Too marvelous for words…

Ring ring…. Ring ri…

Hello?

Tommy, it’s Simon.

Hello mate, what’s up?

Can you sing the song for us?

You’re fucking kidding? Once or twice a season’s ok, but every fucking week? You’re taking liberties.

But…

Click

Tommy? Tommy?

Oh well… Ohhh I’ve never felt more like singing the blues…..

Eligible for parole come Valentine’s day.

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?

None of our pockets are lined with gold

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.

The dark nights are drawing in

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.

Take a cha cha cha chance

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.

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

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 the miller told his tale

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.

If you want to be like the folks on the hill

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.

Came the last night of sadness

For years I’ve been laughing at the Jesus freaks and god botherers when they tell us the end is nigh. Before the internet gave these loons a platform they had to wander the streets with a sandwich board and shout at people… there used to be a bloke at Maine road, they usually shout random verses from revelation, I used to only hear one in every five words… horses, trumpets, spread cheese, absinthe…. You get the drift, fucking nonsense. The arrival of the World Wide Web has seen a huge jump in number of these fuckers, and an exponential growth in the variety of ways we’re going to meet our doom. Nostradamus is quoted, along with some old lass that lived in a cave in Norfolk, and the old favourite, the last book of the New Testament. Why the fuck it was put in there is anyone’s guess… I know the bible is just a cobbled together mish mash of hearsay and fable, but if you’re going for credible, why would you wack a chapter in by a mental Greek cleric with an “end of the world” story so fabulous it could be an M Night Shyamalan movie? He was probably stood outside the council of Nicaea with a sandwich board, shouting about cheese and horses. Constantine looks up from his agenda and says.. “will somebody go and shut that fucker up, he’s doing my fucking head in… no, wait… I’ve got an idea”.

Anyway, it looks like they may be right after all.

Our glorious leaders are heading for a no-deal Brexit, that should make it a bit starvy in good old Blighty, we’ll all be housebound with no petrol, the gas and electric will be off, so we’ll be a bit shivery as well as starvy. This should make everyone nice and fighty. It’s a cunning plan by the tories to drastically reduce the number of poor people, most of the pensioners will die, huge saving there… a large number of benefit scroungers will die in pitch battles for the last Greggs sausage roll. Welfare bill slashed, NHS waiting lists slashed, education bill slashed, unemployment slashed… those of us that survive will inherit a brave new world.

Meanwhile, Trump is hell bent on pissing off a couple of despots, he’s like a kid with s stick, poking a wasps’ nest, except we’re all going to get stung.

Armageddon (arm)(aged)(don)

Pretty much what America has done, given an old tyrant the means to fire everyone.

Repent, the end is nigh!

Anyone got a bit of plywood and a few screws?