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Tagged
Six desperatley dull facts about me:
I’m a right mardy fucker and get the hump far too easily.
I’ve not taken a “happy pill” for over a week now, and still
feel pretty good.
I worry if the cat doesn’t come in at night.
I hate reserving seats on trains as I know that they’ll be
some dickheads sat in them when we get on, and then there’ll be a simply awful
scene, darling
I wish my legs were hairier.
I can play “The Camptown Races” on the harmonica, which
keeps all the family entertained for minutes. Sorry but I've not tagged anyone else as I'm also a lazy twat.
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Chatsworth, Chavs and Copulation
We had a trip out to Chatsworth on Sunday, as Wife wanted to go to a plant sale that was being held there. It was unusually quiet on the roads on the way up, although we did see a couple of car rallies: one being old of Austins, and the other being some smashing looking TR5’s. However, when we got to Chatsworth we discovered where everyone else was. Fortunately it wasn’t too bad round the plant sale, as most people appeared to be heading off round the house and gardens. Once Wife had got what she wanted we went back to the car for a drink. It was then that we saw another of these car rallies. Was it the classic Jaguar or Aston Martin club? Was it fuck. It was a bunch of chavs in an assortment of crappy Golfs, Hondas and Minis, one of which had managed to block me in. The rest of them had pretty much got us surrounded. To see this lot despoiling the green and pleasant grounds of the Chatsworth estate, somewhat pissed me off. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the cars had been any good, but they were just a collection of street trash, chav mobiles complete with makeovers courtesy of a shoplifting spree at Halford’s. Needless to say I got the baseball cap wearing moron who owned the mini, to move his wanky car, and we shifted to another part of the carpark. We then had a very pleasant walk to Baslow where Wife treated me to a bag of Bullseyes, bless her.
On the way back we could here some birds making a right noise, high up in a nearby tree. Going into Bill Oddie mode we quickly found the little birdies, only to discover it was a couple of blue-tits “at it” on one of the branches. And if that wasn’t enough, we then came across a couple of ducks going at it hammer and tongues in the middle of the road. To be honest I expect better from a respectable institution like the Chatsworth estate. I don’t wish to have my Sundays spoilt by having to watch birds behaving like animals. I shall write a stiff letter to the Daily Mail.
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Love's young dream
Answered the door the other day to find a floppy haired, young dude standing there. Turns out that this was A's boyfriend, Steven. He seemed a pleasent and polite enough young man, but I'm afraid he did have a skateboard with him. Clearly he's menace to the elderly and infirm, and so I'll have to report him to my new friend in the neighbourhood watch.
Took P up to "Anchor Surplus" in Ripley yesterday. This is a real Alladin's cave for the pretend soldier, with all mannner of combat gear along with various death dealing accessories. The purpose of our visit was to get me some water-proof, over trousers for when I'm out fishing (rumours of incontinence are completely untrue). I was however very impressed by a Saracen armoured car in the yard outside. This 6 wheeled beauty would look peferct outside the fatjack's frontdoor, and would surely act as deterent to any would be boyfriend.
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Are we there yet?
There's a line in Nick Hornby's "Fever Pitch" which states that the one common bond that everyone at a football match has, is that they all hate being there. And that was definitely the case this afternoon at Pride Park. Fucking hell, what utter dross. Not what one might call a glamour fixture: Derby County vs. Hull City; 5th from bottom vs. 6th from bottom, but fucking hell this was awful. Hull were a bunch of northern donkeys, and Derby couldn't have scored in a brothel. Thank God for soft penalties. At least that went in first time. I don't know why I bother, I really don't. Still, it's only a game.......
Prior to this debacle the weekend hadn't been too bad. We had Ma and Pa, along with Ma-in law round for tea yesterday. As these things go it wasn't too bad. The M-I-L isn't so quick on her feet these days, so makes a good captive audience for my dad to ramble on to. Ma's heard it all, so it's a bit of a relief for her. If you've not heard a detailed account of the non-motorway route to Reading, complete with "nice pub for a reasonably priced lunch", you've never lived.
Saturday wasn't too bad either. We had a trip out to Carsington again, and being as tight as a gnat's chuff I parked in the free car park, 2 miles from the visitor centre. Money isn't the only motivation for this, though. As you actually have to walk a bit to get anywhere, this tends to deter the rabble, who genrally congregate at the centre. However this didn't stop us walking there, and a very pleasent walk it was too, I have to say. Once there, Wife and A went to get some lollies, whilst myself and P did a bit of people watching. There's nothing like a bit of early spring sunshine to bring out the uglies, and this day was no exception. But it's still no excuse for thirtysomething dads to wear 3/4 length trousers, slip on footy trainers or to sport geled quiffs. Grow up chaps, for fuck's sake.
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Watching the defectives
Over recent years I have managed to cultivate a sufficiently aggressive, and surly look that has proved effective in deterring other bus passengers from sitting next to me, or even talking to me. However last Thursday the “look” failed me, and I was nailed by one of the local loonies. He tried to initiate contact at the bus-stop with a long, loud sigh, which I skilfully ignored. However, he then cut straight to the chase and set about telling me all about his activities as Chellaston’s “neighbourhood watch coordinator”, or nosey twat, whichever you prefer. As with a lot of loons he had an assortment of bags. He started to rummage through these to find a pen and paper in order to give me the “watch’s” website, along with clear advice on what to do should I encounter any “local” trouble. I noted that he didn’t mention irritating twats at bus stops at 7.30 in the morning. My pain was worsened by the obvious relief and pleasure of the only other person at the bus stop; a middle-aged woman clearly thinking: “there but for the grace of God….” Mercifully the bus arrived and I cunningly hung back allowing him and the woman to get on the bus ahead of me. As he was sorting out his bag collection on his seat, I managed to sneak, panther like, past him to the back of the bus. Taking refuge behind a book I at last felt safe. However my torment was not yet over. Near journey’s end he suddenly bolted from his seat, complete with bags, and took the seat across from me. In an instant he’d leaned across and, loud enough for the rest of the bus to hear, asked if I wanted his e-mail address. A blunt “no” did the trick. What made this encounter even worse was the fact that this knobhead was wearing one of “the company’s” jackets, which bore the sickening slogan of “living the brand”. What ever this bloke was living, it wasn’t the brand, I suspect it was barely a life.
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Chip on shoulder
Sat down this afternoon to watch the Boat race, and realised that I wasn't really interested in watching a bunch of over-privilaged twats, pissing about in boats.
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God save the Queen
Discovered this week that my nemesis, RJ has managed to avoid the sack by getting a job in our nuclear division. Apparently this is subject to security checks, although they should seriously consider a sanity check as well.
If Bush and Blair think that Iran dabbling with the naughty nuclear stuff, is a cause for concern, then they should fucking think again.
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