Christmas Crap

A friend sent me this, another idiot survey on Facebook. For the benefit of those who don’t subscribe to Facebook, I reprint my response here.

1:  The best Christmas present you ever received was?
The 1974 blackout. The electric board cut the power off on December 23rd and I didn’t pay the bill until January 10th.

2:  Worst gift ever?
1984 and a recording of Margaret Thatcher’s rendition of “Money Makes The World Go Around.”

3:  What’s your favourite Christmas song / carol:
It goes something like “O Come all ye … JUST FUCK OFF AND BOTHER SOMEONE ELSE.” The carol singers open and I deliver the finale.

4:  Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without…
Christmas?

5:  Christmas smells like….
Chanel No 5, Givenchy pour homme and vomit,

6:  Favourite Christmas film?
Gunfight At The OK Corral. There’s not a single mention of Christmas in it

7:  What were you in the school Christmas play?
AWOL.

8:  What is ‘festive spirit’?
It’s the spirit of enterprise as in every bastard on the high street is ready to rip you off for every penny of your credit card limit.

9:  Who would you kiss under the mistletoe?
If the money’s right, anyone.

10:  Who would you poison with its berries?
Everyone.

11:  What gift would you take to the baby Jesus?
Bugger all. I hate kids more than I hate Christmas.

12:  Something likely to make you feel ill over the festive period?
Christmas.

13:  Finish this: ’twas the night before Christmas….
And I was stuck in the snow at Heathrow waiting for a flight to anywhere in the world where they’ve never heard of Christmas.

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The 6th House & Pit Boots

According to my horoscope, I’m up for a busy day with the moon moving through my 6th house.

According to me, that 6th house was on Throstle Grove and it was pulled down years ago, so I don’t see how the Moon can move through it. It could move through the rubble, I suppose, except that the rubble should have been shifted years back, too.

Still, the horoscope had it right, I am up for a busy day. Her Indoors ordered a pair of boots from her catalogue, which cost more than a month’s Council Tax and when they arrived, she asked me what I thought.

This is a dangerous habit. People should never ask me what I think because I have an unfortunate habit of telling them. Witness the phone/TV/internet salesman who buttonholed me in Oldham. “You don’t want to know what I think of your company, son,” I said. “Oh yes I do,” he replied, so I told him; in no uncertain terms. By the time I’d done, his ears and cheeks were bright red and I’m sure I heard him say he hadn’t heard such bad language even when he was in the Parachute Regiment, while his female colleague said the constant repetition of “robbing bastards” became tedious.

Therefore, when Her Indoors asked me what I though of her new footwear, I told her the truth. “They look like pit boots.”

Within a minute they were parcelled up for sending back to the mail order company that sold them to her and a part of my day’s schedule is to wait in for the driver collecting those and delivering a fresh pair. Doc Martins bullyboy, I think.

Over and above that, I had to glue the base back on a drawer that gave way because she insisted on filling it with enough clothing to start her own mail order catalogue. The QE2 didn’t need as much ballast.

And finally I had to repair one of the towel rings in the bathroom which was working loose. I pointed out that it’s working loose because she yanks the towel off it from the bottom instead of reaching up to the top. She then demonstrated that I’d set them so high up she couldn’t reach the top so I thought I’d better shut up and just tighten it up.

And while I’m snowed under with all this work, I also have to prepare my own lunch. Why? Because she’s going to the hairdressers. I think she’s having a skinhead to go with the Doc Martins.

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A Disabled Rant

There’s this old joke when filling in forms or under interview by the cops. “They want to know everything including the last time I went for a shit.”

It’s a joke. Right?

Not anymore.

I retired a couple of weeks back due to ill health and disability. I was advised to claim for Disability Living Allowance. I asked for a form and they sent it.

No joke, I have read shorter novels and even written shorter novels. The questions were posed by an idiot and can only be answered by a linguistic genius, and only then after phoning a friend.

