This may well sound a little heartless, but all these gambling addicts that are blaming the bookies need to have a fucking word with themselves. It’s not the bookies fault, it’s yours… take some fucking responsibility for your actions, no one made you spend your money, why the fuck should the bookies be punished, why should responsible gamblers be reigned in?
This sort of pandering is on a par with the fucking sugar tax and the fizzy pop embargo… a woman was refused a bottle of wine in Tesco because she had her seventeen year old daughter with her. What does the future hold down this path?
“I’m sorry mate I can’t serve you with that pasty, you look a bit chubby… unless your gym app says you did forty minutes exercise yesterday you’re going to have to settle for this Apple”
The fucking nanny state boils my piss.
This whole “four-month-Christmas” bollocks is seriously pissing me off. Yes, this is a “things were better in my day” post. But they were… Halloween was a non-event, we were all too busy collecting wood for our bonfires. We were too busy making a Guy Fawkes and sitting it outside the local pub so we get the piss-cans (drunken gentlemen) to give us a penny for the Guy, then we could use that cash to buy some fireworks. Halloween was an American thing, we didn’t get it.
Next was Remembrance Sunday. If you were in the Boys brigade, or the cadets, then you marched on remembrance Sunday, stood at the cenotaph, put your poppy on the leaf sodden ground, bowed your head and remembered, looked at the old soldiers and wondered what they’d seen. Then, around the same time, there was the Royal Festival of Remembrance.
After that, the odd TV ad for Cointreau and Milk Tray started, maybe a new Campari ad with Lorraine Chase. What we didn’t get were Christmas decorations, they didn’t start till well into December, and in our house, the week before Christmas. The shops started to get a bit Christmassy a couple of weeks before, just as we were getting ready to finish school for two weeks.
This restraint made it special, its not special when Morrison’s have a fucking tree up in September. A third of the year is now given over to buying stuff for one fucking day. It’s preposterous, it’s unnecessary, and it’s fucking annoying.
I know modern life is amazing, but some traditions are worth keeping… can we go back please?
Well, it’s been a weird week. A mildly annoying one too… there are Christmas aisles in the supermarkets and it isn’t even fucking Halloween yet. It should be outlawed until after the Royal Festival of Remembrance. We watched the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie, and it really was a massive sack of Donkey wank. I love Depp, but this was woeful. We also realised that our dash cam has audio…. Fuck! If those files get out… we really must be careful what we say.
Apparently there are sex pests in Westminster, who’d have fucking thunk it? A place where white men are elevated way beyond their natural power level. I’m not sure Rees Mogg would be beating them off with a shitty stick if he weren’t in the position he’s in… or maybe his 19th century views on women would win they day? Who knows?
Anyway, back to it next week, words and all that. But first, wine.
Jesus tapdancing Christ, minimum pricing for alcohol is back. C4 news interviewed a homeless guy and asked him “what has alcohol done to you” it sounded like a mugging. We have free choice, it’s the same with the fucking ridiculous sugar tax… it won’t work, it punishes poor people and it will not reduce binge drinking. It’s time we started facing the real issues, the root causes. People choose to drink, gamble, get fat on their own, they may have their own reasons but no one forced them to do it.
Brexit and Remembrance Sunday. Anyone who voted to leave the EU, and then wears a poppy, or posts some remembrance related imagery on social media, needs to have a fucking word with themselves. It’s either complete ignorance or an utter fucking disregard for the truth, or more likely, an act of virtue signalling to align themselves with the in group…. How can anyone glorify the very people who’s graves they pissed on with their vote to leave?
In the middle of Frankie Boyle’s Guardian column, where he compares Boris to a malevolent baked Alaska, he maintains that no one in the UK is doing a decent job. He’s absolutely fucking right. We stopped at Keele services on the way home from Birmingham on Wednesday. I know, in hindsight it’s a level of stupid on a par with the bloke who told the Beatles that they were shit, or the committee that brought us mocktails, but you know… coffee. We had passed a Costa/M&S combo at Stafford, in favour of the holy grail of Waitrose/Starbucks. The Waitrose sandwich had black slimy rocket and chopped and shaped ham… the coffee had no coffee in it. How the fuck do we get crap customer service in a recession?
Also, Marks and Spencer women’s clothes. This is a tale of fucking woe, as first world problems go anyway. Six pairs of women’s trousers, all the same size but a mixture of regular and long. All different lengths with only two pairs falling within M&S own tolerance. A right first time of 30%, which is piss poor. 85% is getting there, with 95% being pretty damned good. After an email string where M&S executive office failed to either apologise or admit they had a quality issue, I’m forced to conclude that M&S let their customers carry out their QC function. They did, eventually, apologise… but only after I shamed them into it.
So, customer service always improves in a recession, and this consistent lack of anyone seemingly giving a flying fuck in many of our customer facing businesses is proof that the Tory austerity con wasn’t in any way a cure for a recession, it was a robbery, moving public assists into private ownership.
Yesterday would have been my dad’s 77th birthday. He made it about 7 months into his 69th, not quite three score and ten but not that far off. I have very little time for grief, it’s such a selfish emotion.. me, me fucking me. The only thing that pissed me off was that he missed the the FA cup final the year after, when we got that fucking banner ripped down. He missed the goal against QPR and the faces of the rags at Sunderland. My regrets are for him, not for me.
If you find yourself in the middle of the road, dying, after being run over by a bus, and thinking “I wish I had gone on that holiday, or bought that car, or asked her to marry me” and you had the means to to do those things, then fuck you. Life is short, we have our time to make it as wonderful as we can, then we’re gone for good. If you haven’t done that, then you need to change your thinking.
If storms are bad portents, then let’s hope Ophelia fucks off somewhere else. The one that Michael Fish so spectacularly failed to predict thirty years ago, ripped part of our roof off, the fucker that fixed it came back a month later and robbed us when we were out at work. I had to stop working shifts because MLSOH was terrified of being at home alone, our mortgage suffered and we ended up back in a Council house. I was twenty one and MLSOH was ten days away from her twenty first. Karma took her swift and poetic retribution on the scumbag builder, we moved house and I went back to my old job. This set in motion a series of incredible coincidences that led to us being where we are today.
I’ll tell two stories from this little one, the haunted house, and the tale of the coincidences.
As Marwood reads the graffiti and wonders who fucks arses, Withnail is in the bar getting the drinks. He orders two treble gins, two pints of cider, ice in the cider. It’s a great option if you’re struggling to get fucked up, and maybe the cause of my Sunday morning hang over.
This isn’t just a fish finger butty. It’s a Marks and Spencer, hand tickled, sustainable cod, on fresh ethical muffins, with Bloody Mary ketchup (that bit’s real and it’s fucking epic) and a glass of Oaked Chardonnay.
Speaking of M&S, I have a complaint letter I might share, their customer service is going down the shitter.