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.
Saturday, 28 March 2009
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.
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