Well, the City wasn't very busy today! Clearly, since I restarted blogification, many are happy to remain at home, pouring over my words of wisdom, and once again worshipping me as a deity who should be on a diet.
But on the plus side, the lack of a pushing and pressing pack of people allowed perusal of presents to purchase for Pretties to celebrate their spawning*. This led to another of them money-making conspiracies. I took my products to the serving wench on the counter, and was offered Giftwrapping Service For Just £1!!
Wow -saves me effin' and jeffin' trying to bundle up a box in pretty paper covered in Jacob Black to impress the Birthdate Princess! Cheap at twice the price!** Go for it!!
And just what goes this exclusive giftwrapping service deliver?
Bunging it in a box, rather than bunging my breakables into a bag!
So, Miss Shellfstacker takes the product out of the box, and makes it look all Shiny and presentable on the shelf. Then, when gullible ole me comes along, charge him extra to put it back in the box! She didn't half get my dander up! Athough, being English, I remained politely quiet, with the Pretty unaware of my uprisen dander.
Good job I didn't buy them plates I was after, coz I wouldn't need them giftwrapping, and she'd've cast my crockery into a carrier bag like a drunken Greek dancer after a meal who gives not a toss for EU Health & Safety". And then I'd've had to eat my tea on shards of ceramic platery.
* Note for new blog readers - you do not have a Birthday, as it changes every year. However, your Birthdate doesn't. For example, It can't be your Birthday on Sunday, because your Birthday next year will be on Tuesday. So, unlike the Squid, the Birthday is incorrect! However, 13th March next year is still 13th March, and therefore your Birthdate is correct.
** Now, your average Gormster when seeing a bargain, will often proclaim "ooooh! Cheap at half the price!". 'course it's cheap at half the price, you blithering twat! It's half the price! That's what half price is - cheaper than full price! It can never be anything other than cheap at half the price, because it's 50% less than the full price!
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Doors! (hungh!) What are they good for…
I’m sure you are all aware of porticos and their functionality. They are the bits of wall that allow ingress or egress by way of a large gap filled with a barrier that moves once pressure is applied to it, or tugged upon.
Take your average Mall entrance - a multitude of doors, providing several exit/entrance points. Some of these doors even swing both ways, like bi-sexual barriers. For those in Davrosmobiles, there is a panel you can ‘happy slap’, and the door will open automatically!
On the face of it… not that difficult an obstacle to overcome.
But wait! Like something out of George A. Romero movie, the shambolic shuffling shoppers approach the doors. Now, a Normal Person would go up to a door, open and it, and walk through. Alas, this is a concept beyond modern folk.
First, they will gather at the one currently open door that someone had the brains to open, and wait patiently to file through it. Unfortunately, modern folk have lost the ability to queue*, and therefore mass around the door, thus blocking the other doors. When suddenly, there is anger – one of the doors they’re blocking has opened! Right into them and pushing them back! The anger turns into wonderous amazement – another portal has opened! And the throng now diverts into two lumbering groups (as it still hasn’t dawned on the braindead that they can open another door themselves).
And what do they do the second they pass through? Immediately stop, as if there is an invisible barrier right outside the doorway, for it seems essential that having waited to get through that one opening, that’s it’s only fair to block the way through by searching in your handbag, or pondering where to go next, or have a row with the Other Half.
But what if NO door is open? What then?
Well, this is such an unsolvable conundrum, that when faced with a bank of unopened doors, the only solution is to freeze near to where you think a possible door may be opened. To cover the embarassement, it is de rigeur to fumble about in a bag, and when a door opens, take your chances! Accepted practice is to be laden with shopping with your arm still rummaging in a bag, affecting a Quasimodoesque lumbering skippety run to catch the door with your shoulder to get through before it closes.
Or course, some of these gormsters think of themselves as chivalrous, but turn out to be cretinous. For some will be polite enough to hold the door open for someone… but naturally, given their ineptitude in the skill of actually opening a door, the concept of holding a door open for a Pretty falls equally afoul of their limited intelligence. For rather than standing by the door and holding it open, they will often stand opposite the door, holding the door open with their arm across the opening, thus preventing passage. The Solution? After a bit of awkwardness re unable to pass through (or unwillingness to duck under) some odious oily oik’s BO stenched ‘pits, shove the door wider, allow Pretty #1 to pass, catch the door as it swings past, shove it open again, allow Pretty #2 to pass, then dive out before it closes (and before the husband of bf gets through, so you can leg it if he threatens to duff you over accusations for holding the door open as an excuse to get a good gozz down his missus’s blouse).