For example. Do you need assistance walking around an unfamiliar place?  Why just an unfamiliar place? Why not everywhere? I need assistance everywhere. I don’t get lost anymore now that I’m disabled than I did when I was fully fit. My legs are no more prone to carrying me off into Narnia now than they were when they worked.

Further down this piss-potticle piece of bureaucratic bumph, we came to the question.

How many times a day do you visit the lavatory and how long does it take each time?

What kind of moron asks such a question and I refuse believe there is anyone out there able to answer it. This is a literal time and motion study. What the hell kind of life do they think I lead now that I’m disabled?

“Right, I need a crap. Better get the stop watch out and move another bead across the abacus.”

Do I have to include the amount of time I sit on the throne reading the Sunday Mirror? Should I compensate for the additional time I spend in there when I’ve had too many brown ales?

I suffer intolerable pain in the lower half of my body, which creates severe mobility problems. I suffer from breathing difficulties, which can produce dizzy spells and worse, can lead to critical episodes where I need medical treatment sharpish. I need someone with me to ensure my safety and to help me up and down stairs. I do not need an adding machine and egg timer to work out how long I spend in the bathroom or how often I make the journey.

So let’s be brutally honest about this. What is all this nitpicking about? It’s about trying to deny you benefits to which you’re legitimately entitled and have contributed to for the last half century. Every expense-account politician in the country will bleat that it isn’t.

In that case, where is the one elected gravy train passenger who will stand up and cut through this bullshit?

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ET Give Us A Bell

I picked up this little question on the Beeb’s website.

If there really are aliens out there, how come they haven’t been in touch?

Biblebashers will tell you that the aliens don’t exist because if they did it would bugger up every theory put forward in every religious text in the world, including the Bible.

The UFO loons will insist that aliens have already been in touch. They’ve been dropping in on us for yonks. Sceptics will say that the UFO freaks are attention-seeking nutters and the aliens all work for the CIA.

So we turn to the scientists who through various complicated and sometimes controversial calculations insist that there are anything up to 50billion earth-like planets in our galaxy alone, and that there are 10,000 possible civilisations that we could contact.

So why haven’t we?

We’re not trying hard enough, according to Dr Frank Drake, a radio-astronomer who came up with the original calculation.

We’re bone idle, you see. And they needed mathematics to work that out?

What puzzles me is why they didn’t stop by the Jolly Carter and ask me. I mean, the answer is so obvious, it’s staring them in the face, but they can’t see it because they’re too busy complicating matters.

It’s all about money.

The cost of a call to Australia can be up to 50p a minute. Think how much dearer it would be to ring here from Sirius.

You can read more on this at:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-11982757

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Merry Bloody Christmas

Christmas is coming and me dad’s run outta fags
Please put a tenner in me mam’s handbag
If you haven’t got a tenner, a fiver will do
If you haven’t got a fiver, your window’s going through

Did I happen to mention that I hate Christmas?

It’s not just the expense, although that’s enough to give any sane man a coronary. It’s the entire thing.

Her Indoors and me visit both her sisters, one on the day, the other on New Year’s Day. It’s very nice seeing the family but it grows every year as some youngster turns up with fresh brats in tow.

It’s worse because I’m always the non-drinker. I have to drive because Her Indoors’ driving is more like aiming, and that’s when she’s sober. Trouble is, while I’m drinking lemonade, everyone else at the party is getting pissed rotten. I always seem to get buttonholed by some dipstick who’s determined to bore my socks off telling me all about his new car.

“Take at look at it Flatcap,” one of them said when bragging on his new 4×4. “Four litre petrol, 0-60 in seven seconds, does eighteen to the gallon and enough room for me and the Pussycat Dolls.”

I pointed to my Ford Ka. “1.3 litre petrol, 0-60 in three hours, does 35 to the gallon round town, there isn’t room for Her Indoors’ pussy never mind her dolls and it’ll still be going when that converted plumber’s van of yours has been repossessed.”

