. Sucker. You are left sitting next to the huge sweaty lard-ass from Bletchley
Got a question for Easyshite? Most questions can be answered via the website, but if you don’t find what you are looking for, you can use the ‘contact us’ form on the home page. Oh really? Try finding it. I scanned the home page over and over and I’m buggered if I could find any way of sending these bastards an email. It’s almost impossible to find a phone number, and when you do it’s a non-geographical 0870 number. So, having paid for my 01/02 anytime calls bundle, I still have to pay another 10p per minute to listen to some bint telling me to check the website and then another bint telling me they are doing their best to answer my call at this busy time, while the company racks up a couple more quid out of me, in between subjecting me to some dreadful muzak down the phone.
I have a number for easyshite head office that is geographical, but when you ring it the fucking old bag on reception will not put you through to customer services – she says you have to ring a different number. Why is that? So they can make a couple of extra quid out of you, that’s why. Just imagine all the poor bastards trying to get in touch by phone, on hold for several minutes at 10p per minute. Let’s just say ten calls every minute, for an average of ten minutes. That’s £10.00 per minute, £600.00 per hour, and £7200.00 for a 12 hour day at the call centre. A good chunk of that call revenue will go to the airline. I don’t know if that is a conservative estimate or just a wild guess that’s way off the mark, because although it seems busy because you are on hold for a while, they quite possibly could be putting you on hold to make more money and you’re in the queuing system for no reason. Think about it.
Talking of phone rip-offs, do yourself a favour, and next time you go to ring an 0845 or whatever type number, go and take a look at the website: www.saynoto0870.com where you can search for alternative landline numbers. It’s a database of alternative numbers put together by people who are pissed off with having to pay for the call when they’ve already paid for it through their phone provider. Good on ‘em I say. The website even won an award. Gives you some idea how people view these money-grabbing call centres.
Anyway, back to easyshite. I booked flights way back in March to take the missus and the sprog to Poland for a wedding a few weeks back in August this year. £222.00 or thereabouts for the three of us return. Not bad at £74.00 each. We booked in for one bag only in the hold, because they charge almost as much as the bloody fare for a passenger. See, that’s where they get you – if you can’t go hand baggage you’re fucked. £16 per bag each way and if you take more than 20kg Gawd help you. You will need a bank loan to cover the excess baggage fee. So we paid for one bag between us which we thought should be enough with the hand baggage as well. Of course, trying to sort out clobber for the trip, the fucking wife was bleating that we couldn’t do it in one bag – ‘why didn’t you put two on?’ Because I don’t want those robbing shits to take any more cash off me. Besides, she agreed to it. Except that she swears blind she didn’t and I just went ahead and made the decision all by myself. Fact is she was sat next to me confirming everything with me before I hit the ‘book now’ button.
Another wind up: the hand baggage can weigh as much as you can lift into the cabin bins, but it has to be no bigger than 55x40x20cm. Guess what? I’ve got the perfect travel bag, that’s a backpack with a ‘mini-me’ secondary detachable backpack on the front, and wheels and a handle for when you don’t want to carry it on your back. Trouble is, although the bag is just within the size limits, the fucking wheels take it a few cm over to 60cm. And you know what would happen had I turned up with it and got asked to put it in the little measuring frame? Yes, that’s right, they would have made me put it in the hold and that costs even more when done at the airport. What a fucking wind-up. It’s an ideal travel bag, but no way was I going to risk it.
So, we booked in March to fly to in August. Come May we get an email from those c**ts to say they’ve cancelled our flight. No reason, no apology, just to let us know we are no longer flying to Warsaw on Aug 6 and perhaps we’d like to go back onto the website and re-book another flight, for no extra charge. No extra charge? Fuck me, do they think they are doing me a favour??
I tried to book the flight on a different day, but every time I got ‘no seats available’. In the end I phoned up customer services, listened to the old bint, heard some shite music, and asked the real live bint (after several minutes of crap) what the fuck was going on. “oh, we’ve cancelled that route’ Why? “no longer viable – they put the landing fees up, so we cancelled the route.” What about your obligation to the passengers that have already paid for their flights well in advance, and whose money you’ve trousered and earned a bit of interest on? Seems they don’t give a flying fuck about the customer. So that’s why I couldn’t re-book it. It doesn’t exist anymore. Well thanks a bunch.
So finally, after a lot of fucking about, we flew from Bristol to Krakow instead and had to suffer another four hours of traveling by train to Warsaw, at extra cost, with numb arses riding in a cattle truck, and kids jeering on the side of the track, waving and making slit throat gestures as we passed through the Auschwitz region.
The last time I went to Krakow I went with easyshite, only to find I could have gone with BA for a fiver less. That hurt knowing that after I had committed to going with the other shower. Didn’t work out this time, but what a shitter, eh?
Still, it was a great wedding – I’m glad I packed me dinking boots.
Fuck ‘em all.
Bill Turnip
They’re all robbing bastards. Fly for ten quid they say. Yeah, right. It doesn’t matter where or when you plan to go, those ten quid fares just don’t seem to exist. Maybe 40 quid. Then you add all the taxes and shit, and before you know it you’re up to £70 or more. And then you realize it’s each way.
Let’s get this into perspective first, before I start ranting proper. If you can fly to some Eastern European shithole for less than a train ride from Waterloo to some UK shithole like Yeovil, then I guess it represents good value. It’s the little catches and the bullshit that gets to me. Putting aside the relatively cheap fares, when you go on any of the budget airline websites you are bombarded with all kinds of crap designed to take more money off you. Want to add Speedy Boarding? Why would I? Be the first through the doors of the departure lounge to ensure you get the seat you want. You have got to be fucking stupid to fall for that one. Everyone knows that once you get through the doors and down the ramp, you get on a bleedin’ bus. Yeah, let’s all cough up another twelve quid or whatever so we can be first on the bus that goes out to the apron and dumps you next to the plane.
That’s where the real fun starts. Having paid your money to be first on the bus, you find that although you chose to stand next to the door at the front thinking you’d be first off, the bus sweeps round in a big arc around the plane and you find that actually, you are now at the back of the bus and on the wrong side to get out – you are the last one out of the doors, and you’ve just had your pants pulled down for twelve quid and every other bastard is fighting each other up the stairs into the plane. Sucker. You are left sitting next to the huge sweaty lard-ass from Bletchley
Got a question for Easyshite? Most questions can be answered via the website, but if you don’t find what you are looking for, you can use the ‘contact us’ form on the home page. Oh really? Try finding it. I scanned the home page over and over and I’m buggered if I could find any way of sending these bastards an email. It’s almost impossible to find a phone number, and when you do it’s a non-geographical 0870 number. So, having paid for my 01/02 anytime calls bundle, I still have to pay another 10p per minute to listen to some bint telling me to check the website and then another bint telling me they are doing their best to answer my call at this busy time, while the company racks up a couple more quid out of me, in between subjecting me to some dreadful muzak down the phone.
I have a number for easyshite head office that is geographical, but when you ring it the fucking old bag on reception will not put you through to customer services – she says you have to ring a different number. Why is that? So they can make a couple of extra quid out of you, that’s why. Just imagine all the poor bastards trying to get in touch by phone, on hold for several minutes at 10p per minute. Let’s just say ten calls every minute, for an average of ten minutes. That’s £10.00 per minute, £600.00 per hour, and £7200.00 for a 12 hour day at the call centre. A good chunk of that call revenue will go to the airline. I don’t know if that is a conservative estimate or just a wild guess that’s way off the mark, because although it seems busy because you are on hold for a while, they quite possibly could be putting you on hold to make more money and you’re in the queuing system for no reason. Think about it.
Talking of phone rip-offs, do yourself a favour, and next time you go to ring an 0845 or whatever type number, go and take a look at the website: www.saynoto0870.com where you can search for alternative landline numbers. It’s a database of alternative numbers put together by people who are pissed off with having to pay for the call when they’ve already paid for it through their phone provider. Good on ‘em I say. The website even won an award. Gives you some idea how people view these money-grabbing call centres.
Anyway, back to easyshite. I booked flights way back in March to take the missus and the sprog to Poland for a wedding a few weeks back in August this year. £222.00 or thereabouts for the three of us return. Not bad at £74.00 each. We booked in for one bag only in the hold, because they charge almost as much as the bloody fare for a passenger. See, that’s where they get you – if you can’t go hand baggage you’re fucked. £16 per bag each way and if you take more than 20kg Gawd help you. You will need a bank loan to cover the excess baggage fee. So we paid for one bag between us which we thought should be enough with the hand baggage as well. Of course, trying to sort out clobber for the trip, the fucking wife was bleating that we couldn’t do it in one bag – ‘why didn’t you put two on?’ Because I don’t want those robbing shits to take any more cash off me. Besides, she agreed to it. Except that she swears blind she didn’t and I just went ahead and made the decision all by myself. Fact is she was sat next to me confirming everything with me before I hit the ‘book now’ button.
Another wind up: the hand baggage can weigh as much as you can lift into the cabin bins, but it has to be no bigger than 55x40x20cm. Guess what? I’ve got the perfect travel bag, that’s a backpack with a ‘mini-me’ secondary detachable backpack on the front, and wheels and a handle for when you don’t want to carry it on your back. Trouble is, although the bag is just within the size limits, the fucking wheels take it a few cm over to 60cm. And you know what would happen had I turned up with it and got asked to put it in the little measuring frame? Yes, that’s right, they would have made me put it in the hold and that costs even more when done at the airport. What a fucking wind-up. It’s an ideal travel bag, but no way was I going to risk it.
So, we booked in March to fly to in August. Come May we get an email from those c**ts to say they’ve cancelled our flight. No reason, no apology, just to let us know we are no longer flying to Warsaw on Aug 6 and perhaps we’d like to go back onto the website and re-book another flight, for no extra charge. No extra charge? Fuck me, do they think they are doing me a favour??
I tried to book the flight on a different day, but every time I got ‘no seats available’. In the end I phoned up customer services, listened to the old bint, heard some shite music, and asked the real live bint (after several minutes of crap) what the fuck was going on. “oh, we’ve cancelled that route’ Why? “no longer viable – they put the landing fees up, so we cancelled the route.” What about your obligation to the passengers that have already paid for their flights well in advance, and whose money you’ve trousered and earned a bit of interest on? Seems they don’t give a flying fuck about the customer. So that’s why I couldn’t re-book it. It doesn’t exist anymore. Well thanks a bunch.
So finally, after a lot of fucking about, we flew from Bristol to Krakow instead and had to suffer another four hours of traveling by train to Warsaw, at extra cost, with numb arses riding in a cattle truck, and kids jeering on the side of the track, waving and making slit throat gestures as we passed through the Auschwitz region.
The last time I went to Krakow I went with easyshite, only to find I could have gone with BA for a fiver less. That hurt knowing that after I had committed to going with the other shower. Didn’t work out this time, but what a shitter, eh?
Still, it was a great wedding – I’m glad I packed me dinking boots.
Fuck ‘em all.
Bill Turnip
Saturday, 1 August 2009
DRESS UP WARM - IT'S GOING TO BE A SCORCHER
OK, so it’s been a shit Summer so far, and so much for the long hot Summer they said we’d have. Fact is I don’t like it too hot – makes me sweat when I’m working, and then I worry that I might end up stinking like a bastard.
Back in June we had bit of a hot spell when it got quite warm enough thank you very much, up in the mid-20’s and above, I think. T-shirt weather, that’s for sure.
So why is it that when it’s getting sticky out there and the sun is starting to melt your head, you see all these twats walking around in Winter clothes??
No kidding, I’m in the City of London, sitting on a bench in Finsbury Circus waiting to meet a colleague and some nob walks by wearing a suit covered by a dirty great Crombie overcoat.
I pass a girl in the street, she‘s also wearing a coat, buttoned up to the neck, collar up. On another occasion, probably the following day, sitting outside having a coffee with an old mate in Wealdstone (fucking dump) there’s a girl waiting for a bus, sitting on a bench across the road. She’s wearing one of those shiny puffy anorak-bomber jacket things with a furry hood – done up, with the hood up for chrissakes!
Topping the lot was this: around the same time in June when it was pretty damn warm, down Neasden way, a middle aged Asian bloke, walking along the road in a jumper and, wait for this: a balaclava!
Fucking unbelievable.
What is wrong with these people?
Could they be the very same assholes I see walking around in a February blizzard wearing nothing more than a T-shirt?
Girls out on the town on a Saturday night in January - with a windchill factor to shrivel your gonads in a matter of minutes - tottering around the bars in high heels and strapless mini-dresses. Basically, one flimsy layer of gossamer between them and frostbite. You know they are really freezing their tits off - literally - when you see those little protrusions out front, looking like cocktail sausages wedged under the dress. Great!
Yours,
Bill Turnip
Back in June we had bit of a hot spell when it got quite warm enough thank you very much, up in the mid-20’s and above, I think. T-shirt weather, that’s for sure.
So why is it that when it’s getting sticky out there and the sun is starting to melt your head, you see all these twats walking around in Winter clothes??
No kidding, I’m in the City of London, sitting on a bench in Finsbury Circus waiting to meet a colleague and some nob walks by wearing a suit covered by a dirty great Crombie overcoat.
I pass a girl in the street, she‘s also wearing a coat, buttoned up to the neck, collar up. On another occasion, probably the following day, sitting outside having a coffee with an old mate in Wealdstone (fucking dump) there’s a girl waiting for a bus, sitting on a bench across the road. She’s wearing one of those shiny puffy anorak-bomber jacket things with a furry hood – done up, with the hood up for chrissakes!