If they had a pram, or a trolly, I could understand it, as given something with wheels, all their brains fall out. Scummy Mummies with double buggies of their rancid brood, trying to squeeze down too-narrow market aisles, then clobbering their brats to stop them screaming because some shoppers heavy bag of goods has smashed their squalid spawn in the face. Why can't the broodmare wait with her kids in a clear space, whilst underage dad nips to the required stall?
And don't get me started on Old Gimmers who think just because they're old, they can just walk to the front of a queue**, filling up their pull-along ankle-biter trolleys with their shopping, and pulling out a select few to be scanned at the till so they can escape with a decent five finger discount. Or when you're looking at stuff on the shelf, and they ask if they can "just squeeze past" (despite having a whole corridor to walk around) and instead of continuing past, they stop right were you were and decide to peruse the very shelves you were tying to look at! Then get all arsey if you sigh heavily and walk back in front of them to carry on with your shopping.
* More queueage in a later blog.
** That wasn’t the more queueage I was talking about. That’s still to come. Unless, like the now legendary Chronological Cheese, the opportunity never re-arises.
Take your average Mall entrance - a multitude of doors, providing several exit/entrance points. Some of these doors even swing both ways, like bi-sexual barriers. For those in Davrosmobiles, there is a panel you can ‘happy slap’, and the door will open automatically!
On the face of it… not that difficult an obstacle to overcome.
But wait! Like something out of George A. Romero movie, the shambolic shuffling shoppers approach the doors. Now, a Normal Person would go up to a door, open and it, and walk through. Alas, this is a concept beyond modern folk.
First, they will gather at the one currently open door that someone had the brains to open, and wait patiently to file through it. Unfortunately, modern folk have lost the ability to queue*, and therefore mass around the door, thus blocking the other doors. When suddenly, there is anger – one of the doors they’re blocking has opened! Right into them and pushing them back! The anger turns into wonderous amazement – another portal has opened! And the throng now diverts into two lumbering groups (as it still hasn’t dawned on the braindead that they can open another door themselves).
And what do they do the second they pass through? Immediately stop, as if there is an invisible barrier right outside the doorway, for it seems essential that having waited to get through that one opening, that’s it’s only fair to block the way through by searching in your handbag, or pondering where to go next, or have a row with the Other Half.
But what if NO door is open? What then?
Well, this is such an unsolvable conundrum, that when faced with a bank of unopened doors, the only solution is to freeze near to where you think a possible door may be opened. To cover the embarassement, it is de rigeur to fumble about in a bag, and when a door opens, take your chances! Accepted practice is to be laden with shopping with your arm still rummaging in a bag, affecting a Quasimodoesque lumbering skippety run to catch the door with your shoulder to get through before it closes.
Or course, some of these gormsters think of themselves as chivalrous, but turn out to be cretinous. For some will be polite enough to hold the door open for someone… but naturally, given their ineptitude in the skill of actually opening a door, the concept of holding a door open for a Pretty falls equally afoul of their limited intelligence. For rather than standing by the door and holding it open, they will often stand opposite the door, holding the door open with their arm across the opening, thus preventing passage. The Solution? After a bit of awkwardness re unable to pass through (or unwillingness to duck under) some odious oily oik’s BO stenched ‘pits, shove the door wider, allow Pretty #1 to pass, catch the door as it swings past, shove it open again, allow Pretty #2 to pass, then dive out before it closes (and before the husband of bf gets through, so you can leg it if he threatens to duff you over accusations for holding the door open as an excuse to get a good gozz down his missus’s blouse).
If they had a pram, or a trolly, I could understand it, as given something with wheels, all their brains fall out. Scummy Mummies with double buggies of their rancid brood, trying to squeeze down too-narrow market aisles, then clobbering their brats to stop them screaming because some shoppers heavy bag of goods has smashed their squalid spawn in the face. Why can't the broodmare wait with her kids in a clear space, whilst underage dad nips to the required stall?