The wife’s other sister runs a riding school and inevitably there’s a cast of thousands at her farmhouse every New Year. Never slow to give offence, when one woman asked, “Are you at all horsey, Flatcap?” I replied, “I had a fair few fillies saddled when I was younger, and I’m sure you were one of them.”

She went off in a huff and I distinctly heard her asked who that, “offensive old bastard in the kitchen was.”

I recall one girl asking, “What do you do for a living, Flatcap?”

“I write songs,” I replied.

“Do you?” she was amazed. “Give us an example.”

So I did.

Good king Wenceslas looked out
Of his bedroom window
Silly bugger he fell out
On a red hot cinder
Brightly shone his arse that night
Like a crimson jewel
Til he sat in drifting snow
And let his backside coo –oo -l

Last I saw of her she was searching the web to see if she could download the mp3.

I hate bloody Christmas.

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The Toaster

By popular demand (well one person asked) here’s a rewrite of a piece I produced about 3 years ago. It was inspired by the true story of a Milwaukee resident who shot his lawnmower when it wouldn’t start. The local garden centre commented, “His warranty is gone. The manufacturer doesn’t recommend shooting lawnmowers.”

Flatcap enters his local electrical store with a toaster under his arm. “I’ve brought this back,” he says. “It burned the bread.”

Assistant examines toaster and finds it pitted with holes. “It looks like it’s been hit with shotgun pellet, sir.”

“That’s right,” says Flatcap. “It burned the toast so I shot it.”

“You didn’t think of altering the timer?”

“Didn’t know there was a timer on it,” Flatcap responds.

“Or you could have tried thicker bread. It takes longer to toast.”

“So what am I? Some kind of expert on bread density?” demands Flatcap.

Assistant scratches his head. “Well I’m sorry, sir, but the warranty won’t cover it. The manufacturer doesn’t recommend shooting the machine.”

Flatcap takes warranty from his wallet. “I read the small print. It says I shouldn’t stick knives or screwdrivers into it, I shouldn’t dip it in water while it’s connected to the mains, but nowhere does it say I shouldn’t shoot it.”

The assistant points to item in small print. “You see here. It says any unauthorised repair work will invalidate the warranty.”

“I wasn’t trying to repair it,” protests Flatcap. “The wife’s not well so I was making boiled eggs on toast. The eggs boiled over, the toast burned, I got mad and shot it. What’s complicated about that?”

“Your wife’s meal was ruined so you shot the toaster?”

“And the pan,” insists Flatcap.

“You shot the toaster and the saucepan?” asks the assistant.

“The kettle didn’t come out of it too well, either.”

Assistant leaps on the admission. “I notice you haven’t brought that back.”

“I didn’t buy it from you,” Flatcap replies. “I got it from Tesco and that’s my next port of call.”

Assistant frowns. “I’m sorry, sir, but the guarantee specifically states that if the appliance was subject to abuse or used for any purpose other than that which it was designed, the warranty is invalidated.”

“Abuse?” Flatcap raises his voice. “Do you take me for some kind of pervert? I wasn’t interfering with it. I was making toast with it and making toast is it’s entire raison d’être. It couldn’t do it, so I took out the shotgun and peppered it.”

“Yes but …” assistant is now floundering.

“Never mind the manufacturer’s warranty,” Flatcap interrupts. “Your guarantee says that if I’m not satisfied with my purchase, I can bring it back and you’ll refund my money. I think shooting it indicates that I wasn’t entirely happy with it, don’t you?”

A slow smile creeps across assistant’s face as he studies sign on wall that confirms Flatcap’s statement. “It also says you should return the item in its original packaging.”

Flatcap is not fazed. “I haven’t got it.”

“Why?”

“I used it to set fire to the shed I bought from B+Q.”

“You bought a shed from B+Q and set fire to it?”

Flatcap nods. “I spent three days putting it up. The door wouldn’t close. I lost my temper and torched it.” Flatcap leans on counter. “Now what are you gonna do about the toaster?”