Topping the lot was this: around the same time in June when it was pretty damn warm, down Neasden way, a middle aged Asian bloke, walking along the road in a jumper and, wait for this: a balaclava!
Fucking unbelievable.
What is wrong with these people?
Could they be the very same assholes I see walking around in a February blizzard wearing nothing more than a T-shirt?
Girls out on the town on a Saturday night in January - with a windchill factor to shrivel your gonads in a matter of minutes - tottering around the bars in high heels and strapless mini-dresses. Basically, one flimsy layer of gossamer between them and frostbite. You know they are really freezing their tits off - literally - when you see those little protrusions out front, looking like cocktail sausages wedged under the dress. Great!
Yours,
Bill Turnip
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
MEMORY OF A GOLDFISH
Oh fuck. I’ve forgotten what I was going to rant about.
Yeah, that’s it. Memory. Fucking useless mine is. I go upstairs to get something, the wife asks me a question on the way up, and by the time I get to the top I’ve forgotten whatever it was I climbed the stairs for. It’s bollocks.
I have to go back down and stand in the place where I thought of getting whatever it was originally (if I can remember where I was) and think hard. Suddenly it comes back to me and off I go. Half way up the stairs I’ve forgotten again.
The other day, the wife dropped me at the station to catch the train to London. Made it in good time. Gave her a sloppy kiss and made my way over the stairs to the platform. Just about to climb aboard when I realised I’d left my wallet at home with all my cards and Oyster card, Network card etc. Buggery bollocks. I had £2.40 in my pocket, so I couldn’t even buy a single tube ticket the other end. Rang the missus and she made a dash back home to get the wallet. She was never going to make it before the train left. The guard looked at me wondering if I was getting on. I told him why I couldn’t, but also explained that I had a dirt cheap ticket that only allowed travel on that particular train and I would have to buy another full price ticket. He asked for the document and scribbled something down on his bit of paper, tore it off and told me to show it to the guard on the next train. He’d requested that I be allowed to travel on the following train, even though the ticket was not valid. Brilliant – thanks mate, and to South West trains, I take back all the shit I threw at you during a recent rant here.
Anyway, wife came back with wallet after the train had left, but all was well, even though it was a balls-ache.
Where was I?
Memory. Useless. Thought it was linked to age, but thinking about it, I have always been crap at remembering anything, from an early age. My Mum would always ask as I left the house for school, if I had my hanky. I never did. Why would anyone blow all that sticky snot into a cloth and then put it in their pocket? That’s disgusting. All that phlegm oozing around in your trousers. And when you need to pull it out again, you have to find a bit of the hanky that isn’t squelching or crusty. My mates would never let that go, always asking if I had my hanky, the bastards. And then, as a teenager, on my way out to a gig, it would be, “Have you got your tickets?”. Invariably, I’d have to turn around and go back inside to get them. More laughter from my mates.
Then, later in my teens and early twenties, my favourite trick was to leave stuff on the roof of my car and drive off. Mother would sometimes send me off to work with a plate of salad wrapped in cling-film. Usually, a slice or two of ham with some limp lettuce, branston pickle and beetroot – oh happy days. Spoilt rotten, I was. One day I put in on the roof of the car while I loaded my other stuff in and then drove off oblivious to the fact that lunch was sitting directly above my head. It was only when I had to brake suddenly for some asshole who stepped out onto a pedestrian crossing in front of me, that I noticed. My plate of ham and lettuce and beetroot etc launched itself into the air as a food projectile, skimming over my bonnet and smashing right in front of this bloke, who got splashed with beetroot up his legs.
Another time in the mid seventies, I left the office in a hurry with a Rolleiflex camera on the roof of the car. As I lurched out of the yard I noticed something in the mirror bouncing across the road. Surprisingly, it still worked and I went off to the job and used the equipment – no problem.
After driving from Brixham to Paignton once, again in the mid seventies, I was waiting at the traffic lights, when a bloke started waving at me from the pavement. I wound the window down and he told me there was a box on my car roof. Sure enough, it’s my camera gear again. But this time it stayed on, despite my speed, as it was in a leather camera box and my car roof was a soft-top: I had a Triumph Spitfire at the time, so the weight of the box and the fabric of the roof stopped it from moving too far.
What a fucking numpty. But not because I was driving a Spitfire, even though it was apparently a hairdresser’s car. The car was OK, but I just looked like a twat in my Brutus shirt with Spaniel ear collars and thirty-inch flares, with a brain like a sieve. A dough-bake, or a daft Apeth, as my old Nan would say.
Now I’ve forgotten what the fuck it was I am supposed to be doing today…..
Yeah, that’s it. Memory. Fucking useless mine is. I go upstairs to get something, the wife asks me a question on the way up, and by the time I get to the top I’ve forgotten whatever it was I climbed the stairs for. It’s bollocks.
I have to go back down and stand in the place where I thought of getting whatever it was originally (if I can remember where I was) and think hard. Suddenly it comes back to me and off I go. Half way up the stairs I’ve forgotten again.
The other day, the wife dropped me at the station to catch the train to London. Made it in good time. Gave her a sloppy kiss and made my way over the stairs to the platform. Just about to climb aboard when I realised I’d left my wallet at home with all my cards and Oyster card, Network card etc. Buggery bollocks. I had £2.40 in my pocket, so I couldn’t even buy a single tube ticket the other end. Rang the missus and she made a dash back home to get the wallet. She was never going to make it before the train left. The guard looked at me wondering if I was getting on. I told him why I couldn’t, but also explained that I had a dirt cheap ticket that only allowed travel on that particular train and I would have to buy another full price ticket. He asked for the document and scribbled something down on his bit of paper, tore it off and told me to show it to the guard on the next train. He’d requested that I be allowed to travel on the following train, even though the ticket was not valid. Brilliant – thanks mate, and to South West trains, I take back all the shit I threw at you during a recent rant here.
Anyway, wife came back with wallet after the train had left, but all was well, even though it was a balls-ache.
Where was I?
Memory. Useless. Thought it was linked to age, but thinking about it, I have always been crap at remembering anything, from an early age. My Mum would always ask as I left the house for school, if I had my hanky. I never did. Why would anyone blow all that sticky snot into a cloth and then put it in their pocket? That’s disgusting. All that phlegm oozing around in your trousers. And when you need to pull it out again, you have to find a bit of the hanky that isn’t squelching or crusty. My mates would never let that go, always asking if I had my hanky, the bastards. And then, as a teenager, on my way out to a gig, it would be, “Have you got your tickets?”. Invariably, I’d have to turn around and go back inside to get them. More laughter from my mates.
Then, later in my teens and early twenties, my favourite trick was to leave stuff on the roof of my car and drive off. Mother would sometimes send me off to work with a plate of salad wrapped in cling-film. Usually, a slice or two of ham with some limp lettuce, branston pickle and beetroot – oh happy days. Spoilt rotten, I was. One day I put in on the roof of the car while I loaded my other stuff in and then drove off oblivious to the fact that lunch was sitting directly above my head. It was only when I had to brake suddenly for some asshole who stepped out onto a pedestrian crossing in front of me, that I noticed. My plate of ham and lettuce and beetroot etc launched itself into the air as a food projectile, skimming over my bonnet and smashing right in front of this bloke, who got splashed with beetroot up his legs.
Another time in the mid seventies, I left the office in a hurry with a Rolleiflex camera on the roof of the car. As I lurched out of the yard I noticed something in the mirror bouncing across the road. Surprisingly, it still worked and I went off to the job and used the equipment – no problem.
After driving from Brixham to Paignton once, again in the mid seventies, I was waiting at the traffic lights, when a bloke started waving at me from the pavement. I wound the window down and he told me there was a box on my car roof. Sure enough, it’s my camera gear again. But this time it stayed on, despite my speed, as it was in a leather camera box and my car roof was a soft-top: I had a Triumph Spitfire at the time, so the weight of the box and the fabric of the roof stopped it from moving too far.
What a fucking numpty. But not because I was driving a Spitfire, even though it was apparently a hairdresser’s car. The car was OK, but I just looked like a twat in my Brutus shirt with Spaniel ear collars and thirty-inch flares, with a brain like a sieve. A dough-bake, or a daft Apeth, as my old Nan would say.
Now I’ve forgotten what the fuck it was I am supposed to be doing today…..
Sunday, 17 May 2009
SLIPPERY WHEN WET
‘Customers should take extra care during wet weather, as platforms and the station concourse can become slippery’
Every few minutes I’m hearing this, while waiting for a tube at Wembley. For fuck’s sake. Now, maybe I’m just old and cynical, but these announcements wouldn’t by any chance be anything to do with covering themselves against compensation claims, now would they?
A bit of ass-covering going on, perhaps? Someone slips up on their arse and tries to sue. But, ‘Your honour, we put out warnings over the Tannoy every 52 seconds during rainy weather’.
Irritates the crap out of me that does.
Of course, if the dozy twats had not laid shiny smooth marble-type floor tiles, but chosen something with a stippled surface, they wouldn't have a problem with punters falling on their arses in the first place. What kind of moron lays a completely smooth glossy floor in a public area that is subject to wet shoes tramping all over it?
I’m in Asda, and they have a conveyor belt that takes you up to the first floor so you can fill your trolley with cheap clothing made by kids in far east sweatshops. As soon as you, or anyone, sets foot on it, the recorded announcement starts up: “WARNING, moving ramp – please take care. For your comfort and safety, please make sure you hold the handrail while in motion’, or some such silly shit.
For my comfort? How is holding on to a handrail while moving at two miles per hour going to make me comfortable? Honestly!
And this message is repeated all the way up this poxy ramp and every time a person steps onto it. If I worked in that shop, anywhere near the ramp to the clothing department, I’m sure I would lose my mind completely. I’d just go berserk after a week of hearing that hundreds of times a day. It’s no wonder the staff all look like fucking zombies.
Add to that, the most awful dreadful wailing pop muzak by Eurovision failures that is piped through the ceiling, and you have a recipe for disaster. Someone will snap one day, and come to work with an automatic weapon and shoot the place up.
Ladies and Gentlemen, for your safety, cctv is in use throughout London Underground. For my safety? Give me a break. They’re just spying on us mate. Fucking cameras everywhere. Until you get your own out of course. “sorry sir, you aren’t allowed to take pictures here.” Why not? ‘security’ OH FUCK OFF!!
In a place, that’s open to the public, where hundreds of cameras are recording our movements, do we really not have the right to take our own pictures? I haven’t given permission for these c*nts to film me, so why should I need their permission to use my own camera? Fuck ‘em.
Can someone tell me what law I’d be breaking? No, of course not – there isn’t one.
London mayor (who actually is quite likeable after Ken) is planning to ban photography on the tube network. You have to pay for a permit. Well, Boris, you can tightly roll up your poxy permit and cram it right up your sphincter.
Bastards
Yours
Bill Turnip
Every few minutes I’m hearing this, while waiting for a tube at Wembley. For fuck’s sake. Now, maybe I’m just old and cynical, but these announcements wouldn’t by any chance be anything to do with covering themselves against compensation claims, now would they?
A bit of ass-covering going on, perhaps? Someone slips up on their arse and tries to sue. But, ‘Your honour, we put out warnings over the Tannoy every 52 seconds during rainy weather’.
Irritates the crap out of me that does.
Of course, if the dozy twats had not laid shiny smooth marble-type floor tiles, but chosen something with a stippled surface, they wouldn't have a problem with punters falling on their arses in the first place. What kind of moron lays a completely smooth glossy floor in a public area that is subject to wet shoes tramping all over it?
I’m in Asda, and they have a conveyor belt that takes you up to the first floor so you can fill your trolley with cheap clothing made by kids in far east sweatshops. As soon as you, or anyone, sets foot on it, the recorded announcement starts up: “WARNING, moving ramp – please take care. For your comfort and safety, please make sure you hold the handrail while in motion’, or some such silly shit.
For my comfort? How is holding on to a handrail while moving at two miles per hour going to make me comfortable? Honestly!
And this message is repeated all the way up this poxy ramp and every time a person steps onto it. If I worked in that shop, anywhere near the ramp to the clothing department, I’m sure I would lose my mind completely. I’d just go berserk after a week of hearing that hundreds of times a day. It’s no wonder the staff all look like fucking zombies.
Add to that, the most awful dreadful wailing pop muzak by Eurovision failures that is piped through the ceiling, and you have a recipe for disaster. Someone will snap one day, and come to work with an automatic weapon and shoot the place up.
Ladies and Gentlemen, for your safety, cctv is in use throughout London Underground. For my safety? Give me a break. They’re just spying on us mate. Fucking cameras everywhere. Until you get your own out of course. “sorry sir, you aren’t allowed to take pictures here.” Why not? ‘security’ OH FUCK OFF!!
In a place, that’s open to the public, where hundreds of cameras are recording our movements, do we really not have the right to take our own pictures? I haven’t given permission for these c*nts to film me, so why should I need their permission to use my own camera? Fuck ‘em.
Can someone tell me what law I’d be breaking? No, of course not – there isn’t one.
London mayor (who actually is quite likeable after Ken) is planning to ban photography on the tube network. You have to pay for a permit. Well, Boris, you can tightly roll up your poxy permit and cram it right up your sphincter.
Bastards
Yours
Bill Turnip
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
DONALD'S MUCK
Next to the supermarket down here in Chickentown, there is a McDonalds. (I'm always astonished by the number of people that consider the place as somewhere to go for their Sunday lunch). Every time I go into the supermarket car park I look over at the far flung corners of the car park, where all the cap-wearing peanut-headed white tracksuit wearing scrawny little scrotes hang out in their shiny Vauxhall Novas comparing alloys.
