Saturday, 24 January 2015

Saturday 24th January 2014

How to Park Like a Complete Wanker
Well I'm sat sitting here on a Saturday night watching shite on the telly. 
Total and utter shite. I really don't know why I'm watching it. 

The shitty fucking shite programme in question is "Take Me Out" and, whilst normally crap, is even more so tonight due to the fact that there is a 'posh' bloke on it called Archie. 

I used to be called Archie, many years ago. Allegedly due to the fact that I looked like Archie from Emmerdale Farm. 

This was back in the day before they changed the name of it from Emmerdale Farm to Emmerdale. 
They changed it to make it more appealing to non-farmers apparently. 

And Archie, from Emmerdale Farm was a lot cooler than Archie from Take Me Out. 

As an aside, I used to go out with a girl called Emma Dale when I was younger, so there's a connection too. 




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Friday, 23 January 2015

Friday 23rd January 2014

‎I was on the DLR one day last week, in fact I was on the DLR four days last week and it was this week (or this last week) so I'll start again. 

When I was on the DLR this ‎week just gone, there was this bloke standing near me. 
Big tall bloke he was, probably about six foot five, however that's irrelevant so I'll not mention it, and he was messing about on his phone. So engrossed he was that every time the train pulled away he nearly fell over. In fact, every time the ‎train braked he nearly fell over. Same thing happened when the train went round a corner. Or over a bump. He nearly fell over a lot. He was like a drunkard, a right drunken bum. All he had to do was hold onto one of the fucking handles, but no; he had to mess with his phone. 

It made me wonder what was so friggin important that he couldn't bear to stop using his phone with two hands. Important work related emails maybe (he was dressed like he had an office job), illicit text messages to a secret slutty lover perchance, keeping contact with estranged kids?

No. The fucking wanker was playing American Football. Not even proper football but the yank version where they go out all padded up like pubescent teenage girls on a first date. 

Twat nearly took the whole carriage out with his indiscriminate lurching. 

I was glad to get off intact.

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Wednesday, 14 January 2015

Wednesday 14th January 2015

Why me?

Just got on the train at King's Cross, going to Doncaster, and the fattest bloke you could imagine is in the seat next to me. 
Not only is his right thigh oozing onto my seat, I cannot put the central armrest down as his arms are too flabby to fit in his own space. 

I did think, as I walked toward the train before I boarded, that the fucking thing was listing. 
I hope we don't have too many left hand bends to go round. 

Not only that, but he hasn't stopped talking on his phone yet. 

And, for fucks sake, he is going to Doncaster. 

‎Not surprisingly, he is looking at South American Steakhouse (La Vaca, currently) on his laptop. 

I bet they fucking dread it when they see his considerable bulk lumbering along the pavement toward them. 
I can just imagine the panic, trying to turn all the signs to 'Closed' before he enters and eats them bastard dry. 

‎The bloke across the aisle had his music on so loud you could probably hear it whilst reading this if it hadn't been for the ticket inspector woman telling him to turn it down. 
He's too old for "My Sex is on Fire" anyhoo. 

And now my tablet won't play videos. 
Could train travel get any bastard worse?

At least the woman opposite has just finished her sudoko. 

Nothing for it, I'll have to put some King Kurt on.............



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Monday, 12 January 2015

Monday 12th January 2015

‎Watching some football over the weekend and it made me realise again what a miserable life these ‎Premier League footballers have, poor souls. 

The 'expert pundits' made a few references to the number of games coming up over the next few weeks. 

I know I have blathered on about this in the past but hey, here we go again. 

Apparently some of the teams have to play 21 games in 11 weeks, which of course equates to an average of just under two games per week. 
Don't forget that these games they play last all of 90 minutes so it's a hard slog. 

And they get paid a pittance to do it. 

You gotta feel for the fuckers, 180 minutes of 'work' a week and sometimes they only get three days rest in between each hour and a half's exertions. 

Poor poor bastards, all for thousands of pounds a week. Or tens of thousands, or hundreds of thousands in some cases.

You may not realise it, but 21 games over 11 weeks adds up substantially. 
It's about 31.5 hours of work. 
More, if you add on added on time, of which there is often about ten minutes per week. 
All for a few (mostly more than a few) grand a week. 

Poor, over-worked fuckers. They must be stressed right out. 

This morning I left home at just after four o'clock.
In the morning. 
I drove 165 miles and then worked from seven o'clock until twenty past six o'clock. 

Tomorrow, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I will get to work at seven thirty o'clock and work to around six or seven o'clock. 
Except Friday, when I will leave work at around three to drive the 165 miles home.

I'll do that for 48 weeks of the year, some weeks more.

That equates to about lots more than the poor football players and I get considerably less in a year‎ than most (if not all) of them get in a week, and they get the summer off. 