And don't get me started on Old Gimmers who think just because they're old, they can just walk to the front of a queue**, filling up their pull-along ankle-biter trolleys with their shopping, and pulling out a select few to be scanned at the till so they can escape with a decent five finger discount. Or when you're looking at stuff on the shelf, and they ask if they can "just squeeze past" (despite having a whole corridor to walk around) and instead of continuing past, they stop right were you were and decide to peruse the very shelves you were tying to look at! Then get all arsey if you sigh heavily and walk back in front of them to carry on with your shopping.
* More queueage in a later blog.
** That wasn’t the more queueage I was talking about. That’s still to come. Unless, like the now legendary Chronological Cheese, the opportunity never re-arises.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
I belong to me, don’t Call Me Pikey! #2
Well, drape me in a bedsheet, put me pillowcase over me bonce, and avail meself of torches bourne by the nearby mob on route to fortification flambément and the hunting down of maniacal monstrosities manufactured by madmen and their humpty-backed accomplices for the toasting of toes thereof!
Due to challengement of chronographical perusal and accusatory digitary pointage (as opposed to my usual appendage wragglement of leerage), I’m lifting and revising my test pile of bloggocks, for which my Farceberk Fiends were the testees.
About a week or so ago, I was watching the box with the magic animatory display, when I managed to accidentally catch about 3 minutes of some show called My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding
Firstly, I was appalled at the misleading title - yeah, there were a few verging on the chunky monkey end of the svelte spectrometer, but no actual Big Fat Gypsies. Not that I wanted to watch vast bulbous lardmountains of munterescent troll tying the knot, but when promised Big Fat Gypsies, I expect Big fat Gypsies.
Second – there weren’t even any gypsies in it! Ne'er a sign of a colourful wagon, a roaring campfire or a lanky Gyspy King singing “Nel blu dipinto di blu” offering his 12yr old daughter (born in the wagon of a travellin' show, whose mama used to dance for the money they'd throw) to the king of a relative tribe.
Instead of the promised curse-hexing, heather-selling, peg-thieving Romany/Szgany/Gypsy thralls of lore, we gets them 'Travellers' - Thems what use up all our petrol in caravans instead of traditional horse drawn curtain-door’d wagons like proper gypsies!
But what confused me most of all, was the voice over stating "Like most modern travellers, Xxxxxx lives in a house instead of a caravan". Now, I was under the impression that Travellers were, well, Travellers! Traversing the length and breadth of Britain
Further to this, I questioned the definition of A Traveller, and I’ve since been informed that most “Travellers” have adapted to life in the 20th century by settling down with a job/own business, a house and a mortgage! That’s not a Traveller – that’s Normal Folk! It's like me saying I'm a roving minstrel. Except I don't roam, don't play the lute, nor sing in taverns or royal courts coz I lives in a house and has a job because I’d adapted to life in the 21st century. And I’m no fox!
Further to this, I questioned the definition of A Traveller, and I’ve since been informed that most “Travellers” have adapted to life in the 20th century by settling down with a job/own business, a house and a mortgage! That’s not a Traveller – that’s Normal Folk! It's like me saying I'm a roving minstrel. Except I don't roam, don't play the lute, nor sing in taverns or royal courts coz I lives in a house and has a job because I’d adapted to life in the 21st century. And I’m no fox!
I reckons this show should be called "My Bog Standard Chavscum Wedding", as I couldn't see the difference between these alleged "Free As A Bird Gypsies" and stereotypical chavyobs of the Shameless variety.
Maybe I can get a telly documentary also! My Big Fat Roaming Minstrel Weeding*, showing the ancient art of singing for my supper from town to town, by working in IT afore returning home to play on the PS3.
Now, since then, some Gormsters have been bemused as to how I could gather all that information in just three minutes, without even seeing a single driveway being monoblocked.