You can see where they've been parked, sitting in their motors and talking shit to each other out of their windows. Because the ground is covered in all that food packaging crap and styrofoam cartons and brown paper bags. Litterbugging lazy shitbag little fucks, all of them.
You know, what does it take to walk over to a bin a few yards away and chuck your shit in that?
If I was the manager of McFuckingDonalds, and I knew who these twats were, the next time they came in to buy BigTurd and fries, I would empty it all onto the counter with no packaging whatsoever. No wrappers, no bags, no nothing - just hand it over loose. "Here you go, nobs, just put it all in the pockets of your baggy-assed jeans, squirt a bit of ketchup and some salt down there and it will all mix up nicely by the time you get back to the motor. Just remember to take the burger out of your ass-pocket before you get in it."
That way, these bastards would be less likely to dirty the place up with all that shit.
Bill Turnip
You can see where they've been parked, sitting in their motors and talking shit to each other out of their windows. Because the ground is covered in all that food packaging crap and styrofoam cartons and brown paper bags. Litterbugging lazy shitbag little fucks, all of them.
You know, what does it take to walk over to a bin a few yards away and chuck your shit in that?
If I was the manager of McFuckingDonalds, and I knew who these twats were, the next time they came in to buy BigTurd and fries, I would empty it all onto the counter with no packaging whatsoever. No wrappers, no bags, no nothing - just hand it over loose. "Here you go, nobs, just put it all in the pockets of your baggy-assed jeans, squirt a bit of ketchup and some salt down there and it will all mix up nicely by the time you get back to the motor. Just remember to take the burger out of your ass-pocket before you get in it."
That way, these bastards would be less likely to dirty the place up with all that shit.
Bill Turnip
Friday, 17 April 2009
BAG O' SHITE
Dog shite.
No way I’d own a dog. Dirty stinking annoying things. What’s the point? You buy some playful little puppy that looks cute, bring it home and it craps all over your house, every day, for weeks, until finally, after enough beatings, it figures out that crapping on the carpet leads to violence from the human.
They drool over everything. Leave the meat on the kitchen worktop while you reach into the cupboard for the veg and the fucker will have snaffled your fillet steak. They moult, leaving hair and fur all over your furniture. They have bad breath, and they try to lick your face with disgusting drool and then try to fuck your leg. They bark all the time, drive your neighbours nuts as well as yourselves. They chew up sofas (a friend is on his third sofa thanks to the mutt that was forced on him by the rest of the family).
They can’t exercise themselves – you have to go with the dog, early morning and late at night. And you have to take a bag with you so you can pick up all those fresh steaming foul smelling turds that stink worse than anything imaginable. You then get dragged arou nd the estate, carrying a bag of shite, while the hound looks for something to piss on, like a nice alloy wheel, or better still, a bag of rubbish on the floor, next to a full wheelie bin. So when the binmen come along, they can get dog piss all over their hands. Lovely.
Cats, on the other, while being selfish, violent and evil little creatures, at least don’t need to be walked, and they bury their shit. That is about the only positive thing I can say about them. The stinking little sods still lie around on the furniture leaving their fleas and hair all over it. They have to be fed, otherwise they kill things and bring the bodies in the house, or worse still, bring living things like rodents in, and then let them go so they can chase them to the death around the front room. Then, when the mouse is dead, the cat just fucks off and leaves the corpse for you to deal with. The cat then saunters off outside, backs up to the herb patch and sprays your parsley and chives with the most disgusting catpiss. Bastards, all of them.
Bringing dog shit into the house has to be one of the most rage-inducing events known to man. I nearly stepped in some while loading the car last night. I’d seen it during daylight, just a feet away from the back of my car – small dog type shit, like a couple of cocktail sausages and a chipolota. Another bastard dog owner who takes his animal out so it can crap outside someone else’s home, and not bother to clean up. They are the lowest, the most selfish, the most inconsiderate bastards. I very nearly forgot it was there in the dark, and could have smudged it all across my shoes and brought it into the house. I was lucky this time.
Many years ago I had a situation where a dog owner was regularly letting his hound crap right on the path to my front door – a few feet from the house and where I had to walk every time I entered or left the building. After bawling him out when I caught him with the dog in mid crap, and receiving a ‘don’t give a fuck’ type of response, I made sure I followed him discreetly to see where he lived on the estate. Much later that night, I scooped up the turds into an envelope and put it through his letterbox. Never saw his dog crapping on my doorstep again.
So my advice to all of you is, whenever someone lets their dog take a dump on your doorstep without picking it up afterwards, make sure you find out where they live and send them a package. Even better if you can actually post it to them, as they’ll be less guarded when they open something that has come via Royal Mail, and who knows, with a bit of luck they might be having breakfast and inadvertently empty all that stinking shit into their cornflakes. Wonderful.
We live next to a primary school, and one day I had reason to go in there to speak to the head. Walking through the corridor as all the kids were arriving for the day, I saw shit-smears all along the floor. Some poor kid had brought in a heap on his shoes and smudged it all around the school and his classroom. The staff then had to get the mop and bucket out, warn all the other kids, close off the corridor, clean up the kid covered in crap, get it out of the carpet in the classroom, and hose down the corridor. All because some fucking inconsiderate lousy fuckwit dog owner could not be arsed to pick up the disgusting mushy plops his animal had dropped, right outside the school. It doesn’t even take common sense to consider what is going o happen when your dog turns out on a footpath in front of the school gates. What c*nts these people are.
They should have their faces rubbed into their own dog’s ass.
At college, in 1975 (shit, that’s a while ago now), there was a student from Nigeria, or Cameroon or some place like that in Africa, who went by the name Jet. In his culture, a dog was something you ate from time to time, and he could not understand the British obsession with keeping animals as pets, rather than for food.
He was a complete twat, but I will always remember his wonderful rant about dog owners, mainly because I happened to tape it on my cassette recorder and still have it to this day. However, you have to hear it, complete with African accent, to find it amusing. I don’t suppose anyone other than myself will chuckle at the following, which brings back memories of a drunken evening surrounded by other twats.
“People who buy dogs, I think they are dogs themselves. I think they are dogs. I believe it, you know. They are dogs themselves. They can’t stop feeding the fucking dog, you know? They buy dog chow, chow chow and all that, and they spend, what, five quid….a day…on this dog. And they say, ‘it’s like one of the family’. What the fucking hell is a dog gonna do for you, man? People who buy dogs……they are dogs themselves.”
I’m with my Jet black friend on that one.
And then there is the dangerous breeds that our criminal element like to walk around the town with, intimidating people. These vicious little canine bastards that turn on children and tear them to shreds, or even kill them, should be rounded up and slaughtered. We don’t need them.
Fucking dogs. They’re all bastards.
Bill Turnip.
No way I’d own a dog. Dirty stinking annoying things. What’s the point? You buy some playful little puppy that looks cute, bring it home and it craps all over your house, every day, for weeks, until finally, after enough beatings, it figures out that crapping on the carpet leads to violence from the human.
They drool over everything. Leave the meat on the kitchen worktop while you reach into the cupboard for the veg and the fucker will have snaffled your fillet steak. They moult, leaving hair and fur all over your furniture. They have bad breath, and they try to lick your face with disgusting drool and then try to fuck your leg. They bark all the time, drive your neighbours nuts as well as yourselves. They chew up sofas (a friend is on his third sofa thanks to the mutt that was forced on him by the rest of the family).
They can’t exercise themselves – you have to go with the dog, early morning and late at night. And you have to take a bag with you so you can pick up all those fresh steaming foul smelling turds that stink worse than anything imaginable. You then get dragged arou nd the estate, carrying a bag of shite, while the hound looks for something to piss on, like a nice alloy wheel, or better still, a bag of rubbish on the floor, next to a full wheelie bin. So when the binmen come along, they can get dog piss all over their hands. Lovely.
Cats, on the other, while being selfish, violent and evil little creatures, at least don’t need to be walked, and they bury their shit. That is about the only positive thing I can say about them. The stinking little sods still lie around on the furniture leaving their fleas and hair all over it. They have to be fed, otherwise they kill things and bring the bodies in the house, or worse still, bring living things like rodents in, and then let them go so they can chase them to the death around the front room. Then, when the mouse is dead, the cat just fucks off and leaves the corpse for you to deal with. The cat then saunters off outside, backs up to the herb patch and sprays your parsley and chives with the most disgusting catpiss. Bastards, all of them.
Bringing dog shit into the house has to be one of the most rage-inducing events known to man. I nearly stepped in some while loading the car last night. I’d seen it during daylight, just a feet away from the back of my car – small dog type shit, like a couple of cocktail sausages and a chipolota. Another bastard dog owner who takes his animal out so it can crap outside someone else’s home, and not bother to clean up. They are the lowest, the most selfish, the most inconsiderate bastards. I very nearly forgot it was there in the dark, and could have smudged it all across my shoes and brought it into the house. I was lucky this time.
Many years ago I had a situation where a dog owner was regularly letting his hound crap right on the path to my front door – a few feet from the house and where I had to walk every time I entered or left the building. After bawling him out when I caught him with the dog in mid crap, and receiving a ‘don’t give a fuck’ type of response, I made sure I followed him discreetly to see where he lived on the estate. Much later that night, I scooped up the turds into an envelope and put it through his letterbox. Never saw his dog crapping on my doorstep again.
So my advice to all of you is, whenever someone lets their dog take a dump on your doorstep without picking it up afterwards, make sure you find out where they live and send them a package. Even better if you can actually post it to them, as they’ll be less guarded when they open something that has come via Royal Mail, and who knows, with a bit of luck they might be having breakfast and inadvertently empty all that stinking shit into their cornflakes. Wonderful.
We live next to a primary school, and one day I had reason to go in there to speak to the head. Walking through the corridor as all the kids were arriving for the day, I saw shit-smears all along the floor. Some poor kid had brought in a heap on his shoes and smudged it all around the school and his classroom. The staff then had to get the mop and bucket out, warn all the other kids, close off the corridor, clean up the kid covered in crap, get it out of the carpet in the classroom, and hose down the corridor. All because some fucking inconsiderate lousy fuckwit dog owner could not be arsed to pick up the disgusting mushy plops his animal had dropped, right outside the school. It doesn’t even take common sense to consider what is going o happen when your dog turns out on a footpath in front of the school gates. What c*nts these people are.
They should have their faces rubbed into their own dog’s ass.
At college, in 1975 (shit, that’s a while ago now), there was a student from Nigeria, or Cameroon or some place like that in Africa, who went by the name Jet. In his culture, a dog was something you ate from time to time, and he could not understand the British obsession with keeping animals as pets, rather than for food.
He was a complete twat, but I will always remember his wonderful rant about dog owners, mainly because I happened to tape it on my cassette recorder and still have it to this day. However, you have to hear it, complete with African accent, to find it amusing. I don’t suppose anyone other than myself will chuckle at the following, which brings back memories of a drunken evening surrounded by other twats.
“People who buy dogs, I think they are dogs themselves. I think they are dogs. I believe it, you know. They are dogs themselves. They can’t stop feeding the fucking dog, you know? They buy dog chow, chow chow and all that, and they spend, what, five quid….a day…on this dog. And they say, ‘it’s like one of the family’. What the fucking hell is a dog gonna do for you, man? People who buy dogs……they are dogs themselves.”
I’m with my Jet black friend on that one.
And then there is the dangerous breeds that our criminal element like to walk around the town with, intimidating people. These vicious little canine bastards that turn on children and tear them to shreds, or even kill them, should be rounded up and slaughtered. We don’t need them.
Fucking dogs. They’re all bastards.
Bill Turnip.
Friday, 10 April 2009
THINGS THAT IRRITATE ME - No 1
A short list:
People who say ‘at the end of the day’
Stationary buses that then pull out when you are halfway into overtaking them.
Notices on food products that say it may contain nut traces, or it was made in a factory that uses nuts. (See in 'older posts')
People (especially ‘yoofs’) who say ‘innit’ at the end of every sentence. Example: “I is on da bus, innit”.
Indians and Pakistanis who say ‘isn’t it’ at the end of a sentence when they are not even asking a question. Example: “I’m going to make some popadoms, isn’t it?”
Mothers holding babies, with a cigarette hanging out of their mouths (theirs, not the baby's).
Teenage drivers who sit so low in their cars, only their heads appear over the dashboard.
Teenage drivers with baseball caps and heads the size of a macadamia nut.
Slack-jawed mouth-breathing numpties with drooping bottom lips.
Drivers who overtake you at speed on motorways and then immediately slow down to less than your speed, then when you overtake them, they speed up and do it again.
Motorway drivers who stay in the centre lane when there is no traffic in the nearside lane.
People who say ‘fair play to you, mate’
People serving in shops who haven’t the basic courtesy to look up and say hello when you arrive at their checkout.
Mullets. The fish also.
Most Americans.
People who say ‘at the end of the day’
Stationary buses that then pull out when you are halfway into overtaking them.
Notices on food products that say it may contain nut traces, or it was made in a factory that uses nuts. (See in 'older posts')
People (especially ‘yoofs’) who say ‘innit’ at the end of every sentence. Example: “I is on da bus, innit”.
Indians and Pakistanis who say ‘isn’t it’ at the end of a sentence when they are not even asking a question. Example: “I’m going to make some popadoms, isn’t it?”
Mothers holding babies, with a cigarette hanging out of their mouths (theirs, not the baby's).
Teenage drivers who sit so low in their cars, only their heads appear over the dashboard.
Teenage drivers with baseball caps and heads the size of a macadamia nut.
Slack-jawed mouth-breathing numpties with drooping bottom lips.
