Sunday 1st February

Pinch and a punch and all that bollocks.

Don't you just hate it when you want to give someone money and they don't seem to want to take it.
I mean, I am already giving them money every month, but I want to give them more.
But only in return for something.

My better half told me not to, told me they were shit, told me their customer services was crap.
I should have listened to her.

She ain't called the better half for nowt.

Anyhoo, I'm talking about Vodafone, the shower of shite.
I was eligible for an upgrade so I went to the shop in town.
I really fucking hate going to town cause the lifts in the car park take about half a bastard hour to arrive and then by the time they do arrive so have around thirty other people who all need the lift.

So you have to stand there for 30 minutes, getting agitated, and then you have to squeeze into a little metal box that groans down the one floor to the middle of Debenhams.

You might wonder why I don't just take the stairs.
"Run down the stairs you lazy cunt", I hear you shout, "it's only one floor."
Well I can't, cause the bright bastards in the shopping centre have shut them off, made them emergency stairs only.

So, after getting all agitated waiting for the lift, and then getting all sweaty in the lift with 36 other people, I finally get to the Vodafone shop, choose the new sparkly funky shiny handset I want and go to one of the desks.

All going ok so far, the assistant gets the handset, apologises as they only have it in black (do I look like I want a white fucking phone?) and starts to take my details.

This is where it starts to go wrong for the fuckwits that are Vodafone.
I don't mean the woman in the shop, she was ok, friendly enough and she was only doing as the computer said. And in this case, the computer said "no".

Why? Why? Because I have the phone on a business account, registered to a limited business at that.
This means, obviously, that I cannot get an upgrade in the shop, I have to do it on-line or call customer services.

Well fuck calling anyone, I'll be on hold for 3 fucking hours listening to shitty music and a message telling my how important my call is.
I know it's important, that's why I made it.
It ain't that fucking important to you though Vodafone, is it, otherwise you would answer.

So I go on-line.

"You are wasting your time," the better half tells me, "their customer service is shite"

I went on line on 24th January and, almost immediately, got a reply.

HA! Ha ha! Shite customer service eh, a reply almost immediately. How is that shite customer service?

Well it was. It was shite.

It was an automated email reply from a 'do not reply' address telling me that my enquiry had been received, was very important and would be passed onto the customer service team. I was to expect a reply in 48hrs.

Two things, Vodafone, two things.

Firstly, who the fuck did I send the email to in the first place if you are forwarding it onto the customer service team? Why not just give me the email address of the customer service team in the first place?

Secondly, where is my reply, you cunts.
Saturday 24th January to Sunday 1st February is a little longer than 48hrs, even if you take out the weekends, which I shouldn't have to do as your shops open at weekends.

So it's been over a week and you haven't replied, even though you claim my business is important to you.
Not important enough to let me get a better handset and pay you more money than I already do though, eh.

Hurry up and get in touch, ya bastards, so I can cancel my contract and go with EE, or O2, or someone.

Saturday 31st January

‎Short but sweet. 

Just watched the advert for some Warburton bread product that is supposed to help you lose weight. 

You fucking well walked around for the entire length of the advert without taking a bite of your sarnie you wanker, so you're gonna lose weight if you don't eat owt aren't you, ya cunt.................

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

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. 

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

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.

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

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.............

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

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. 

Sent from my BlackBerry 10 smartphone.

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.............