Well, unlike my less intellectually bequeathed brethren, to me, the key phrase “Like most modern travellers, Xxxxxx lives in a house instead of a caravan” doesn’t warrant an hour long tortuous viewing to ascertain that most modern Travellers live in domiciles instead of wheeled vehicular conveyances. And that the stick figures getting wed ain’t reversed-lipsuctioned salad-dodgers with cake and bun crumbs all over their voluminous “shelf above the toy shop”.
It would seem that excessive viewage over and above the 3.75 seconds (plus the time to see a real life visual portrayal of the Guide and Broom) is insufficient to confirm this statement of fact, nor the girth of the matrimonial subjects. It would further seem that light hearted humourescent reference to the lack of portly pikeys and stereotypical gypsy prejudice instead of a po-faced insult-fest on the Travelling community is, in fact, a flagrant all-out racist attack against the evil gyppos!!
Apparantly, the P- word is as bad as the N- word… unless you’re a travelling bare knuckle dragging fighter, and then you’re allowed to use it in your Gaelic Rap vidz, innit. And now I’m a racist, and them hex wielding tarot readers have unleashed The Morrigan upon me. Yikes! I can hear the scream of the Bain Sidhe foretelling my doom at the hands of a rampaging pikey mob right now!
D’oh! My mistake! It was only Sue (of the Sioux) on me iPod. Phew, that was close!
D’oh! My mistake! It was only Sue (of the Sioux) on me iPod. Phew, that was close!
* Although I can't be bothered with gardening. I might run a hoover over the grass once in a while though!
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
A daring crime so bold, retrieve the Deadites notes...
Following on from yesterdays celebration of International Women* and batter, today is the day to honor the black breath of the firemountain, and give up pancakes for 364 days and nights.
Of course, I jest. It’s not about volcanic residue spewed forth to prevent big black blingfolk getting on altitude reliant transportation! It’s when we celebrate the trials and tribulations of celebrity chin.
Today marks the wilderness days, where Our Saviour traversed the haunted forests, fought the mini-mirrored monstrosities amid the crucifixial windmill, was tempted thrice by leathery literature, and thence mis-spoke the Words Of Klaatu and released Legion before ultimately defeating the possessed and his own demonic doppelgänger.
And to replicate his suffering, for the next 40 dazed knights, we must give up something we Lent.
I lent someone my signed copy of Ten Years In An Open Necked Shirt by John Cooper-Clarke, what I got when we was in a play together, and this of sentimental value (or, more accurately, of no value but I’m just being mental). Today, I give up that item I lent you. Mainly coz I can’t remember who I lent it to. If I did lend it that is. It’s highly likely that the Stamp Gnome** has that in his horde of treasure, along with my birthday chocolates, .
Today marks the wilderness days, where Our Saviour traversed the haunted forests, fought the mini-mirrored monstrosities amid the crucifixial windmill, was tempted thrice by leathery literature, and thence mis-spoke the Words Of Klaatu and released Legion before ultimately defeating the possessed and his own demonic doppelgänger.
And to replicate his suffering, for the next 40 dazed knights, we must give up something we Lent.
I lent someone my signed copy of Ten Years In An Open Necked Shirt by John Cooper-Clarke, what I got when we was in a play together, and this of sentimental value (or, more accurately, of no value but I’m just being mental). Today, I give up that item I lent you. Mainly coz I can’t remember who I lent it to. If I did lend it that is. It’s highly likely that the Stamp Gnome** has that in his horde of treasure, along with my birthday chocolates, .
Hail to the King, Baby!
*Not all women, mind – specifically, International Women. They're probably like a female version of International Resue, living on Traci Island
T'was a time to celebrate the work they do, what with all that running about with their flotation devices acting as weapons of mass distraction keeping the fisherblokes near to shore and out of shark infested waters.
** For non-readers from when blog was on MySpace: You can purchase Royal Ron & Russel stamps in packs of 6 or 12. You then use 1 stamp to post a letter. Every now and then you remember a birthday, and check your stamps – yay! Still 5 (or 11) left. Come the day to post, the Stamp Gnome will have crept in the previous evening and half-inched your book of stamps, requiring further purchasement of philately products (not to be confused with philoakey products) to necessitate delivery of communicative messages, and bewailing the loss of a number of stamps. If you don’t buy stamps for a while, he turns his claws to other kleptomanic collections.
