Posts Tagged ‘rant!’

Foot ‘in’ Mouth is just as much a disease as Ebola, being Ginger or AIDS; it even sounds like a disease. There are other common characteristics prevalent across these three ailments, there is no cure, prognosis is never rosy and you can catch it from unprotected sex with monkeys (allegedly)

I can confirm I am a carrier of foot in mouth and have been so afflicted for many years, I don’t know if I caught it from having sex with a primate but the wife doesn’t have it so I don’t think so. Maybe I caught it from a public toilet seat; I really must get out of the habit of licking them.

Generally I can control the symptoms with judicious application of ‘shutting the fuck up’ although when I forget to take my tablets the repercussions can be severe. My wife pointed me to another herbal cure on the market ‘thinking before you speak’ but I just can’t seem to get on with it, all that happens if I take it is that I come out in hives and get migraines. Warning – sufferers of FiM should not drink alcohol, it only exaggerates symptoms and can lead to the far more serious ‘feet in mouth up to the knee’ syndrome.

In case you were wondering if you were a carrier let me describe several symptomatic incidents, it’s rather like Tourettes I suppose but generally without the pithy one liners and light hearted mockery.

Meeting a vague acquaintance from many years ago in the waiting room of the doctors, I was there to have a monkey bite treated. After striking up a ‘hi, how are you, long time no see’ conversation I congratulated her on her pregnancy and enquired as to how far gone she was and here is where my FiM kicked in, she wasn’t pregnant she was just very fat….. Not my fault really and I think she should have been blaming Mr Kipling not crying and shouting abuse at me!

FiM as many of you will know is technology savvy bug, take the following example which I have previously covered under another guise. I was chatting to Kenneth on our MSN style chat application. Instead of sending Kenneth a message saying ‘Gary(th) is a massive tool and is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot’ my illness made me send the message to Gary(th) instead. Cue much wailing and tearing of hair and that was just Kenneth laughing hysterically when I told him what had happened.

Many years ago calling a girlfriend by the wrong name, yep, I actually did it! Luckily we weren’t playing horizontal gymnastics at the time but we were in a restaurant enjoying dinner, well I say we were enjoying dinner but post FiM outbreak the mood at the table was more psycho than bistro. Word to the wise, either only date women with the same name or fall back on the old cockney pastime of calling everyone ‘love’

Having a not so young lady ask you for your honest opinion on a dress she was wearing at a soiree. Clearly a non FiM sufferer would have known the correct response to this would have been banal platitudes accompanied by much head nodding and arm patting not ’what Marquee did you steal that off?’ The only good news was that her husband managed to loudly snort champagne whilst laughing and I managed to exit stage left before she could turn her anger from him. Yes, I had been drinking and yes later in the evening I did end up in a ceremonial fish pond wearing nothing but a top hat.

I could go on with many more personal examples of how suffers of FiM are afflicted but I won’t. I will just leave you with this reminder – next time someone says or does something so embarrassing that you don’t know whether to laugh uncontrollably or bite through a major vein and end it all remember, it might not be there fault it might be FiM……on the other hand of course they might just be a massive twat.

By the way famous suffers of FiM include George Bush, Adolf Hitler, the other George Bush, most football commentators and that one eyed ex prime minister.

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It’s rather disheartening for me to find after a good few months of not posting anything to this blog that during the time I haven’t added anything new the numbers of my readers has inexplicably doubled!
I suppose I find myself in good company, Vinnie Van Gough, Van Gof or Van Hoof however you want to say it would probably be lending me his ear over a pint of absinthe, after all he too wasn’t appreciated in his lifetime or even his lunch time.
At this point I’d like to reassure my readers that I am neither dead nor insane or so the voices tell me, of course by the time you read this that status may have changed. Just keep watching Sky ‘breaking news’

That leads me on to next perplexing conundrum – who does actually read this stuff?