Drivers who overtake you at speed on motorways and then immediately slow down to less than your speed, then when you overtake them, they speed up and do it again.
Motorway drivers who stay in the centre lane when there is no traffic in the nearside lane.
People who say ‘fair play to you, mate’
People serving in shops who haven’t the basic courtesy to look up and say hello when you arrive at their checkout.
Mullets. The fish also.
Most Americans.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
ESTATE ASIAN
Selling my house in north west London last year, (2008), I went to see three estate agents for valuations, as you do. Trouble is, apart from Andrews, who we bought it through in 1986, they are all asswipes. Haaaaart didn’t really have much of a clue, telling us to put it on with a guide price ranging £30,000 between bottom and top price. What’s the point of that? Any buyer is surely only going to offer the lower price, or below.
Then there is the classic – Bairstow Eves.
I walked in and sat down in front of an Asian kid and explained I was putting my house on the market, would like a valuation, and would then consider which estate agent to appoint.
“OK Sir, I just need a few details.”
There’s something about this bloke. Apart from the incredibly strange hair, which seemed to have boot polish marking out a ‘hairline’ on is forehead, he must be no more than 21, full of self importance and attitude right from the start. I took an instant dislike. Nothing to do with him being Asian, you understand. I was living in a predominantly Asian part of London for more than 20 years. Shit, I even had a shopkeeper say hello to me the other week, and I’ve only been going in there for my avacados and limes for the last 15 years. I was really beginning to integrate.
Anyhow, this little wet behind the ears snot-nosed fucker starts to log down the details. “How long have you owned the property?”
“Twenty two years.”
“OK, so there is no mortgage on it then.”
“Scuse me?” “Yes there is mortgage – why would you be so presumptuous to assume there wasn’t?”
“Well, after that length of time, most people have paid their mortgage off.”
Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you know you are taking some shit, but it’s not until after the event and you start to think about it more, that you become really incensed with what was said? This was one of those moments.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I remortgaged a couple of times to finance other properties. OK?”
He continued, “What was the price you paid originally?”
Again, none of his fucking business, and of no relevance to conducting a valuation 22 years on, but I replied, “£82,500 in 1986.”
Eyebrows raised, and, “Hmmm…”
“What now?” Beginning to get seriously irritated by now.
“It seems like a lot to pay at that time.”
A LOT TO PAY AT THAT TIME? WHAT THE FUCKING BUGGERY BOLLOCKS WOULD THIS STUPID LITTLE GOBSHITE KNOW? IN 1986 HE WAS STILL UP HIS MOTHER’S FALLOPIAN TUBES WAITING TO BE FARTED OUT.
This was my cue to get up, tell him to poke it and walk out. But incredibly, I sat there, dumbfounded.
Anyway, they sent round a proper bloke to value the house (if it had been little Mr Boot Polish I wouldn’t have let him through the door). To be fair, this chap went through his schpeil and offered some valuable comments, priced it in the region I expected and so on. In fact he conducted himself in a very professional manner.
I told him this and complimented him on his knowledge and professional approach. I also told him his firm would not be getting my instructions. I said, if there is any possibility of that ignorant twat at the front desk getting a single penny of the sale commission, or crawling over my property, spouting off like the asshole he is, to prospective buyers, then you can forget it.
“What are you doing employing fucks like him? He needs to go on a course in basic manners and diplomacy, learn a little humility in front of people he is dealing with. Especially people like me who have been around the block once or twice.”
“He does your company no favours whatsoever, and as far as I am concerned, is the sole reason I would not go near Bairstow Eves to flog my house.”
Apparently, I am not the first person to be aggravated and wound up by this kid. “Yes, we have had one or two complaints about him in the past, but he was nominated junior estate agent of the year, north west London regional heats, runner up, or something, and he does speak fluent Gujarat, and as so many of our buyers come in here not speaking any English, he is an asset to the company.”
For Fuck’s Sake.
What can you say to that? Fuck all.
Bill Turnip
Then there is the classic – Bairstow Eves.
I walked in and sat down in front of an Asian kid and explained I was putting my house on the market, would like a valuation, and would then consider which estate agent to appoint.
“OK Sir, I just need a few details.”
There’s something about this bloke. Apart from the incredibly strange hair, which seemed to have boot polish marking out a ‘hairline’ on is forehead, he must be no more than 21, full of self importance and attitude right from the start. I took an instant dislike. Nothing to do with him being Asian, you understand. I was living in a predominantly Asian part of London for more than 20 years. Shit, I even had a shopkeeper say hello to me the other week, and I’ve only been going in there for my avacados and limes for the last 15 years. I was really beginning to integrate.
Anyhow, this little wet behind the ears snot-nosed fucker starts to log down the details. “How long have you owned the property?”
“Twenty two years.”
“OK, so there is no mortgage on it then.”
“Scuse me?” “Yes there is mortgage – why would you be so presumptuous to assume there wasn’t?”
“Well, after that length of time, most people have paid their mortgage off.”
Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you know you are taking some shit, but it’s not until after the event and you start to think about it more, that you become really incensed with what was said? This was one of those moments.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I remortgaged a couple of times to finance other properties. OK?”
He continued, “What was the price you paid originally?”
Again, none of his fucking business, and of no relevance to conducting a valuation 22 years on, but I replied, “£82,500 in 1986.”
Eyebrows raised, and, “Hmmm…”
“What now?” Beginning to get seriously irritated by now.
“It seems like a lot to pay at that time.”
A LOT TO PAY AT THAT TIME? WHAT THE FUCKING BUGGERY BOLLOCKS WOULD THIS STUPID LITTLE GOBSHITE KNOW? IN 1986 HE WAS STILL UP HIS MOTHER’S FALLOPIAN TUBES WAITING TO BE FARTED OUT.
This was my cue to get up, tell him to poke it and walk out. But incredibly, I sat there, dumbfounded.
Anyway, they sent round a proper bloke to value the house (if it had been little Mr Boot Polish I wouldn’t have let him through the door). To be fair, this chap went through his schpeil and offered some valuable comments, priced it in the region I expected and so on. In fact he conducted himself in a very professional manner.
I told him this and complimented him on his knowledge and professional approach. I also told him his firm would not be getting my instructions. I said, if there is any possibility of that ignorant twat at the front desk getting a single penny of the sale commission, or crawling over my property, spouting off like the asshole he is, to prospective buyers, then you can forget it.
“What are you doing employing fucks like him? He needs to go on a course in basic manners and diplomacy, learn a little humility in front of people he is dealing with. Especially people like me who have been around the block once or twice.”
“He does your company no favours whatsoever, and as far as I am concerned, is the sole reason I would not go near Bairstow Eves to flog my house.”
Apparently, I am not the first person to be aggravated and wound up by this kid. “Yes, we have had one or two complaints about him in the past, but he was nominated junior estate agent of the year, north west London regional heats, runner up, or something, and he does speak fluent Gujarat, and as so many of our buyers come in here not speaking any English, he is an asset to the company.”
For Fuck’s Sake.
What can you say to that? Fuck all.
Bill Turnip
Sunday, 5 April 2009
WEEDS
What could be more pleasant than spending a warm Spring Sunday in the garden, with your wife by your side, digging together in readiness for planting out the season's veg?
Sitting in the garden with a Gin and Tonic, watching her dig the fucking weeds out. That's what.
Weeds: fucking pointless.
If there is such a thing as a God, what was he thinking of when he came up with the idea of weeds?
Veg should grow naturally in abundance, without any help from man, without any input whatsoever, or visits to Wilkinsons to buy seeds, in a weed-free environment, and if you want weeds, you should have to plant the fuckers yourself.
Who or what eats or benefits from weeds?
They produce nothing of use or value in the garden. All they fucking produce is a load of other weeds. They strangle my onions, fuck my peas, and generally piss me off. I'm done with weeds.
They're all bastards.
Bill Turnip
Sitting in the garden with a Gin and Tonic, watching her dig the fucking weeds out. That's what.
Weeds: fucking pointless.
If there is such a thing as a God, what was he thinking of when he came up with the idea of weeds?
Veg should grow naturally in abundance, without any help from man, without any input whatsoever, or visits to Wilkinsons to buy seeds, in a weed-free environment, and if you want weeds, you should have to plant the fuckers yourself.
Who or what eats or benefits from weeds?
They produce nothing of use or value in the garden. All they fucking produce is a load of other weeds. They strangle my onions, fuck my peas, and generally piss me off. I'm done with weeds.
They're all bastards.
Bill Turnip
Saturday, 4 April 2009
JUMPER
What a shite day
Travelled up to London last night, to be in place for work today. The job got cancelled just before I set off to do it. Bollocks.
So I decided to fuck off out of London early on the Friday, but realised my Network Railcard had expired. So I missed the 16.20 out of Waterloo while queueing to renew it. But never mind, I got on he 16:50.
Ten minutes down the line we're passing through a Station and BANG!. A loud thud and a jolt. I'm in the first carriage, near the front of the train, and everybody looks puzzled. A brick thrown from a bridge? Something on the line the train ran over?
The train slows down after the station and comes to a halt. Across the way, a passenger says "someone just got hit" Oh fuck. "I just saw the body scooting along the platform beside the train."
Now the person obviously had some serious issues. You don't just leap in front of thousands of tons of metal moving at 70mph unless you are seriously fucked up. But what about the poor bastard driving the train? Right in his face. He must have been looking - you don't drive a train through a station at speed without paying attention. Poor bastard. That image will be etched on his memory for the rest of his life.
I hear that train drivers who are confronted with this, often find they can't go back to work for fear of it happening again. I can understand that. Every time they go through a station they are not stopping at, it must all come flashing back to them. I would not want the image of a squashed face at my window to haunt me for the rest of my days.
My heart goes out to the family of this troubled soul, but you know, there are less traumatic ways of topping yourself. Car exhaust and hosepipe. Lots of booze and a load of pills. Swallow dive off the Severn Bridge. Apart from the train driver, there must have been plenty of people who saw the body twizzling down the platform like some discarded kids ragdoll.
Apparently, lobbing your ass in front of an express train on a platform is more likely to result in an insurance payout for the family you leave behind than other forms of self destruction, as there is more possibility of it being an accident and therefore harder to prove suicide.
So we switched trains after limping on to the next station, standing room only all the way to Woking, and then change again and stand for another two hours in a packed Friday evening train.
By the time I got home, my tea was dried up.
The selfish bastard.
Bill Turnip.
Travelled up to London last night, to be in place for work today. The job got cancelled just before I set off to do it. Bollocks.
So I decided to fuck off out of London early on the Friday, but realised my Network Railcard had expired. So I missed the 16.20 out of Waterloo while queueing to renew it. But never mind, I got on he 16:50.
Ten minutes down the line we're passing through a Station and BANG!. A loud thud and a jolt. I'm in the first carriage, near the front of the train, and everybody looks puzzled. A brick thrown from a bridge? Something on the line the train ran over?
The train slows down after the station and comes to a halt. Across the way, a passenger says "someone just got hit" Oh fuck. "I just saw the body scooting along the platform beside the train."
Now the person obviously had some serious issues. You don't just leap in front of thousands of tons of metal moving at 70mph unless you are seriously fucked up. But what about the poor bastard driving the train? Right in his face. He must have been looking - you don't drive a train through a station at speed without paying attention. Poor bastard. That image will be etched on his memory for the rest of his life.
I hear that train drivers who are confronted with this, often find they can't go back to work for fear of it happening again. I can understand that. Every time they go through a station they are not stopping at, it must all come flashing back to them. I would not want the image of a squashed face at my window to haunt me for the rest of my days.
My heart goes out to the family of this troubled soul, but you know, there are less traumatic ways of topping yourself. Car exhaust and hosepipe. Lots of booze and a load of pills. Swallow dive off the Severn Bridge. Apart from the train driver, there must have been plenty of people who saw the body twizzling down the platform like some discarded kids ragdoll.
Apparently, lobbing your ass in front of an express train on a platform is more likely to result in an insurance payout for the family you leave behind than other forms of self destruction, as there is more possibility of it being an accident and therefore harder to prove suicide.
So we switched trains after limping on to the next station, standing room only all the way to Woking, and then change again and stand for another two hours in a packed Friday evening train.
By the time I got home, my tea was dried up.
The selfish bastard.
Bill Turnip.
Saturday, 28 March 2009
LOCK-IN AT WATERLOO, BUT NO BEER
I was on the 18.20 Yeovil Junction to Waterloo train. Thought I’d treat myself to a DVD on the laptop. The film hadn’t quite finished when we pulled into Waterloo, so I was waiting for a convenient moment to shut down the computer and pack stuff away. Gathering my stuff to get off the now stationary train, I heard a whoosh and a click, but thought little of it, other than the fact I had noticed it.
The train had been standing a couple of minutes. On trying to leave the train I find that the doors are locked and I’m the only person on it. That was the whoosh and the click then. No cleaners, just me and six empty carriages on a platform at ten o’clock at night.
Walking through from one end of the train to the other, all the doors are locked, and I am trapped. Visions of spending the night on it begin to pas through my mind.
Bastards.
At the front of the train is a jacket and a backpack on a seat – belonging to the guard no doubt.
But he is not in the locked driver’s cab. I know this, because I was banging and kicking furiously, as I had been all the way through the train, trying to get somebody’s attention. Booting the doors in the hope of being heard.
I’d been up and down three times and found myself back at the front of the train near the platform exit. Finally, after about ten minutes of rage, I was thinking about calling 999 on my mobile to get the cops to ring someone at Waterloo and get me out of there.
I was just about to press ‘send’ when, through the door, I saw some bloke sauntering towards the train with a mug of tea in his hand. He put in his key, opened the door and nearly dropped his brew when he was confronted with me in his face.