** For non-readers from when blog was on MySpace: You can purchase Royal Ron & Russel stamps in packs of 6 or 12. You then use 1 stamp to post a letter. Every now and then you remember a birthday, and check your stamps – yay! Still 5 (or 11) left. Come the day to post, the Stamp Gnome will have crept in the previous evening and half-inched your book of stamps, requiring further purchasement of philately products (not to be confused with philoakey products) to necessitate delivery of communicative messages, and bewailing the loss of a number of stamps. If you don’t buy stamps for a while, he turns his claws to other kleptomanic collections.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
I'm a crêpe, I'm a wierdo...
Today is International Women's Day!
Today we mark the economic, political and social achievements of women.
To all the pretty Women worldwide, a massive thank you! Where would we be without you?
Well, clearly without me pancakes! Now gitchore bitch ass back in the kitchen, and make me some gâteau de poële à frire!
Although why anyone would want to toss heathen hairy hooved satyrs in their eggy batter is beyond me.
It's pancake day
Yes, it's pancake day
Yes, it's p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake day
Well, it's pancake day
It's really pancake day
Yes, it's p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake day
Today we mark the economic, political and social achievements of women.
To all the pretty Women worldwide, a massive thank you! Where would we be without you?
Well, clearly without me pancakes! Now gitchore bitch ass back in the kitchen, and make me some gâteau de poële à frire!
Although why anyone would want to toss heathen hairy hooved satyrs in their eggy batter is beyond me.
It's pancake day
Yes, it's pancake day
Yes, it's p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake day
Well, it's pancake day
It's really pancake day
Yes, it's p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake day
Now the Merry Men know about pancake making
'Cause pancake day is a regular fixture
You take your frying pan,
and some sugar and jam
And get on down to make the mixture
'Cause pancake day is a regular fixture
You take your frying pan,
and some sugar and jam
And get on down to make the mixture
Well you take a dozen eggs,
take a cup of milk
And don't forget to add a little flour
And then you beat it up with a wooden spoon
And leave it to settle for just one hour
take a cup of milk
And don't forget to add a little flour
And then you beat it up with a wooden spoon
And leave it to settle for just one hour
'Cause it's pancake day
Yes, it's pancake day
Yes, it's p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake day
Well, it's pancake day
It's crucial pancake day
Yes, it's p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake day
Yes, it's pancake day
Yes, it's p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake day
Well, it's pancake day
It's crucial pancake day
Yes, it's p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake day
But back in the village of Worksop
Where the living ain't so funny
They make their pancakes out of dirty old mud
'Cause they ain't got no flipping money
Where the living ain't so funny
They make their pancakes out of dirty old mud
'Cause they ain't got no flipping money
Their smiles are wide,
'cause the tears they hide
Even though their life is hell
But the smiles start to fall,
when the sheriff comes to call
And he brings King John as well!
'cause the tears they hide
Even though their life is hell
But the smiles start to fall,
when the sheriff comes to call
And he brings King John as well!
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Manson Cul-de-sac: Don’t Call Me Pikey¹...
Right, I was watching the television box t’other night, when I managed to accidentally catch about 3 minutes of some show called My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.
Firstly, I was appalled at the misleading title - yeah, there were a few verging on the chunky monkey end of the svelte spectrometer, but no Big Fat Gypsies.
Second - there's no gypsies in it! Ne'er a sign of a colourful caravan, a roaring campfire or a lanky gyspy king offering his 12yr old daughter to the king of a relative tribe.
Instead of the promised curse-hexing, heather selling, peg thieving Romany/Szgany/Gypsy thralls of lore, we get 'travellers' - them what use up all our petrol in caravans instead of traditional horse drawn curtain-doored carriages!
But what confused me most of all, was the voice over stating "Like most modern travellers, Xxxxxx lives in a house instead of a caravan". Not only that – some of them have jobs! It's like me saying I'm a roving minstrel. Except I don't roam, don't play the lute, nor sing in taverns or royal courts coz I lives in a house and has a job. Now, I was under the impression that Travellers were, well, Travellers, travelling around and getting moved on when too many doorsteps of Daily Fail readers are relieved of their daily organic skimmed pinta and Yakult.