Does my boss? I don’t think so, not unless there is an internet connection in his colon which after all is where his head seems to be most of the day. If you are reading this and you know who I am don’t expect me to come quietly, I have a stapler and I am not afraid to use it!

Does my Mum? Yes she does, hi Mum. Actually she doesn’t. Mum thinks the internet is used for fishing and webs are for spiders. I think the internet is for porn and the web is for, well, more porn. Let’s hope we don’t meet in a chat room which luckily is highly unlikely as a chat room is something they have at old people’s homes for the Grannies to watch television and play pass the colostomy bag.

Is it more of my Chechen friends from last year? Somehow I doubt it, if it is they happy Jihad guys, spread the word and thanks for all your support. Of course if it is my beardy friends then I get double bubble because I can include the people who follow this lot around the internet and kick down doors in the middle of the night. Please note I have a new front door, if you are going to pop round for tea and a spot of interrogation let me know and I’ll leave the keys under the flower pot.

So who are you, where are you and are you willing to donate large amount of cash to my ‘lifestyle’ fund? My Uncle the Nigerian General would be very interested to hear from you and for a modest finder’s fee I can put you in touch, THIS IS NOT A SCAM.

Anyone that replies saying something nice will be added to a free prize draw – prize to be donated by my Chechen fan club.

Over (the hill) and Out.

PostScript – Yes I know the ‘Chechen’ bloke is actually a British copper but I liked the picture…..alright?

We have a shop on site; I might have mentioned it before. Frankly it’s to customers what British Petroleum is to coastal conservation.

Ostensibly it is a hybrid of newsagent, coffee shop, dry cleaners and an undertaker, all rolled into one not very handy one stop shop for all your consumer needs, assuming you don’t need a bargain or anything vaguely good…

If you have a mental picture of a bustling corner style shop packed to the rafters with all manner of wondrous items then think again. It more resembles one of those pictures you see of shops in Russia – shelves empty apart from the odd lonely non descript tin of mystery meat and staff who look like they were trained by the KGB and are about as happy to see you as they would be an outbreak of cholera. I think most of them were extras in Shaun of the Dead and not only have they forgotten to have their ghoulish make up removed but they are always in character, impressive.

As per my last missive you’ll be aware that I currently have a heightened awareness for ludicrous posters on notice boards, and this week they seem to be multiplying quicker than Albanians at a free range goat farm. One of my new favourites is the ‘Meal Deal’ marketing that’s sprung up everywhere near the little shop of horrors. For the princely sum of £4.29 you can be the proud new owner of a soggy pre packed sandwich and some crisps – round that up to £4.99 and you can throw in an apple or an orange, since when is spending 70p on an apple any sort of deal! More to the point, guess how much the shop charge if you just fancied just purchasing one of your five a day, yep, its 70p.

Meal………Nutritionally debatable but I’ll concede the point

Deal ……..A Provincial town in Kent which is about as close as this laminated piece of fiction gets!

One of the other oddities of the place is that in these times of economic drought they do not like being busy, so much so that they had an email sent round to the whole battery farm sternly admonishing staff to stay away during busy periods. For those of you interested, their published busy periods apparently are from eight in the morning till one in the afternoon and then three in after afternoon till they close at six, effectively giving us 2 hours to buy stuff, the 2 hours during which they are either stock taking, sleeping, masturbating into the latte machine or a combination of the three. Word from the wise, stay away from the Latte, it tasks kinda peppery.

A McDonald’s style express queue has also been introduced to ‘enhance the consumer experience’ – their words not mine. The express queue by the way is the same as the old queue just with a new shiny sign above it. What I find ironic is that you actually have to wait longer because the lemmings from downstairs seem to think that even if the express till is more crowded than freebie night at the local knocking shop, it it’ll still be quicker that the empty one manned by the bored looking spotty kid at the back, it does say it’s faster after all so it must be…….. for the Love of God, find them a cliff, point the sign towards it and do the world a favour.