I said, “Thanks – I was just about to dial the cops. I’ve been up and down kicking and banging for ten minutes here.”
“Don’t you fucking people ever bother to check that everyone is off the train before you lock it up and fuck off?”
He looked sheepish and apologised, saying the cleaners should be on the train. I replied, “Well they’re not – I’m the only c*nt on it.”
Bastard South West Trains. Welcome to London. What a load of shit. After that, I now I have to deal with the tube and all the nobs who ride that late at night, followed by a twenty minute walk through bandit country to get to my digs near Wembley.
What a fucking great start to the week.
Bill Turnip.
The train had been standing a couple of minutes. On trying to leave the train I find that the doors are locked and I’m the only person on it. That was the whoosh and the click then. No cleaners, just me and six empty carriages on a platform at ten o’clock at night.
Walking through from one end of the train to the other, all the doors are locked, and I am trapped. Visions of spending the night on it begin to pas through my mind.
Bastards.
At the front of the train is a jacket and a backpack on a seat – belonging to the guard no doubt.
But he is not in the locked driver’s cab. I know this, because I was banging and kicking furiously, as I had been all the way through the train, trying to get somebody’s attention. Booting the doors in the hope of being heard.
I’d been up and down three times and found myself back at the front of the train near the platform exit. Finally, after about ten minutes of rage, I was thinking about calling 999 on my mobile to get the cops to ring someone at Waterloo and get me out of there.
I was just about to press ‘send’ when, through the door, I saw some bloke sauntering towards the train with a mug of tea in his hand. He put in his key, opened the door and nearly dropped his brew when he was confronted with me in his face.
I said, “Thanks – I was just about to dial the cops. I’ve been up and down kicking and banging for ten minutes here.”
“Don’t you fucking people ever bother to check that everyone is off the train before you lock it up and fuck off?”
He looked sheepish and apologised, saying the cleaners should be on the train. I replied, “Well they’re not – I’m the only c*nt on it.”
Bastard South West Trains. Welcome to London. What a load of shit. After that, I now I have to deal with the tube and all the nobs who ride that late at night, followed by a twenty minute walk through bandit country to get to my digs near Wembley.
What a fucking great start to the week.
Bill Turnip.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
DODGY FOOTWEAR
WOMEN HAVE THE UGGIEST FEET
Women don’t wear shoes anymore. No siree, when in town, out on the pull, even in the comfort of their own homes, they have taken to sporting the most ridiculous item of footwear known to the female fashion world. Designers and shoemakers must be laughing all the way to their banks.
It’s not even a dodgy training shoe. Which by the way should only be worn by people exercising in a gym so take heed all the porkers out there who wear them for so called ‘comfort’ purposes. Tossers!
They are called Uggies and make the fashion victim sporting them look like they have wedged their feet up a dogs arse! They look ridiculous especially on short stumpy women with stocky legs. Stop it, you are embarrassing yourself and god forbid if you have children, them as well. They will need serious and expensive counselling for years to come.
Two girls walked past me the other day and turned round to catch me giving them the once over. They smiled and carried on chatting happily to each other as they carried on their merry way. Now I’m really sorry ladies but this piece information may surprise you. There are only two reasons a man turns round to look at a woman as she walks by.
One, is to catch a look at the size and shape of your curvy arse, and two, to see how fucking stupid you look with two dead animals on your feet from behind.
Women don’t wear shoes anymore. No siree, when in town, out on the pull, even in the comfort of their own homes, they have taken to sporting the most ridiculous item of footwear known to the female fashion world. Designers and shoemakers must be laughing all the way to their banks.
It’s not even a dodgy training shoe. Which by the way should only be worn by people exercising in a gym so take heed all the porkers out there who wear them for so called ‘comfort’ purposes. Tossers!
They are called Uggies and make the fashion victim sporting them look like they have wedged their feet up a dogs arse! They look ridiculous especially on short stumpy women with stocky legs. Stop it, you are embarrassing yourself and god forbid if you have children, them as well. They will need serious and expensive counselling for years to come.
Two girls walked past me the other day and turned round to catch me giving them the once over. They smiled and carried on chatting happily to each other as they carried on their merry way. Now I’m really sorry ladies but this piece information may surprise you. There are only two reasons a man turns round to look at a woman as she walks by.
One, is to catch a look at the size and shape of your curvy arse, and two, to see how fucking stupid you look with two dead animals on your feet from behind.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY
Isn’t it just brilliant how things can be crap and then, all of a sudden, your luck changes and the opportunity of a lifetime drops right into your lap?
Just now I picked up an email from somebody that I think might change my life. I can’t believe my luck.
A Sgt Henshaw Wear, of the US Army has written to me asking for some help. It seems he and a mate stumbled across a big pile of money while on patrol in Iraq, near one of Saddam’s palaces. He wants me to help him squirrel it away. Yes, me!!! I can’t believe it!
It’s about $15.3 million bucks (his share) and it’s in $100 dollar bills and being smuggled out of Iraq to a safe location in the hands of a British contact. Sgt Wear apparently doesn’t have time to deal with this himself, so he’s asked me to get involved and make investments in hotels and real estate as I see fit. Wow!! What an opportunity.
I think when the time is right, he is going to go AWOL – this is what he says:
The reason I had wanted to quit but I cannot do so when I have nothing at hand, that is why it is necessary you do your best possible to see a way as to secure my life and our future favour because you know if I escape from here, I will fly down to your home for as I will not go back my home in the states as I will be court mashalled but if I can take refuge in your home country, we can establish there pending after a peroid of 3 years, I can then move to my home in the states if we care because after 3 years without the military tracing my wayabout, I am legally free to excersise my rights since I never committed any criminal offences only deserted from the military.
I think he might be dyslexic or a hillbilly or something, because it doesn’t all make sense. He also says:
I am very sorry for my late responce as we have been on intensive patrol within the Jorddanian Border of Iraq. I quite understand that you may not actually know me but got your contact data in the address journal as I was seaching for somebody to invest with in your country and having gone through your profile I then decided to confined this truth with you.
All he needs from me is my full name, address, phone numbers, tax reference, passport number, and bank details. Seems fair…..
You know what? I can just picture this c*nt right now, sitting in some stinking internet café in Nigeria, along with a load of other sweaty fucks, all stinking in the heat with rancid body odour, trying to cobble together badly written scams in their pigeon English. It’s like a little factory there – all of these bastards pumping out thousands of ridiculous emails in the hope that some idiot somewhere in the world will be dumb enough to respond and give them the opportunity to take it to the next level. These are the same shits that drive around in jeeps hacking limbs off villagers.
Well I hope Sgt Henshaw Wear gets bitten up the ass by a scorpion and dies in agony on the floor of his shitty little one room mud shack in shanty town.
Bastard.
Yours, Bill Turnip
Just now I picked up an email from somebody that I think might change my life. I can’t believe my luck.
A Sgt Henshaw Wear, of the US Army has written to me asking for some help. It seems he and a mate stumbled across a big pile of money while on patrol in Iraq, near one of Saddam’s palaces. He wants me to help him squirrel it away. Yes, me!!! I can’t believe it!
It’s about $15.3 million bucks (his share) and it’s in $100 dollar bills and being smuggled out of Iraq to a safe location in the hands of a British contact. Sgt Wear apparently doesn’t have time to deal with this himself, so he’s asked me to get involved and make investments in hotels and real estate as I see fit. Wow!! What an opportunity.
I think when the time is right, he is going to go AWOL – this is what he says:
The reason I had wanted to quit but I cannot do so when I have nothing at hand, that is why it is necessary you do your best possible to see a way as to secure my life and our future favour because you know if I escape from here, I will fly down to your home for as I will not go back my home in the states as I will be court mashalled but if I can take refuge in your home country, we can establish there pending after a peroid of 3 years, I can then move to my home in the states if we care because after 3 years without the military tracing my wayabout, I am legally free to excersise my rights since I never committed any criminal offences only deserted from the military.
I think he might be dyslexic or a hillbilly or something, because it doesn’t all make sense. He also says:
I am very sorry for my late responce as we have been on intensive patrol within the Jorddanian Border of Iraq. I quite understand that you may not actually know me but got your contact data in the address journal as I was seaching for somebody to invest with in your country and having gone through your profile I then decided to confined this truth with you.
All he needs from me is my full name, address, phone numbers, tax reference, passport number, and bank details. Seems fair…..
You know what? I can just picture this c*nt right now, sitting in some stinking internet café in Nigeria, along with a load of other sweaty fucks, all stinking in the heat with rancid body odour, trying to cobble together badly written scams in their pigeon English. It’s like a little factory there – all of these bastards pumping out thousands of ridiculous emails in the hope that some idiot somewhere in the world will be dumb enough to respond and give them the opportunity to take it to the next level. These are the same shits that drive around in jeeps hacking limbs off villagers.
Well I hope Sgt Henshaw Wear gets bitten up the ass by a scorpion and dies in agony on the floor of his shitty little one room mud shack in shanty town.
Bastard.
Yours, Bill Turnip
Sunday, 15 March 2009
COMPENSATION CULTURE
Have you had an accident at work? Injured yourself and it wasn’t your fault?
You may be eligible for compensation.
We’ll deal with your claim and all of the compensation goes to you. You don’t pay us a penny. No win no fee and all that shit.
Drumming up ridiculous law suits against employers and councils when one of you falls on your arse because you weren’t looking where you were going. Oh never mind, diddums, there there. Would you like us to sue the bastards for you? We can blag a few grand for you and even more for ourselves. Go on, let’s give it a go – what have you got to lose.
Oh that’s terrible, you’ve got a hurty thumb from all that repetitive typing on that unergonomic keyboard they made you sit at all day.
We’ll fucking have ‘em, you just wait and see.
Just Google ‘compensation claims’ and look at a few of the 17.5 million hits you get.
Since 1994, when a woman sued the McDonalds restaurant chain after she had spilt coffee all over her toilet area, while holding the cup between her legs, in her car driving away from the place, there has been an explosion of claims – particularly in the US, but now here in the UK – where people are suing for compensation after doing silly shit that is pretty fucking obvious to the rest of us as being dumb, but because there was no ‘warning’ sign, have won their cases.
The spillage caused her to receive third degree burns on her thighs, groin and buttocks, resulting in an 8-day hospital stay. She sued McDonalds stating that they had not issued a large enough warning on the cup, informing people that the coffee inside was ‘hot’.
She was awarded $640,000 compensation for the injuries and McDonalds was held accountable, even though she was driving a car at the time of the spillage.
This opened the floodgates for the milking of a judicial system that did not account for common sense. Not following exact safety procedures could result in huge compensation claims, and it did.
It’s a growth industry, man.
All that is shit in American culture finds its way over here sooner or later: fast food, obesity, calling each other ‘guys’. Gang warfare. Ending a sentence with a question? Graffiti. Whooping instead of clapping at a show. Unnecessary cosmetic surgery. And now, compensation culture.
The law firms are even suing each other. If you don’t get a result with one outfit, you can instruct another to sue the first one for being crap! Is there no honour among thieves??
OK, and get this - Malignant mesothelioma – usually brought about by handling asbestos, which, let’s face it, 50 or 60 years ago nobody knew about the dangers: Law firms are now taking up cases for families of people who have died as a result of Malignant mesothelioma. One in particular I came across, was a bloke who died aged 86, in 2006, after working for a company constructing housing in London from 1945. He came into contact with asbestos. His firm was taken over, during his employment, by a well known national company, who are now being sued on behalf of his estate by a law firm.
Fucking Hell. He lived to 86 after dicking about with asbestos. If I make it beyond 80, I think I will have had a pretty good innings. He was EIGHTY SIX !!!!! There comes a point in life, when you are expecting to die anyway, and at 86 most people are resigned to the fact that they are not long for this world. If Malignant mesothelioma had topped him when he was 35, well then, his family would have had a strong case. But, he was eighty-fucking-six!
The man is dead.
What’s the point? Well obviously, a £100K or so wouldn’t go amiss, would it. Let’s sue the bastards. He doesn’t care – he’s dead. But we might as well get something out of it. “OK I know he was 86, but it was such a shock when my husband died of Malignant mesothelioma, I was traumatised. His life was cut short and I need the 100 grand to get over his premature death at 86”.
Councils live in fear of the compensation claimers.
We had a lot of snow recently, in February. I live next door to a school, and on the morning of the first day of the snow, the council bloke was out there shoveling the snow off the pavement. Why? Because the council were shit scared of being sued by some compensation claiming mother whose little darling might slip up on his arse and hurt his bum. Like it’s the council’s fault that it snowed?
He gets sent round here in the autumn too, when the leaves fall off the tree near the school gates, just in case somebody slips up on their arse and claims for that.
Schools closed everywhere during the snow chaos. In my opinion, it was partly due to parents refusing to send their kids to school, because it meant a difficult drive (well you wouldn’t expect them to go on foot?) But half the buggers are in 4x4’s so what’s the problem??? And partly due to school staff worrying about health and fucking safety. Oh, the little dears might slip and hurt themselves in the playground.
When I was a kid, you walked to school – sun, rain, dark, snow, ice, wind, whatever nature chucked at you. I don’t remember a single day when the schools were closed due to snow. You just got on with it. You might have arrived a bit late, but you went – no question.
These days, everyone is just too fucking pathetic.
You can’t even have a tug of war at the village fete anymore, in case someone gets a rope burn and sues the organizers. They can’t get insurance for it. And public liability insurance is costing so much for event organizers – due to the number of compensation claims – that many events are cancelled.