I reckons this show should be called "My Bog Standard Chavscum Wedding", as I couldn't see the difference between these alleged "Free As A Bird Gypsies" and stereotypical chavyobs of the Shameless variety.
Maybe I can get a telly documentary also! My Big Fat Roaming Minstrel Weeding*, showing the ancient art of singing for my supper from town to town, by working in IT afore returning home to play on the PS3.
* ALTHOUGH I CAN'T BE BOTHERED WITH GARDENING. I MIGHT RUN A HOOVER OVER THE GRASS ONCE IN A WHILE THOUGH!
¹ THIS WAS ORIGINALLY A TEST BLOG TO SEE IF:
a. I COULD BLOG VIA FACEBOOK (DIDN'T WORK) AND
b. RESTARTING THE BLOG AFTER A 6 MONTH HIATUS WOULD BE VIABLE
I KNOW THE REWORKED, PROPER ONE WAS POSTED PROPERLY AS ONE OF MY FIRST ON BLOGGER, BUT I'VE COPIED THIS OVER ANYWAYS FOR THE SAKE OF COMPLETENESS.
Firstly, I was appalled at the misleading title - yeah, there were a few verging on the chunky monkey end of the svelte spectrometer, but no Big Fat Gypsies.
Second - there's no gypsies in it! Ne'er a sign of a colourful caravan, a roaring campfire or a lanky gyspy king offering his 12yr old daughter to the king of a relative tribe.
Instead of the promised curse-hexing, heather selling, peg thieving Romany/Szgany/Gypsy thralls of lore, we get 'travellers' - them what use up all our petrol in caravans instead of traditional horse drawn curtain-doored carriages!
But what confused me most of all, was the voice over stating "Like most modern travellers, Xxxxxx lives in a house instead of a caravan". Not only that – some of them have jobs! It's like me saying I'm a roving minstrel. Except I don't roam, don't play the lute, nor sing in taverns or royal courts coz I lives in a house and has a job. Now, I was under the impression that Travellers were, well, Travellers, travelling around and getting moved on when too many doorsteps of Daily Fail readers are relieved of their daily organic skimmed pinta and Yakult.
I reckons this show should be called "My Bog Standard Chavscum Wedding", as I couldn't see the difference between these alleged "Free As A Bird Gypsies" and stereotypical chavyobs of the Shameless variety.
Maybe I can get a telly documentary also! My Big Fat Roaming Minstrel Weeding*, showing the ancient art of singing for my supper from town to town, by working in IT afore returning home to play on the PS3.
* ALTHOUGH I CAN'T BE BOTHERED WITH GARDENING. I MIGHT RUN A HOOVER OVER THE GRASS ONCE IN A WHILE THOUGH!
¹ THIS WAS ORIGINALLY A TEST BLOG TO SEE IF:
a. I COULD BLOG VIA FACEBOOK (DIDN'T WORK) AND
b. RESTARTING THE BLOG AFTER A 6 MONTH HIATUS WOULD BE VIABLE
I KNOW THE REWORKED, PROPER ONE WAS POSTED PROPERLY AS ONE OF MY FIRST ON BLOGGER, BUT I'VE COPIED THIS OVER ANYWAYS FOR THE SAKE OF COMPLETENESS.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Baz White and the Carpenter...
were walking hand in hand
"If only," said Ms Karen
"the law would understand"
My fame speads further and wider with each passing Pappa Ratsarse furtively photographicating me slurping my smoothie.
I'm now namechecked on telly! True to life, Xymon appears to be a great fat bloaty walrus too flabby to forage for food!
On the plus side, catalogical shoppery send penguins out to deliver fishies - although I'm not sure how fresh and tasty they'd be after languishing in the warehouse.
But a horde of penguins delivering net provisions! Cool!
Unless this is another neferious plan of Chesty Cobblepot, the notorious felonious maniacal monocle supervillan, out to nobble me in some icy crossover crystal Krypton palava with suicide bomber penguins.
Although I can't remember if penguins are in the Arctic, or Antarctic. Good job I'm bi-polar, coz I'll do both.
Especially if it's an Arctic Roll...
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