Speaking of the lemmings downstairs, nothing is more likely to send me into an apoplectic spiral of rage than some total dullard mincing around in front of me with a jury rigged tea-tray made from the lid of a cardboard box and an order for 15 drinks they are never possibly going to remember, all paid for separately of course. If you want a cup of tea get off your fat arse and go and get one, don’t send the office retard.

All in all I’d rather lube up and enter Mr T than have to shop there but it’s the only thing on offer and as we all know beggars can’t be choosers. Begging isn’t an option here since they off shored the bloke who used to sit by the car park entrance with his cute dog (the dog was not off shored – word is there is a very good reason the Korean cleaners bought up all the beef soup in the canteen that week) anyways, as I see it that only leaves one choice.

……and everyone knows it’s not gay if it’s with a member of the original A Team


The notice boards in the corridors here are used as some sort of Orwellian method of brain washing and for communicating propaganda to the masses. Anyone stupid enough to stop and read them will either immediately fall into a bullshit induced coma, or in rare cases assume the identity of a chicken and have to be talked down from the bike shed roof. This has always been the case and I would imagine will always continue to be so until the end of time or total financial Armageddon, which ever comes first. This topic has so far slipped below my blogging radar because I try my best to totally ignore it, if I can possibly help it, but it’s fast getting to the point where their campaign of puerile patronisation and pedantry is even beginning to burn through my shield of cynicism and world weariness.

Usually I embellish these diatribes slightly to try and make my banal work existence seem interesting but I am going to let the following announcements stand up and speak for themselves – remember reader, someone out there gets paid for creating these genius Goebbelsesqe pieces of propaganda gold!

Exhibit A – A poster showing an elephant with 5 legs emblazoned with the question ‘What do you see?’

Well, I see a 5 legged elephant the same as anyone else from planet earth who looks at it. I suppose if I stood and stared long enough maybe a metamorphosis into something useful would occur, maybe like a 4 legged elephant. The worst thing about this is it’s supposed to be something to do with disabled people in the workplace, personally if I were down on my personal quota of 4 limbs a poster showing an animal with an extra one could be construed as rubbing salt into the stump!

Exhibit B – An order from the third directorate, thought Police.

The football world cup was somewhat of a damp squib (which is an excellent description of Wayne Rooney) but instead of using the opportunity to improve staff cohesion and morale by giving into the inevitable and allowing staff to watch / listen / swear at the football, it was decided to send around a very tersely worded email to the effect of anyone caught even thinking about football would be taken out into the car park and personally introduced to three very real and very hungry lions. The email, which I will not be quoting because it would give away my employer and more importantly because it was a crime against grammatical sentence structure, essentially encouraged all staff to only watch world cup football games using the facilities provided by the company, the rub…… there were no facilities provided by the company – genius!

Exhibit C – Random emails about people I don’t care about nor will ever meet. If my career was any more stagnant I’d appear on maps as a pond so I do not appreciate this newly emerging trend of mailing every man, his dog and his dogs vet to congratulate some arse kissing salesman in the Guatemalan office and laud his pointless accomplishments to all and sundry. Frankly it’s the corporate version of spam although if I am totally honest I have far more use for penis enlargement creams and cheap Prozac than I will ever have for Juan and his impressive quarterly sales figures! Bottom line is no one apart from Juan and his mum could give a shit.

Exhibit D – Begging Letters
Some genius somewhere upstairs has decided that sending what amounts to begging letters to the staff extolling them to apply for current vacancies and using such words as ‘exciting’ ‘talent’ and ‘career’ and the like is a good idea.

Its not….

We all already work here, we know what its like and those ‘new opportunities’ have only arisen because the bloke sat next to you has been made redundant. It’s rather like a poultry farmer asking his chickens if they’d like to apply to be a dipper instead of a Kiev!

Exhibit E – Faux concern about our health and well being.