Makes me bloody sick. Shit happens. Deal with it. OK if there is real negligence, then there is a case to answer. But every time some twat sues a council because they tripped over a paving slab, council tax goes up to compensate for their compensation payout. And so does the insurance premium for any cover you care to mention.
I was in Washington DC with a colleague, in 1994, and after we’d finished our work for the day, we went to a bar/restaurant for a few drinks. A couple of beers (piss-weak American shit), a cocktail or two. When it came to ordering the next round – and bear in mind we’d had three drinks – the waitress told us, “Sorry sir, but we can’t serve you with any more alcohol”.
Why the fuck not?
“Because you’ve already had three drinks, and you might leave here and get hit by a car and sue us for getting you drunk and not telling you that you’ve had enough”.
We were absolutely speechless. I said, “We’re just whetting our whistles. We’re going to start drinking properly now. Are you telling us how much drink we can handle? We’re fucking journalists!”
But they would not serve us another drink for fear of being sued for getting us pissed. Unbelievable.
So we had to move on to another bar.
Unfortunately, my colleague got hit by a truck while trying to cross the Interstate Highway. I tried to tell him he was walking the wrong way, but he couldn’t hear me over the traffic noise. America is not designed for pedestrians.
Still, I sued the highway company on his family’s behalf, for not displaying a prominent sign warning pedestrians of the dangers of walking on the road.
Yours
Bill Turnip
You may be eligible for compensation.
We’ll deal with your claim and all of the compensation goes to you. You don’t pay us a penny. No win no fee and all that shit.
Drumming up ridiculous law suits against employers and councils when one of you falls on your arse because you weren’t looking where you were going. Oh never mind, diddums, there there. Would you like us to sue the bastards for you? We can blag a few grand for you and even more for ourselves. Go on, let’s give it a go – what have you got to lose.
Oh that’s terrible, you’ve got a hurty thumb from all that repetitive typing on that unergonomic keyboard they made you sit at all day.
We’ll fucking have ‘em, you just wait and see.
Just Google ‘compensation claims’ and look at a few of the 17.5 million hits you get.
Since 1994, when a woman sued the McDonalds restaurant chain after she had spilt coffee all over her toilet area, while holding the cup between her legs, in her car driving away from the place, there has been an explosion of claims – particularly in the US, but now here in the UK – where people are suing for compensation after doing silly shit that is pretty fucking obvious to the rest of us as being dumb, but because there was no ‘warning’ sign, have won their cases.
The spillage caused her to receive third degree burns on her thighs, groin and buttocks, resulting in an 8-day hospital stay. She sued McDonalds stating that they had not issued a large enough warning on the cup, informing people that the coffee inside was ‘hot’.
She was awarded $640,000 compensation for the injuries and McDonalds was held accountable, even though she was driving a car at the time of the spillage.
This opened the floodgates for the milking of a judicial system that did not account for common sense. Not following exact safety procedures could result in huge compensation claims, and it did.
It’s a growth industry, man.
All that is shit in American culture finds its way over here sooner or later: fast food, obesity, calling each other ‘guys’. Gang warfare. Ending a sentence with a question? Graffiti. Whooping instead of clapping at a show. Unnecessary cosmetic surgery. And now, compensation culture.
The law firms are even suing each other. If you don’t get a result with one outfit, you can instruct another to sue the first one for being crap! Is there no honour among thieves??
OK, and get this - Malignant mesothelioma – usually brought about by handling asbestos, which, let’s face it, 50 or 60 years ago nobody knew about the dangers: Law firms are now taking up cases for families of people who have died as a result of Malignant mesothelioma. One in particular I came across, was a bloke who died aged 86, in 2006, after working for a company constructing housing in London from 1945. He came into contact with asbestos. His firm was taken over, during his employment, by a well known national company, who are now being sued on behalf of his estate by a law firm.
Fucking Hell. He lived to 86 after dicking about with asbestos. If I make it beyond 80, I think I will have had a pretty good innings. He was EIGHTY SIX !!!!! There comes a point in life, when you are expecting to die anyway, and at 86 most people are resigned to the fact that they are not long for this world. If Malignant mesothelioma had topped him when he was 35, well then, his family would have had a strong case. But, he was eighty-fucking-six!
The man is dead.
What’s the point? Well obviously, a £100K or so wouldn’t go amiss, would it. Let’s sue the bastards. He doesn’t care – he’s dead. But we might as well get something out of it. “OK I know he was 86, but it was such a shock when my husband died of Malignant mesothelioma, I was traumatised. His life was cut short and I need the 100 grand to get over his premature death at 86”.
Councils live in fear of the compensation claimers.
We had a lot of snow recently, in February. I live next door to a school, and on the morning of the first day of the snow, the council bloke was out there shoveling the snow off the pavement. Why? Because the council were shit scared of being sued by some compensation claiming mother whose little darling might slip up on his arse and hurt his bum. Like it’s the council’s fault that it snowed?
He gets sent round here in the autumn too, when the leaves fall off the tree near the school gates, just in case somebody slips up on their arse and claims for that.
Schools closed everywhere during the snow chaos. In my opinion, it was partly due to parents refusing to send their kids to school, because it meant a difficult drive (well you wouldn’t expect them to go on foot?) But half the buggers are in 4x4’s so what’s the problem??? And partly due to school staff worrying about health and fucking safety. Oh, the little dears might slip and hurt themselves in the playground.
When I was a kid, you walked to school – sun, rain, dark, snow, ice, wind, whatever nature chucked at you. I don’t remember a single day when the schools were closed due to snow. You just got on with it. You might have arrived a bit late, but you went – no question.
These days, everyone is just too fucking pathetic.
You can’t even have a tug of war at the village fete anymore, in case someone gets a rope burn and sues the organizers. They can’t get insurance for it. And public liability insurance is costing so much for event organizers – due to the number of compensation claims – that many events are cancelled.
Makes me bloody sick. Shit happens. Deal with it. OK if there is real negligence, then there is a case to answer. But every time some twat sues a council because they tripped over a paving slab, council tax goes up to compensate for their compensation payout. And so does the insurance premium for any cover you care to mention.
I was in Washington DC with a colleague, in 1994, and after we’d finished our work for the day, we went to a bar/restaurant for a few drinks. A couple of beers (piss-weak American shit), a cocktail or two. When it came to ordering the next round – and bear in mind we’d had three drinks – the waitress told us, “Sorry sir, but we can’t serve you with any more alcohol”.
Why the fuck not?
“Because you’ve already had three drinks, and you might leave here and get hit by a car and sue us for getting you drunk and not telling you that you’ve had enough”.
We were absolutely speechless. I said, “We’re just whetting our whistles. We’re going to start drinking properly now. Are you telling us how much drink we can handle? We’re fucking journalists!”
But they would not serve us another drink for fear of being sued for getting us pissed. Unbelievable.
So we had to move on to another bar.
Unfortunately, my colleague got hit by a truck while trying to cross the Interstate Highway. I tried to tell him he was walking the wrong way, but he couldn’t hear me over the traffic noise. America is not designed for pedestrians.
Still, I sued the highway company on his family’s behalf, for not displaying a prominent sign warning pedestrians of the dangers of walking on the road.
Yours
Bill Turnip
Thursday, 12 March 2009
REALITY TV
We got one of them there set top box freeview digital decoder thingies a while back.
804 channels and still fuck all worth looking at.
These days I plop myself down in the sofa and point the little doufer, (once I've found the correct doufer, because we have about six of the fuckers - TV, DVD, Stereo, Freeview box, Video, and so on), and find myself cruising through all the channels: Shite - bollocks - shite - crap - more bollocks - cak - shite - same shite as the other channel - crap - garbage.....
The amount of 'reality tv' being shown baffles me.
Where do they drag up all these numpties from?
Big Brother: Big Bollocks.
America's next top model: America's next vacuous bimbo
Masterchef: Masturbate, more like
Yeah, Masterchef. Let's watch a load of sweaty fuckers cooking weird shit while a couple of very loud-talking blokes with quizzical expressions stand around watching and yelling stuff like, "LET'S SEE IF HE'S GOT WHAT IT TAKES TO WORK UNDER PRESSURE IN A BUSY PROFESSIONAL KITCHEN." and, "WHERE'S THE PASSION - I'M NOT SEEING ANY REAL PASSION IN THIS FOOD. IT'S BLAND!"
Just the other day, some show - didn't catch the name - but must have been something like 'Ordinary Fat Birds Trying To Become Top Models'. They line up the remaining three and some bimbo who calls them 'moddoles' says, "the person....going home.....this week.............is......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................Kirsty".
And one of the others is now off to San Francisco to do a modelling assignment with a photographer who says 'awesome' all the time. Before she sets off, she is interviewed and tells us: "Oh I'm like really excited - I've never like been to America before. And I've never been to San Francisco, either."
Well, darling, it stands to reason that if you haven't been to America before, you certainly won't have been to San Francisco.
DUH!!!!
There is even this: I Want to Be a Hilton - a reality series hosted by Kathy Hilton, Paris' mom. For fuck's sake.
Wife Swap: don't fancy yours much.
Let's see what happens when some posh bint has to slum it with a family of slack-jawed mouth-breathers who live on a diet of pizza and chips and spend their days in front of an X-Box while Dad sits around in a vest and expects the posh bint to fetch him beer out of the fridge. Meantime Mrs Slob looks in awe at the extravagant surroundings she finds herself in, refuses to clean up, or cook fresh food, and serves up microwave pizza and chips because she can't be arsed. Then when it's all over, they all meet up in a room somewhere and start bitching at each other. How predictable.
Too many channels with too much programming time to fill can only lead to one thing: cheap telly with low budget low production value shite, shot on handycams, narrated by some Geordie twat, padded out over six boring episodes, sucking on the budget for proper programmes and diluting the overall quality of TV content.
OK yes, a lot of telly in the 70s and 80s was shite, I mean, you've only got to look at stuff like 'The Professionals' now being regurgitated on one of the digital channels. Or the 'A Team' - the same stupid story week in and week out.
But frankly, I'm at the point now where I'd rather get the news from radio and internet, and ditch the telly completely. I'd just watch good films on DVD and forget about it all - save the £139.50 license fee. Unfortunately the wife doesn't see it my way. She likes some of that shit.
Except, there's another thing - as soon as you cancel the license, the bastards will be sending you letters and threatening you with court action because you don't have a license. Every few weeks you will receive the red letter warning you that you are breaking the law and due for a severe penalty. It happened to me when we were doing up a house over long period. I rang them after getting the letters to tell them we didn't even have water, electricity, plaster on the walls, or a toilet, let alone a telly. It made no difference - a couple of months later it started up again. Every couple of weeks, another threatening letter. My poor old 90 year old neighbour had nevr owned a telly in his life. He must have suffered the same harassment for years.
Well bring it on I say. Take me to court - I'll have my day. My own brother is going through exactly the same thing right now - he doesn't have telly, but he is being threatened with imminent court action. Fuck 'em. Bring it on. Then sue for harassment and stress brought on by continuing threats from the BBfuckingC. Why must they assume everybody in the country watches their shitty telly? In their view, it seems we are guilty until we prove ourselves innocent. Well fuck off and and prove that I DO have a telly before you start sending me this shit.
I'm off to lie down for a while now.
804 channels and still fuck all worth looking at.
These days I plop myself down in the sofa and point the little doufer, (once I've found the correct doufer, because we have about six of the fuckers - TV, DVD, Stereo, Freeview box, Video, and so on), and find myself cruising through all the channels: Shite - bollocks - shite - crap - more bollocks - cak - shite - same shite as the other channel - crap - garbage.....
The amount of 'reality tv' being shown baffles me.
Where do they drag up all these numpties from?
Big Brother: Big Bollocks.
America's next top model: America's next vacuous bimbo
Masterchef: Masturbate, more like
Yeah, Masterchef. Let's watch a load of sweaty fuckers cooking weird shit while a couple of very loud-talking blokes with quizzical expressions stand around watching and yelling stuff like, "LET'S SEE IF HE'S GOT WHAT IT TAKES TO WORK UNDER PRESSURE IN A BUSY PROFESSIONAL KITCHEN." and, "WHERE'S THE PASSION - I'M NOT SEEING ANY REAL PASSION IN THIS FOOD. IT'S BLAND!"
Just the other day, some show - didn't catch the name - but must have been something like 'Ordinary Fat Birds Trying To Become Top Models'. They line up the remaining three and some bimbo who calls them 'moddoles' says, "the person....going home.....this week.............is......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................Kirsty".
And one of the others is now off to San Francisco to do a modelling assignment with a photographer who says 'awesome' all the time. Before she sets off, she is interviewed and tells us: "Oh I'm like really excited - I've never like been to America before. And I've never been to San Francisco, either."
Well, darling, it stands to reason that if you haven't been to America before, you certainly won't have been to San Francisco.
DUH!!!!
There is even this: I Want to Be a Hilton - a reality series hosted by Kathy Hilton, Paris' mom. For fuck's sake.
Wife Swap: don't fancy yours much.
Let's see what happens when some posh bint has to slum it with a family of slack-jawed mouth-breathers who live on a diet of pizza and chips and spend their days in front of an X-Box while Dad sits around in a vest and expects the posh bint to fetch him beer out of the fridge. Meantime Mrs Slob looks in awe at the extravagant surroundings she finds herself in, refuses to clean up, or cook fresh food, and serves up microwave pizza and chips because she can't be arsed. Then when it's all over, they all meet up in a room somewhere and start bitching at each other. How predictable.
Too many channels with too much programming time to fill can only lead to one thing: cheap telly with low budget low production value shite, shot on handycams, narrated by some Geordie twat, padded out over six boring episodes, sucking on the budget for proper programmes and diluting the overall quality of TV content.