Assistant sighs in defeat. “Just a minute, sir, I’ll arrange a refund.”

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It’s Written In The Stars

Today’s horoscope was extraordinarily accurate.

You cannot clearly see what’s coming.

This is absolutely true. I am due at the opticians and most of the world is a fog.

The choices you make now can significantly impact your future.

If that big white blur coming towards me as I cross the road turns out to be a bus, the impact will be all the greater, and it’ll be on me, not the future.

Your need for self-expression is important.

But telling the bus driver to just piss off may not be the wisest move.

Success depends upon your ability to balance a risky plan with sensible actions.

Can I wait another few seconds for the pork pies and brown ale? Just while the bus has passed?

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Real Men, Tune Into This

I’ve just read on AOL from Asylum about the five things real men should never say.

Now I need this kind of guidance because I’m a real man. How do I know? I checked the necessary equipment and I am a man. I touched me and I am real. I am, therefore, a real man.  (I’ll leave you to work out which bits I touched for the necessary confirmation.)

Here are the things that I , as a real man, should never say.

A real man uses the NATO phonetic alphabet, not epithets he’s dreamed up himself. Does he? On the phone I give the last letters of my postcode as Queenie Peter, and not Quebec Papa. Why? It’s too cold in Quebec and my old man has been dead these last 10 years.

A real man never uses effusive descriptive; words like spectacular, fabulous, breathtaking. Instead he uses “awesome”. Right. This is where I’ve been going wrong. When the cold weather aggravates my COPD and I end up in A&E because it’s taken my breath away, I’m awesome, not breathless.

A real man never uses French words. Bit of a bugger if you want to go to Paris or Marseilles. The Italian ‘ciao’ is also a no-no. Instead a real man drops in the occasional Spanish with an Austrian accent. So the next time my mate Jim needs a bump start with his car, I’ll do my Schwarzenegger impression. No problemo, dickwad.

A real man never attributes secondhand information. Instead he claims it for himself. This is absolute spot on. I know. A mate of mine told me in the pub the other night.

A real man doesn’t substitute four letter words, except in specific situations like church or when the boss is in earshot. Funny. Those are precisely the times when I use them the most.

Finally, although not listed, a real man doesn’t read this garbage and take it on board.  Instead, he takes the piss out of it.

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A Mother’s Christmas Apology

A mother’s heart rending plea to her son for understanding.

Deer sun

Just a shaught noat to teel yu wy we carnt by yo nuffin for krismuss.

Yesta day I cent yore dad to the supmar … supa ma … shop for a lofe of bred, sum sossij and a collyfoul … calleeflo … cabbij and has he wos cumin bak he past a bilding sight wear a mann wos oldin a roap. The man needed the toil let and he askt ur dadd to hoald the roap wile he whent. Bein as how he’s eezie gohing, yor dad agrea … a gree … sed yes.

At the top the roap went hova a pully and wos tyed two a barrer and anuther man was lodin briks in to hit.

Soon the bar row was hevyer than yor dad. The barrro caym down, your dad went hup and hitt is hed on the pulli but he dident let go of the roap. At the bot tom the barroe landid and tipt ova and the brikes feel howt.

Yore dad was now hevia than the barroo. He caim down and the barro went hup. Wen he landed, yor dad broak his ankhil … anke … leg, coursing him too let go off the roap.

With nuffin to hoald it hup, the bar roe phell dow n and dropt on yore dads hed giving him con cush … consucc … a hed ake.

Wen the amblens aryved the pare o med icks laffed so mutch they dropt yor dad off the stretcha and broak his uther legg.

Yore dad is now in hopsit … horspit … bed and he carnt wurk so we haff no muni and thiss is wy we carnt scend yu anyfink for crismus.

Yore luvin mum

Mum

Ps I know my speeling isent gud but as you carnt reed I know yo whill for giv mee.

With due ackowledgement to David Robinson Jnr, whose email containing a letter to a redneck inspired this nonsense.