We are slave labour, that’s fine and we accept the situation. Without slave labour the Egyptians could never have built the pyramids which just goes to show you they need us as much as we need them. They don’t make us wear stripy pyjamas and nor do they insist your id number is tattooed on your forearm (yet). But even so everyone here knows someone who has cracked under the relentless pressure and ended up being forcibly moved from the battery farm to the funny farm.
Emails extolling the virtues of work life balance and telling us that smoking is bad and lettuce is good are constantly arriving in my inbox. Filled with twee nonsense such as ‘invest in yourself and your health, we think you are worth it!’ might ring more true if they hadn’t closed the gym and made it into offices and didn’t insist on phoning me day and night to ask puerile questions instead of letting me spend quality down time with the internet and a take away!

For years then I have managed to let this wash over me, on the Moon there is the sea of tranquillity, sounds nice, here what washes over me is the antithesis of that, lets call it the sea of idiocy…..either way I need some arm bands because I can feel myself going under – I thought drowning was supposed to be peaceful!


In the interests of fostering discourse, generating measured debate and hopefully getting the old synapses popping I want you to ponder on the following question;

‘Do you by dint of your social, educational and work place experiences become a twat or are you born that way?’

In my job I interact on a daily basis with all sorts of people from all walks of life and I like to consider myself to be something of a student of human nature. The good, the bad and most definitely the ugly have all at some point or another crossed my path but fat, thin or sporting a definite face for radio there is one thing that many seem to have in common and you might have guessed it – they are twats.
My father once told me that people use swearing to make their points only do so because they have a fucking shit vocabulary, and I do try to keep that in mind when I write this stuff but sometimes only one word or phrase fits and after much soul and thesaurus searching, twat was the only word that seemed to fit this merry bunch of miscreants.

Twat – ‘Someone who is a stupid incompetent fool, a despicable person, used as a term of contempt and hostility’ (Definition courtesy of me)

Take a moment and close you eyes, let yourself relax and let your brain wander to its happy place. Now visualise the word ‘twat’ and you’ll soon start seeing their faces parade through your minds eye like a who’s who of vindictive misery – surprised at how many your subconscious fits into that bracket? You shouldn’t be, they are everywhere. I am not interested in the numbers though, I am more interested in what has made them the way they are, how do these people turn out differently to us, at which crossroads do they turn away from ‘normal’ and tread down the well worn path to Twatsville?
I personally don’t think you pop out of the womb or in the case of Ginger Bernard the test tube this way, and I don’t think your parents make a conscious decision to bring you up as such a loathsome creature, so it stands to reason that the metamorphosis must occur at school or in the work place.
To me there is an undeniable correlation between the office twat and those who were bullied at school. In the old days they were shipped off straight from boarding school to the Navy where they could hound the French to their black hearts content, but now they seem to be leaking into all facets of society. For example, I am positive my boss had his head flushed down the bog and ‘kick me’ notes stuck to his back on a regular basis and now I have to pay the price for his miserable but thoroughly deserved formative years.
Martinets throughout history have been bullied at school and then as soon as these people get any sort of responsibility or power the beast is unleashed and the price is paid by the innocent as well as the guilty. Hitler had his pencil case stolen by the Jewish kids, the librarians at his school used to hold down Pol Pot and use their spectacles as magnifying glasses to burn him on the nipples till his little creased face puckered in agony and from the photos I have seen he seems to have stayed that way.
I feel then that I have satisfactorily answered my original question, its nurture that creates these horrors and then it’s their own festering nature that turns their lives into a self fulfilling prophecy. But now that’s clear what can we do with them?
Aside from lobbying for a national ‘throw stuff at the twat’ day, and no before you say it St Andrews day does not count…. really…. I can’t see what else we can do, aside from maybe a pre-emptive cull of anyone who applies to be on the Apprentice or wants to work in Insurance.
On that cheery note I’ll bit you all adieu and see you in a few weeks – I am off on holiday!