But do I want you to feel sorry for me?
Do I fuck as like. 

Just wanted to get it off me chest. 

I had a bad experience with my contact lenses and haven't worn them for over a week, but I'm bored writing about them so that'll have to wait. 

Just go about your business, but spare a thought for the poor football players of this world. 




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Sunday, 11 January 2015

Sunday 11th January 2015

Well I never said I would do one everyday, did I?!?

I managed to get the lenses out eventually.
If you don't know what I'm on about, look back through the previous posts, all will become clear.
Clearer than it looks when I am putting those shitty bits of plastic in my eye.

That's one of the problems you see, I have to wear glasses or contact lenses to be able to see properly.
When I am actually trying to put the fucking things in my eyes I am wearing neither glasses nor lenses until the moment I get them in.
Ergo, I cannot see a fuck.

Anyhoo, once I got them out, I had to put them back in again, to make sure I wasn't just a jammy bastard first time I suppose..

That wasn't so bad, but once I got them in guess what I had to do?
Yup, take the fuckers back out.

I think I said earlier, I was having a 45 minute appointment.
Maybe I didn't, so maybe I'd better tell you again, or if I haven't then I suppose I'm not telling you again, I'm telling you for the first time.
Either way, I was having a 45 minute appointment.

That's three quarters of an hour.

Three quarters of an hour turns out to be not long enough for me to get two poxy little pieces of flexible plastic into my eyes, take em out, push them back in and then extract them again.

I came out of the fucking opticians like I wake up on a Saturday, eyes all bloodshot.
The worse thing was having to get the optician to take the bastards out for me.

I just watched the darts final.
Now I aint a huge fan of the darts, but it was quite exciting.
£100,000 was the first prize. A hundred grand.
My missus reckoned that wasn't very much. I disagreed, stating that I wouldn't mind it for chucking a few mini arrows.
She said she meant that compared to other sports then it wasn't much.
It's still a lot, other sports just get too much.
That's not just my opinion, it's fact.

So I had to go back to the opticians the following week (and that's proper use of the word so, not just some poncy fucking americanism (apologies to my american friends, I must say ever-so sincerly))

This time I managed to get em in and get em out. Fuck knows how I did it, but I did.
That means I am now allowed to wear them unsupervised.
It's a bit like an initiation, but what made me laugh was that none of the assistants, or the optician, wore lenses. They all wore glasses.

That should have told me something.

I never though this would be a multi-parter (lenses, I mean) but it's turning out to be.

Gotta go, it's time for bed.............

Friday, 9 January 2015

Friday 9th January 2015

‎So, why the fuck do people start every fucking sentence with the word so. 

I have recently been to Specsavers. 
Took me a while to find it (ba boom, tish) but once I did I got a trial for contact lenses. 

So, I went back after a week for my training session where they tell you how to push the plastic fuckers into your eyeballs and then how to scrape them off again and then how to wash the fiddly bendy see-through bastard discs of Satan‎ in a 45 minute session. 

Well, that's what they are supposed to do. 

So, I was shown how to put them in and, after holding my finger very close to my eye I had a go. 
The lens ended up in my eyelashes, on the table, stuck to the end of my finger, but eventually I got them in. 

Then, I had to take them out. 

This basically involves holding your eye lids open whilst stroking you eyeball.

More later...............

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Thursday, 8 January 2015

Thursday 8th January 2015

‎Well it's a Thursday already and I'm on the train heading into London. 

It only seems like yesterday that I was on the train heading home. Probably because it was. 

When you get on a train and the journey is going to last from 0623hrs until 0812hrs, one thing you don't want is for two pricks to get on at Grantham and talk about Chicken and Mushroom pies for rest of the bastard trip. 

I couldn't really give a fuck if it caused consternation at Marks & Spencer, nor do I care if some twat in the office called James has a better phone than you. 

‎Who the fuck invented contact lenses?
Who the fuck thought to themselves, "I'm weary of these cumbersome spectacles resting on my nose, I shall devise some small pieces of plastic to push into my eyes". 
Fucking things. 

Oh, and it ain't hard to put your phone into "vibrate only" mode either. It's on the bastard table in front of you and it lights up every time something happens.  
I don't need to hear your fucking annoying tone everytime you get a LinkedIn notification. 

How do you make a Mushroom Risotto 'contemporary'?

Fucked if I know, but that's what they are talking about now. Something to do with Pecorino. 
One of them reminds me a little of that twat Ricky Gervais, both in looks and annoyingness. 

Maybe it is him, this could be a sketch from one of his shitty shows and it's just as unfunny. 
Maybe it's being filmed right now. 

There would be some irony there, me filmed in the background of a crappy Ricky Gervais shitty show blogging about how shit Ricky Gervais' shows are. 

More on contact lenses later, maybe............. 



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