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Missing: One Snowman

The Beeb reports on a woman from Kent who dialled 999 after someone stole her snowman. “It ain’t a nice road, but at the end of the day, you don’t expect someone to nick your snowman,” she is reported as saying.

The Kent coppers were not amused at this idiotic misuse of the emergency phone numbers, but she was adamant that it was an emergency because she’d used pound coins for the snowman’s eyes and teaspoons for the arms. She is reported to have said, “I hadn’t checked on him for five hours, but I went out for a fag and he was gone.” If you ask me, she’s two pound coins (and two teaspoons) short of the full fiver.

Logically, she should be prosecuted for misuse of the emergency operator’s time. Some poor sod could have been dying while trying to get through for an ambulance, and she’d have been better pleading “I was last in the queue when they were handing out brains.”

It paints a bizarre picture when you think about it. How did the thieves get away with it? It’s hard to imagine some jerk ambling down the street whistling innocently while concealing a melting snowman under his coat. And what would he tell plod if he was pulled? “I found it.”

Maybe he and his mate cased the joint … from an ice cream van. “Hey up, Smudger, there’s one. I’m having that tonight.”

Aside from her general idiocy in calling 999, what about the actual thief? How many self-respecting crooks do you know who go out nicking snowmen? Imagine him in the pub later, nudging one of his fences. “I got the deal of the century here for you, mate. It’s in the freezer.”

I can understand pervs nicking knickers … all right so I can’t understand them, but Her Indoors’ trolleys are not gonna melt the minute he gets them back to his place. On the other hand, Her Indoors’ trolleys don’t contain two pound coins and two teaspoons (at least, I don’t think they do.)

Naturally, we’re assuming that this is case of theft, but it could be that the snowman thought, “sod this, it’s too cold out here,” and walked off to the pub.

Maybe aliens landed, said “Take us to your leader,” and when the snowman didn’t answer, they zapped him with their ray guns.

You can read the whole absurd tale at: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-kent-11908583

 

The Beeb reports on a woman from Kent who dialled 999 after someone stole her snowman. “It ain’t a nice road, but at the end of the day, you don’t expect someone to nick your snowman,” she is reported as saying.

 

The Kent coppers were not amused at this idiotic misuse of the emergency phone numbers, but she was adamant that it was an emergency because she’d used pound coins for the snowman’s eyes and teaspoons for the arms. She is reported to have said, “I hadn’t checked on him for five hours, but I went out for a fag and he was gone.” If you ask me, she’s two pound coins short of the full fiver.

 

Logically, she should be prosecuted for misuse of the emergency operator’s time. Some poor sod could have been dying while trying to get through for an ambulance, and she’d have been better pleading “I was last in the queue when they were handing out brains.”

 

It paints a bizarre picture when you think about it. How did the thieves get away with it? It’s hard to imagine some jerk ambling down the street whistling innocently while concealing a melting snowman under his coat. And what would he tell plod if he was pulled? “I found it.”

 

Maybe he and his mate cased the joint … from an ice cream van. “Hey up, Smudger, there’s one. I’m having that tonight.”

 

Aside from her general idiocy in calling 999, what about the actual thief? How many self-respecting crooks do you know who go out nicking snowmen? Imagine him in the pub later, nudging one of his fences. “I got the deal of the century here for you, mate. It’s in the freezer.”

 

I can understand pervs nicking knickers … all right so I can’t understand them, but Her Indoors’ trolleys are not gonna melt the minute he gets them back to his place. On the other hand, Her Indoors’ trolleys don’t contain two pound coins and two teaspoons (at least, I don’t think they do.)

 

Naturally, we’re assuming that this is case of theft, but it could be that the snowman thought, “sod this, it’s too cold out here,” and walked off to the pub.

 

Maybe aliens landed, said “Take us to your leader,” and when the snowman didn’t answer, they zapped him with their ray guns.

 

You can read the whole absurd tale at: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-kent-11908583

 

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