Contrary to general opinion most people that work here are generally pretty skint, Sara Beetroot who sits across from me actually keeps a spreadsheet to monitor her daily in and out goings (money, not the other sort) and if things fall in the red she pleads poverty and a bad foot and forces me to buy her tea and food. Bearing this all in mind you might be unsurprised to realise that it’s not uncommon for staff here to augment their income using other means.
There are those who choose to make jewellery from bits of old rabbit hutch and hawk them on e-bay as examples of original San bushman shaman regalia. There are those who choose to give massages with or without happy endings behind the bike sheds (yes we do have bike sheds, yes you can get behind them, no there is generally no happy ending) and there are those who take an altogether more perilous route and open up their homes to foreign students.

They say an Englishman’s home is his castle which in my case is quite accurate. My house is falling down, I have birds nesting in the ruined chimney and my porch bears a frightening resemblance to a drawbridge that has been ravaged by a marauding band of Vikings. Take all that into account though and I can heave a huge sigh of relief that what I do not have is a lost fourteen year old Columbian boy in national dress wandering round at night looking for the toilet!
The thought of having my house invaded by homesick foreign teenagers makes me want to pull my teeth out…….through my arse! Teenagers are rather like the Albanians, lazy, surly and smelly with random mood and opinion swings and a penchant for never changing their socks. Imagine all that coupled with an inability to speak our language and the need to clean up after them and make their breakfast and dinner everyday and you are starting to see how the marauding Vikings are looking like the more attractive option, not that I find blonde beardy men in armour and pointy helmets arousing I’d like to add!

So anyway I have decided to come up with some fun uses for foreign students, aside from the money of course that could make their stay with you constructive and enjoyable, for you at least.

Dress them up and fight them – for example if you have a Spaniard and a Russian staying (they tend to split up nationalities by the way) you could dress the Ivan as a bull and give Pedro a cape and some skewers, hours of fun! Bored with that then you can play Chechen insurgents…. All you need is a fur hat for each of them, some sharpened spoons and a media blackout. You could always ask for specific nationalities for a specific historical event, do you have a hankering to re-enact the battle of Stalingrad? Simply ask for a German (or Hungarian) and a Russian …..simples……

Teach them the wrong words for things – They are here to learn and learn they shall, its just funnier if you teach them that the name for a kettle is ‘Darth Vader’ and the way to ask someone the time is to say ‘please, my buttocks hurt, do you have any margarine?’

Hire them out – no, NOT for that! You could hire them out to your friends and relatives as cleaners, chimney sweeps or to play the parts of foreign child sized chess set pieces at garden parties.

Play Mind Games – hide fake body parts in the fridge and a chainsaw behind the sofa. Measure them up with a measuring tape when they arrive and start to build a coffin in the lounge. After the first day when they arrive back from school dress up as a pirate and pretend you have no idea who they are. You are only constrained by your imagination and how quickly the police can find someone to translate the 999 call and send a car round.

When I started writing this I was dead against opening my doors to students and wanted to poke fun at those who do, but the more I think about it the more uses I can find for them and the more I am warming to the idea of being paid to have a pet that I can give back when I get bored. The only sticking point, not sure Mrs. D will have the same outlook as me.


There are mornings when it’s just impossible to get out of bed, the alarm has gone off and you should be in the bathroom scraping polar bear fur from your teeth and contemplating another day of drudgery in the orifice, instead all you can do is summon just enough energy to lay there like Christopher Reeves staring up at a horse’s arse wondering why he can’t feel his feet. It happens to the best of us, not being paralysed in a fall from a horse which is less common and moderately more annoying I am of course referring to that extreme lethargy known as cant-be-arsed-itus
Whilst nine times out of ten we soldier on, claw our way from beneath the duvet and stagger on regardless there are times when it’s simply too much and the only thing to do is text in a lame excuse to your manager, turn over your pillow to hide the claggy cold patch of dribble and re-enter the land of nod, safe in the knowledge that no suspicions will be aroused and your secret will be safe.
Nearly every one of us has at some point made up a reason to be late to school or work (dentists appointment, pets circumcision, car won’t start) or to not come in at all (dentists appointment, own circumcision, car on fire with you trapped in it) and nearly all of us know when our colleagues are attempting to try and pull them wool, the art to this, and it is an art, is think big and brazen and I don’t mean Dawn French!
I have compared below some of the usual excuse suspects and replaced them with more interesting, outlandish and let’s face it eminently more believable alternatives, besides if you are going to get a reprimand and possibly end up unemployed it might as well be for something original!