OK yes, a lot of telly in the 70s and 80s was shite, I mean, you've only got to look at stuff like 'The Professionals' now being regurgitated on one of the digital channels. Or the 'A Team' - the same stupid story week in and week out.
But frankly, I'm at the point now where I'd rather get the news from radio and internet, and ditch the telly completely. I'd just watch good films on DVD and forget about it all - save the £139.50 license fee. Unfortunately the wife doesn't see it my way. She likes some of that shit.
Except, there's another thing - as soon as you cancel the license, the bastards will be sending you letters and threatening you with court action because you don't have a license. Every few weeks you will receive the red letter warning you that you are breaking the law and due for a severe penalty. It happened to me when we were doing up a house over long period. I rang them after getting the letters to tell them we didn't even have water, electricity, plaster on the walls, or a toilet, let alone a telly. It made no difference - a couple of months later it started up again. Every couple of weeks, another threatening letter. My poor old 90 year old neighbour had nevr owned a telly in his life. He must have suffered the same harassment for years.
Well bring it on I say. Take me to court - I'll have my day. My own brother is going through exactly the same thing right now - he doesn't have telly, but he is being threatened with imminent court action. Fuck 'em. Bring it on. Then sue for harassment and stress brought on by continuing threats from the BBfuckingC. Why must they assume everybody in the country watches their shitty telly? In their view, it seems we are guilty until we prove ourselves innocent. Well fuck off and and prove that I DO have a telly before you start sending me this shit.
I'm off to lie down for a while now.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
WARNING: MAY CONTAIN NUTS
I'm sick of seeing warnings on every single packet of food:
'Warning, may contain traces of nuts'.
'Warning- this product is packaged in a factory that uses nuts'.
The only food you don't see it on is fucking nuts. Actually, that's not right. They even put a notice on bags of nuts, warning that it contained nuts. It must have been a publicity stunt because it got a lot of column inches in the national press. You just can't buy that much publicity. They are either very clever marketing people, or just plain fucking stupid product labellers.
Thank Christ I don't have a nut allergy. I'd have starved to death by now, avoiding all the stuff that 'may' contain 'traces' of nuts.
Which brings us around to fear of being sued, and the creeping culture of compensation......but that's another rant.
Stay tuned
'Warning, may contain traces of nuts'.
'Warning- this product is packaged in a factory that uses nuts'.
The only food you don't see it on is fucking nuts. Actually, that's not right. They even put a notice on bags of nuts, warning that it contained nuts. It must have been a publicity stunt because it got a lot of column inches in the national press. You just can't buy that much publicity. They are either very clever marketing people, or just plain fucking stupid product labellers.
Thank Christ I don't have a nut allergy. I'd have starved to death by now, avoiding all the stuff that 'may' contain 'traces' of nuts.
Which brings us around to fear of being sued, and the creeping culture of compensation......but that's another rant.
Stay tuned
Monday, 9 March 2009
ISIAH CHAPTER ONE
Leave them alone
What’s the problem, You’ve had a shower, almost finished your feminine dark arts and now it’s time for the big one. It’s the make or break of your daily beauty regime.
For Christ sake you’ve only got the two of them, they’re about 8cm long and sit above each eye. You’re armed with a dodgy mirror and a pair of blunt tweezers. What can go wrong? Well everything apparently when it’s time to pluck your eyebrows.
It seems that when faced with the sight of them waving back at you in the mirror, your blood starts to boil and you go momentarily insane. You pluck, pull, yank and tug til all that’s left are a mass of red blotches.
Then comes the real amusing bit of the hairy dilemma,you are now forced to paint them in from memory. Which means your friends and colleagues, when talking to you, have to divert their gaze and pretend that they have not noticed your lopsided bushes or brows shaped like pieces of string with a 45 degree kink in the middle.
What’s the problem, You’ve had a shower, almost finished your feminine dark arts and now it’s time for the big one. It’s the make or break of your daily beauty regime.
For Christ sake you’ve only got the two of them, they’re about 8cm long and sit above each eye. You’re armed with a dodgy mirror and a pair of blunt tweezers. What can go wrong? Well everything apparently when it’s time to pluck your eyebrows.
It seems that when faced with the sight of them waving back at you in the mirror, your blood starts to boil and you go momentarily insane. You pluck, pull, yank and tug til all that’s left are a mass of red blotches.
Then comes the real amusing bit of the hairy dilemma,you are now forced to paint them in from memory. Which means your friends and colleagues, when talking to you, have to divert their gaze and pretend that they have not noticed your lopsided bushes or brows shaped like pieces of string with a 45 degree kink in the middle.
Sunday, 8 March 2009
BUM CRACK AND WHALE TAIL
Or pull your trousers up!
Now I’m no prude, in fact I am quite the opposite but there are somethings that should be left far from the publics gaze.
I walk down town minding my own business and shit there’s one, queue up at the supermarket and there is another... I was even confronted by this bloody visual annoyance at the local garden centre. Is nowhere sacred!
What is this old fart jibbering on about. It’s the inability of today’s youth, male or female to pull their fucking trousers up. It’s not difficult, put them on grab hold of the sides pull over waist and do the bloody buttons up, around the waste.. I’m sick and tired of being faced with the horror of a teenagers dirty old grunties, pants, boxer shorts, or whatever they call them. They were just plain underpants in my day. One thing is for sure the stinking piece of cloth they use for a fashion accessory has never seen the inside of a washing machine since they got them for Christmas.
The girls are just the same, they seem to feel it’s really hip to have the top of their g-string showing like a whales tail diving down to the murky depths of their fat arse.
It’s not fucking sexy, it just tells me that there is a piece of string riding up their smelly crack.
So sort it out and get a belt or a nice pair of braces!
Now I’m no prude, in fact I am quite the opposite but there are somethings that should be left far from the publics gaze.
I walk down town minding my own business and shit there’s one, queue up at the supermarket and there is another... I was even confronted by this bloody visual annoyance at the local garden centre. Is nowhere sacred!
What is this old fart jibbering on about. It’s the inability of today’s youth, male or female to pull their fucking trousers up. It’s not difficult, put them on grab hold of the sides pull over waist and do the bloody buttons up, around the waste.. I’m sick and tired of being faced with the horror of a teenagers dirty old grunties, pants, boxer shorts, or whatever they call them. They were just plain underpants in my day. One thing is for sure the stinking piece of cloth they use for a fashion accessory has never seen the inside of a washing machine since they got them for Christmas.
The girls are just the same, they seem to feel it’s really hip to have the top of their g-string showing like a whales tail diving down to the murky depths of their fat arse.
It’s not fucking sexy, it just tells me that there is a piece of string riding up their smelly crack.
So sort it out and get a belt or a nice pair of braces!
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Shoulder-barging
Now, I’m a reasonably big bloke, six foot two, 18 stone, part muscle, but predominantly flab (I carry some of it reasonably well, the rest hangs off like a sack of shit). So why is it that so many times when I’m walking down the street in a straight line I have some fucker walk towards me across my path and we end up nudging each other when there is plenty of room for everybody on the pavement. This happens daily. Even old women do it. Am I invisible? Or is everybody just thoughtless, selfish, arrogant, aggressive and downright rude. The answer, most of the time, is yes. Groups of people walking in line abreast, don’t make any attempt to close in or walk in single file, and virtually force me onto the road. I make a point now (unless he’s a big c**t) of standing my ground and keeping my line. I’m not spoiling for trouble, I’m a peaceful chap, but I cannot abide having to deviate from my course because of some fucker with attitude who strays into MY path. They walk AT me. It’s a conspiracy. They are saying, “There’s that Bill Turnip twat, let’s nudge the old git”. I just don’t know why it happens but I’m getting really angry about it.
Friday, 6 March 2009
cash till tossers
"Do you need any help packing your bags, sir?"
No. I’m buying a loaf of bread, a tin of baked beans and a jar of Vaseline.
Do I look that helpless?
Do my hands appear to be crippled with arthritis? No.
Am I 96 years old? No.
Of course I don’t need any fucking help - I’ve got three items.
I don’t even need a bag.
Pay attention.
No. I’m buying a loaf of bread, a tin of baked beans and a jar of Vaseline.
Do I look that helpless?
Do my hands appear to be crippled with arthritis? No.
Am I 96 years old? No.
Of course I don’t need any fucking help - I’ve got three items.
I don’t even need a bag.
Pay attention.
Idiot road and car park designs
Every time I drive into B&Q Yeovil I curse the ignorant bastard who designed the customer car park.
Driving in, it’s full left lock and immediately full right lock. Coming out it’s full right lock and immediately full left lock. What’s the point of that? Why not straight out, or at least a turn that’s not so bloody tight, and a gentle sweep in. It would have been simple.
What kind of tosser creates a parking area with such inconvenient access when it’s not actually necessary?
It’s bad enough that I find myself going to this place anyway. A visit to a DIY store is always a prelude to some frustrating bodge job around the house, where you find yourself cursing and kicking because you don’t have the right tools for it, and you end up going back to the damn shop to buy something you’ll probably never use again anyway, negotiating the stupid twisty car park for the second time in a day.
OK, here’s another one for you. Just down the Lysander Road from B&Q is Morrisons. The access road also serves the McDonalds on the other side of Morrison’s fuel station. So, you enter the access road and then turn left for the store or right for petrol and burgers.
The problem arises when you try to get out of either place. With the way the lights are phased, there is always a queue to leave – the fuel station forecourt is often clogged with traffic just trying to get out and join the queue onto the main road. All it needed was for an exit slip to the main road on the far side of McDonalds and half of the traffic would be on its way towards town, while the right turning traffic would get to the traffic lights without a problem. Shouldn’t have been difficult? Just a modicum of sense in the planning stage could have sorted that one.
Sometimes, when I see all that shit going on, I park on a housing estate on the other side of Lysander Road and walk in to do my shopping. No way am I going to sit in my car for twenty minutes trying to get out of that place.
Then, when you go into Yeovil and negotiate the inner ring road around the back of Wilkinsons, you find yourself in a queue of traffic held up by three sets of badly phased lights around takeaway alley. And while you sit there waiting, you notice that you are in a single lane of traffic, preventing you from going straight ahead because of all the stuck right-turning traffic, and then you notice that the pavement on either side is about twenty-five feet wide.
Why the fuck didn’t they put two lanes in? At least then, the rest of us could go straight on. Mindless fuckers.
Driving in, it’s full left lock and immediately full right lock. Coming out it’s full right lock and immediately full left lock. What’s the point of that? Why not straight out, or at least a turn that’s not so bloody tight, and a gentle sweep in. It would have been simple.
What kind of tosser creates a parking area with such inconvenient access when it’s not actually necessary?
It’s bad enough that I find myself going to this place anyway. A visit to a DIY store is always a prelude to some frustrating bodge job around the house, where you find yourself cursing and kicking because you don’t have the right tools for it, and you end up going back to the damn shop to buy something you’ll probably never use again anyway, negotiating the stupid twisty car park for the second time in a day.
OK, here’s another one for you. Just down the Lysander Road from B&Q is Morrisons. The access road also serves the McDonalds on the other side of Morrison’s fuel station. So, you enter the access road and then turn left for the store or right for petrol and burgers.
The problem arises when you try to get out of either place. With the way the lights are phased, there is always a queue to leave – the fuel station forecourt is often clogged with traffic just trying to get out and join the queue onto the main road. All it needed was for an exit slip to the main road on the far side of McDonalds and half of the traffic would be on its way towards town, while the right turning traffic would get to the traffic lights without a problem. Shouldn’t have been difficult? Just a modicum of sense in the planning stage could have sorted that one.
Sometimes, when I see all that shit going on, I park on a housing estate on the other side of Lysander Road and walk in to do my shopping. No way am I going to sit in my car for twenty minutes trying to get out of that place.
Then, when you go into Yeovil and negotiate the inner ring road around the back of Wilkinsons, you find yourself in a queue of traffic held up by three sets of badly phased lights around takeaway alley. And while you sit there waiting, you notice that you are in a single lane of traffic, preventing you from going straight ahead because of all the stuck right-turning traffic, and then you notice that the pavement on either side is about twenty-five feet wide.
Why the fuck didn’t they put two lanes in? At least then, the rest of us could go straight on. Mindless fuckers.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
RED NOSE DAY
Join the fun on Comic relief day or, have a laugh on, Red Nose Day ,.Whoopee shit I say!. Who cares, nobody!
Of course there are loads of do-gooders out there who assure us that it is a worthy cause and how dare anyone poo-poo it. But in all honesty it just provides an excuse for boring people - with a hole in their pathetic daily lives - a licence to swan around pretending to be vaguely unamusing in front of friends and work colleagues under the pretext that it is all for ‘charity’. What a load of bollocks.
The only people I know who take part are the poor bastards who work in supermarkets, and they have no fucking choice. You look an arse! Stop embarrassing members of the public into parting with their hard earned cash. The poor bastards only came into your shop for a tin of beans and a pint of milk.
If staff members don’t enter into the so called spirit of the day they’ll be labelled no fun, or not a team player -as an email speeds it’s way through the ether faster than a rat up a drainpipe grassing up the only person in the building who has the guts to admit that it’s all a lot of old tosh!
But the most painstaking part to the whole charade is the fact the BBC devote a whole twenty-four hours to the rubbish, dragging out every has-been actor/comedian/ that has ever darkened our screens to torture us with an amusing monologue or spare us, a comical dance routine. Utter garbage, and the only reason they consent to ridicule themselves is that if they refuse, they will never work again. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Brown Nose Day more like it.