‘I don’t feel well and have hardly slept’ – ‘My neighbour works at Huntingdon life sciences, his pet Macao escaped and bit me and now I am exhibiting all the early symptoms associated with a military grade small pox infection, If you own a biohazard suit I suggest you put it on.

‘My car won’t start’ – ‘3 Middle Eastern gentlemen have been seen in the vicinity of my vehicle acting suspiciously and because of my old job with the Government (I can’t talk about it) I have had to call out the bomb squad and evacuate all the houses in my street. Don’t expect me to be in contact, all mobile phones signals are about to be jammed to prevent remote detonation. If anyone with a tan comes around work looking for me you have permission to stab then in the ears with a pencil.

‘My random relative has died’ – ‘My paternal grandfather has been secretly extradited from his holiday home in Argentina to Israel to answer to a charge of mass genocide. It’s all a case of mistaken identity but as my likeness to a young Grandpappy Heinrich is apparently uncanny I have been asked to dress up as a Waffen SS Major and have a black and white photo taken with some skinny models in pyjamas for some stuffy old judge to look at. I’ll be back once the next UN War crimes tribunal has met and sorted out the confusion.

‘I have an emergency dentist appointment’ – ‘my psychiatrist has changed my lithium dose to a new miracle drug and it’s turned the voices angry. I am afraid that if I leave the house then they will have free reign and the world will end in a blaze of homemade explosive glory. Apparently the side effects wear off in five days but until then if you see me please call the police, the coastguard and the nearest vet.

Of course once your coup de main has been achieved it is advisable to maintain the illusion until you are ready to reappear. It’s no good telling your boss you have Beri Beri and have been quarantined for a week to then be spotted out that night at a local hostelry several sheets to the wind! Note: In this case you have several choices; 1) pretend you have an identical twin 2) try to convince people that alcohol is known to have rejuvenative qualities for those suffering from Beri Beri or 3) lure whomever has spotted you out to the car park under a pretence and then…. Well ok maybe that’s going a bit far.

It would have been easy to have compiled a list of the best excuses for non arrival at work but it’s already been done numerous times on the interweb so instead I thought I’d share the top REAL, yes all these are real! excuses I have either used or heard first hand.

‘On my way to work today I was chased and attacked by a pack of wild dogs’ – I know I know but its true! The unlucky individual ended up with cuts, bruises and a lost ball and had to have several days recuperating. That’ll be the last time he comes to work dressed as Scooby Doo.

‘I have been bitten by a weird escaped venomous insect and my breathing is getting shallow, I am on my way to hospital now’ – That unfortunately was me….. Its always disconcerting when the nurse calls the doctor who calls the specialist who calls the cleaner who asks the question;

‘Have you come into contact with any highly venomous tropical insects recently?’ Like I wouldn’t have mentioned it!!!

They pumped me full of antihistamine and I never found out what it was that attacked me and left the fang marks on my arm but I slept in a mosquito net for weeks.

‘I met a girl in the pub last night, we came back to mine and we are going to spend the day in bed’ – Not me unfortunately…… the gentleman in question had used up all his holiday and obviously felt that honestly was the best policy. It was and the term ‘duvet day’ was never used in the same way ever again.

‘I am trapped in my house because a local film star has died and the city is rioting, if I leave bandits might beat me to death’ – Clearly my company has an office in Bradford! This one was good for a whole week of non work. I wish they did that here every time some B list nobody died, at least Jade’s life would have had some sort of purpose then.

On that note I have warbled on enough, besides I have to leave work early today, my dog has a headache and needs to be kept under close observation in case he explodes.