The only answer to the whole debacle is to go down the pub and dodge, pissed up revellers in fancy dress, sporting bulbous scarlet noses and ramming a collecting tin up your nose.
Of course there are loads of do-gooders out there who assure us that it is a worthy cause and how dare anyone poo-poo it. But in all honesty it just provides an excuse for boring people - with a hole in their pathetic daily lives - a licence to swan around pretending to be vaguely unamusing in front of friends and work colleagues under the pretext that it is all for ‘charity’. What a load of bollocks.
The only people I know who take part are the poor bastards who work in supermarkets, and they have no fucking choice. You look an arse! Stop embarrassing members of the public into parting with their hard earned cash. The poor bastards only came into your shop for a tin of beans and a pint of milk.
If staff members don’t enter into the so called spirit of the day they’ll be labelled no fun, or not a team player -as an email speeds it’s way through the ether faster than a rat up a drainpipe grassing up the only person in the building who has the guts to admit that it’s all a lot of old tosh!
But the most painstaking part to the whole charade is the fact the BBC devote a whole twenty-four hours to the rubbish, dragging out every has-been actor/comedian/ that has ever darkened our screens to torture us with an amusing monologue or spare us, a comical dance routine. Utter garbage, and the only reason they consent to ridicule themselves is that if they refuse, they will never work again. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Brown Nose Day more like it.
The only answer to the whole debacle is to go down the pub and dodge, pissed up revellers in fancy dress, sporting bulbous scarlet noses and ramming a collecting tin up your nose.
Umbrellas
I hate umbrellas.
People with umbrellas don’t look where they are going and don't give a shit whose eyeball they take out with it. They keep the brolly low for maximum rain protection and the spikes on the ends of the brolly are just about at my eye level.
I dodged them for too long.
These days I simply put my arm up to protect my face, often resulting in the thing being almost knocked out of their hand, and hitting somebody else on the other side of them.
Fucking umbrellas. Waste of time. Whatever happened to women wearing those big plastic hankies on their heads? Never used to see women with brollies – they always had those funny bits of plastic over their heads, tied under the chin, keeping their tight perms dry.
They smelt funny.
You picked up this weird wet plasticky smell when you walked near them. Well, I’ve just answered my own question – they don’t wear them any more because they make women smell funny.
Blokes with umbrellas? I’d rather get a soaking than carry an umbrella. It’s a gay thing, I’m sure. The way you hold it probably signifies to other gays what your preferences are - like fisting or rimming.....
People with umbrellas don’t look where they are going and don't give a shit whose eyeball they take out with it. They keep the brolly low for maximum rain protection and the spikes on the ends of the brolly are just about at my eye level.
I dodged them for too long.
These days I simply put my arm up to protect my face, often resulting in the thing being almost knocked out of their hand, and hitting somebody else on the other side of them.
Fucking umbrellas. Waste of time. Whatever happened to women wearing those big plastic hankies on their heads? Never used to see women with brollies – they always had those funny bits of plastic over their heads, tied under the chin, keeping their tight perms dry.
They smelt funny.
You picked up this weird wet plasticky smell when you walked near them. Well, I’ve just answered my own question – they don’t wear them any more because they make women smell funny.
Blokes with umbrellas? I’d rather get a soaking than carry an umbrella. It’s a gay thing, I’m sure. The way you hold it probably signifies to other gays what your preferences are - like fisting or rimming.....
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
Gay Culture Encounter
I don’t like it being pushed in my face, so to speak.
I was in Foyle’s bookshop, London, recently, and by accident picked up a book called Matinee Idols. I thought I was still in the photography section, but had strayed into Gay Culture without realising (honest). It’s like when you are in some of those American cities where you go one block and find yourself in a bad neighbourhood. It was fine before you crossed the street, everything was normal. But suddenly, you’re in a world of shit.
I innocently opened this book thinking it might be iconic photographic work by some of Hollywood’s great photographers of the 20th century, but no, it was full of pictures of blokes with huge nobs. Some of them sticking right up with a bone in.
I thought that was illegal – boners – I thought erections and penetration were classed as hardcore porn. Maybe I’m just naïve, but I shut the book again quickly. I didn’t want anybody seeing me looking at nobs and thinking I was a poof.
I suppose it goes under the heading of ‘art’ does it?
What probably pissed me off more than anything, was that mine would look like a chipolata next to these salamis. And these buggers all had tight muscles and six-packs, not like me and my man-boobs and over-hanging gut.
I was in Foyle’s bookshop, London, recently, and by accident picked up a book called Matinee Idols. I thought I was still in the photography section, but had strayed into Gay Culture without realising (honest). It’s like when you are in some of those American cities where you go one block and find yourself in a bad neighbourhood. It was fine before you crossed the street, everything was normal. But suddenly, you’re in a world of shit.
I innocently opened this book thinking it might be iconic photographic work by some of Hollywood’s great photographers of the 20th century, but no, it was full of pictures of blokes with huge nobs. Some of them sticking right up with a bone in.
I thought that was illegal – boners – I thought erections and penetration were classed as hardcore porn. Maybe I’m just naïve, but I shut the book again quickly. I didn’t want anybody seeing me looking at nobs and thinking I was a poof.
I suppose it goes under the heading of ‘art’ does it?
What probably pissed me off more than anything, was that mine would look like a chipolata next to these salamis. And these buggers all had tight muscles and six-packs, not like me and my man-boobs and over-hanging gut.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
washing powder commercials
Back in the 70s the washing powder adverts on telly spouted off about how their new product was best because it washed ‘biologically’ and look – just to prove it, we saw some boffin in a white coat using a teat-pipette to drop some of this wonderstuff into a tray containing water with oil floating on the top. Like a miniature oil slick. And ping! As soon as the detergent hit the oil, the slick parted and disappeared (well, to the edge of the container). Miracle washing powder, and it does this because it washes ‘biologically’.
Fucking bollocks.
Listen mate, I was doing ‘O’ level physics at the time, and I remember doing the same shit with a bar of soap and talcum powder in the bath tub for my homework experiment. It’s simply detergent breaking the surface tension on the water. Assholes. Any fourteen year old knows that.
‘Biological’ my arse.
And how are they advertising their washing detergents now?
“Our new formula washing powder is fucking brilliant, because it washes ‘NON-biologically’.”
Twats.
Fucking bollocks.
Listen mate, I was doing ‘O’ level physics at the time, and I remember doing the same shit with a bar of soap and talcum powder in the bath tub for my homework experiment. It’s simply detergent breaking the surface tension on the water. Assholes. Any fourteen year old knows that.
‘Biological’ my arse.
And how are they advertising their washing detergents now?
“Our new formula washing powder is fucking brilliant, because it washes ‘NON-biologically’.”
Twats.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
mobility muppets
Mobility Muppets
What is it with all these fat fuckers on mobility chairs?
It’s an epidemic.
Where did they all come from? Every where I go I see some lardy bastard cruising along on one of these things. Now, don’t get me wrong, if you have a disability and getting around is a problem, then a mobility chair can be the answer if a wheelchair isn’t the right thing. I don’t have a problem with that.
But what I’m seeing is all the fat bastards who are at the point where just walking a few yards makes them out of breath. They are sitting on these things, cluttering up the pavements, with their asses hanging off the sides, cruising in and out of cake shops.
What chance have they got of losing any weight if they go everywhere on these things. I’ve seen huge women on these buggies, with bags of doughnuts in the basket on the front. I’ve seen them going around in groups. Must be family. The whole fucking family are too fat to walk anywhere. There was a mother and daughter bimbling through the precinct together, and following up the rear on foot was the skinny Dad – on a walking stick for Christ’s sake. Probably claiming disability benefit. In fact, I imagine they all were. Let’s face it, these buggies can cost upwards of three grand. Your average scumbag doesn’t usually have that sort of cash lying around. And it does seem to be members of the lower end of the social scale that ride these things - I have yet to see a posh person riding one. The middle classes rarely let themselves get so fat that they can’t walk.
They might be fat c*nts, but they aren’t necessarily thick c*nts. They know how to work the benefits system, and as a taxpayer, I’m paying for these lardy leeches to transport their vast bulk to the next pie shop.
What really fucked me off big time, was when I went to Plymouth a few months ago to see my daughter who is at University there. I went down to the market hall, where my favourites record and CD exchange shop is, and fuck me, when I got there it had been turned into a mobility shop!! That really did my head in. I used to get some great obscure Indie stuff from that place, now all I can get is a fucking scooter. Some of these things are rated to carry up to 30 stone and have extra wide seats. The manufacturers know the lardies are their main market. The mobility shop, once a specialist supplier, is becoming an all too familiar sight in every town and city.
Haven’t any of these whoppers stopped to think that actually, if they walked down the road to post a letter, or walked past the pie shop instead of in it, eventually, they might not need an electric trolley to get them around.
How fucking stupid can a person be?
Well, some poor old sod (one of the few, it seems to me, that should benefit from a mobility chair) in his 90s, the other day ended up on a three lane carriageway ring road - the A27 in Shoreham, West Sussex. He took a wrong turn and became confused. Thank God he wasn't driving a car. I feel sorry for him. Obviously the scooter has given him mobility he would otherwise be unable to benefit from, as walking any distance in your 90s is a problem. Mobility chairs cluttering up the precincts is one thing, but on the roads? Fucking hell.
Yours, Bill Turnip.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Camden drunk
Being the tight-ass bastard that I am, I took the bus the other day.
From Camden up to Swiss Cottage. It was around 5.30pm and it was busy. I was going to stand downstairs, but a drunk got on and started this awful unintelligible ‘singing’. Just a collection of loud moans really. If he’d been asleep you would have assumed he was having a nightmare. But it made several women jump when he suddenly started up with this din.
He was too close for comfort, so I went upstairs to get out of his way. He was probably in his late 50s and looked Irish (they often do). He was wearing a funny hat – a bit like a Dutch seaman’s cap, but it still had the price tag dangling off the back of it. He'd either just bought it or just nicked it.
I wasn’t upstairs for more than a minute, when the bugger came up there and sat down in the middle of the bus. He started up once more, and immediately a huge great big seriously low-temperature spade, dreadlocks tied down under a big red knitted hanky or something, two rows in front, turned back to him, and putting his authoritive finger up, said, “shut the fuck up”.
The drunk continued and immediately the brother again said “Shut the fuck up. Don’t say anything. Just be quiet and shut the fuck up.”
He stayed quiet for a while, and then he moved to the back of the bus where I was. Bastard. Why do they always do that? He was quiet for a while, but then started up with the wailing again. This time several of us told him to shut the fuck up. I warned him that he would have to deal with the big black guy if he didn’t stop, because he was going to get mighty pissed off with him. He shut up again and then got off the bus.
It reminded me, after I’d threatened him with the black bloke, how when I was really young I remember my Auntie threatening one of her kids while we were waiting in the car. It was Exeter in the early 60s and you just didn’t see black people in those parts in those days. But one crossed the road in front of us and my auntie said “If you don’t behave, that black man will come and get you”. The car went quiet and all were behaved impeccably from then on.
Nothing like being threatened with a visit from a black dude to bring about the fear of God in a child in rural Devon. Or a Camden drunk for that matter.
Then today, I was standing in the street in Kingsbury, NW London, with the sound of police sirens in the background, when another drunk stumbles past shouting, “Fuck the Old Bill. Fuck the Old Bill, mate”.
It's a funny old world......
From Camden up to Swiss Cottage. It was around 5.30pm and it was busy. I was going to stand downstairs, but a drunk got on and started this awful unintelligible ‘singing’. Just a collection of loud moans really. If he’d been asleep you would have assumed he was having a nightmare. But it made several women jump when he suddenly started up with this din.
He was too close for comfort, so I went upstairs to get out of his way. He was probably in his late 50s and looked Irish (they often do). He was wearing a funny hat – a bit like a Dutch seaman’s cap, but it still had the price tag dangling off the back of it. He'd either just bought it or just nicked it.
I wasn’t upstairs for more than a minute, when the bugger came up there and sat down in the middle of the bus. He started up once more, and immediately a huge great big seriously low-temperature spade, dreadlocks tied down under a big red knitted hanky or something, two rows in front, turned back to him, and putting his authoritive finger up, said, “shut the fuck up”.
The drunk continued and immediately the brother again said “Shut the fuck up. Don’t say anything. Just be quiet and shut the fuck up.”
He stayed quiet for a while, and then he moved to the back of the bus where I was. Bastard. Why do they always do that? He was quiet for a while, but then started up with the wailing again. This time several of us told him to shut the fuck up. I warned him that he would have to deal with the big black guy if he didn’t stop, because he was going to get mighty pissed off with him. He shut up again and then got off the bus.
It reminded me, after I’d threatened him with the black bloke, how when I was really young I remember my Auntie threatening one of her kids while we were waiting in the car. It was Exeter in the early 60s and you just didn’t see black people in those parts in those days. But one crossed the road in front of us and my auntie said “If you don’t behave, that black man will come and get you”. The car went quiet and all were behaved impeccably from then on.
Nothing like being threatened with a visit from a black dude to bring about the fear of God in a child in rural Devon. Or a Camden drunk for that matter.
Then today, I was standing in the street in Kingsbury, NW London, with the sound of police sirens in the background, when another drunk stumbles past shouting, “Fuck the Old Bill. Fuck the Old Bill, mate”.
It's a funny old world......
Monday, 23 February 2009
This is our first venture into this new-fangled blogging bollocks, so consider this a test.
"Don't test any longer" in the words of the great Peter Cook, reacting to Dudley Moore farting into the microphone and saying "testing, testing, 1,2,3".
One of many fine moments recorded by 'Derek and Clive'
Right, let's publish and see if it works:
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