And another thing....

How many people honestly walk into their neighbour’s kitchen saying “ooh, I’m all bloated today”? if my neighbour did that I’d simply say “Oh, eaten too much again have you, you fat cow? Never mind, a decent fart and you’ll feel loads better.” I wouldn’t give them a yogurt which seems to induce kleptomania.

Do you really have to use the word snot? Surely mucus would do just as well? Sorry, I don’t mean to be a prude, but it just sounds so horrid.

I didn’t have a headache before, but I do now! And what’s all this crap about “goes directly to the source of pain”? All analgesics work the same, i.e. block pain receptors in the brain. It doesn’t matter whether you have a headache, toothache or arseache.

In essence, the local newsletter is a good idea. You can advertise upcoming events (charity sales, fun runs, etc.) and local independent tradesman have a cheap way of advertising their services. Local schools have an outlet for their news, etc. But the thing that spoils it all is the correspondence. Or rather the correspondents. Sample letter: “Dear Sir, I wish to complain. I am a miserable old git who revels in tedium. I have become aware there are some young people living locally who appear to be having fun. Even though this occurs mainly in the privacy of their own homes, I personally think it is disgusting and should be stopped. Things were far better in my day, etc. etc. Yours. Ladygrove Resident” I am not exaggerating. They never once own up to who they are or where they live. Cowards!

I do not want to buy a knock off Rolex for $200. I already have a degree, which I worked bloody hard for rather than buying. I don’t have a penis, so why would I want to enlarge it by 3 inches? I don’t need prescription medication, and if I did I would go to my GP, not a website. I don’t want to remortgage or buy shares in dodgy companies. And I’m certainly not going to fall for an e-mail from a bank I don’t bank with telling me to send them my online password. Ditto the “finance manager” job offers where all they need is my bank account details and I can then start to earn millions of pounds. You know who you are. Piss off and leave me alone. (That goes for those of you who leave “comments” on blogs too).

Junk mail in any form is bad enough. See Jonathan’s blog for ways to deal with the countless numbers of companies who want you to take out a loan/credit card/insurance with them in the hope of repossessing your house when you can’t afford to pay them back. The thing that particularly irks me (good word that, irks) is when you get what are effectively begging letters from charities. I appreciate that they need to advertise in order to get revenue, but sending out junk mail is a different matter. Especially from environmental charities. How much paper have Friends of the Earth wasted in this way? Does anyone actually use the pens they send? Wouldn’t they be better off spending their funds on their projects? Personally, if I give £10 to Oxfam, I want to give £10 to projects in India, Africa, etc., not £10 to their postage budget. I also get annoyed by being sent raffle tickets which I didn’t order – this is just a non too subtle form of emotional blackmail.

Regular readers of my rants (or regular sufferers of the verbal variety) will remember that I was overjoyed with the arrival of a Sainsbury’s in Didcot, as it meant that I was no longer forced to endure the purgatory that is our local Tesco. I maintain that it is a much nicer place to shop. However, the car park for the store doubles as the car park for the town chopping centre, and as such is a pay and display. The first 2 hours are free, but you still need to get a ticket. This means that if you need to pop to the supermarket for a pint of milk and a loaf of bread, you have to
1) Negotiate weird one way entrance to car park
2) Negotiate huge bumps that threaten to remove your exhaust
3) Find space away from local youths on skateboards/chavs in Citroen Saxos playing “banging tunes”
4) Park in said space
5) Get out of car, lock car, locate nearest ticket machine
6) Curse as you realise nearest ticket machine is out of order. Locate another
7) Translate instructions from the Swahili and obtain ticket
8) Return to car, stick ticket in window, lock up
9) Buy milk and bread
All this takes approximately 3 times as long as it would have taken you to buy exactly the same stuff in Tesco.

I’m sure I’m not alone in having got addicted to Lost on Channel 4. I know this as I am not the only person in my house to suffer the affliction. We thought ourselves very clever indeed for watching the series on E4 rather than C4, as it was a week ahead. We could nod at C4 watchers knowingly and say “wait till next week, it’s a corker”. Still, we came unstuck for the last two episodes, as they weren’t shown on E4, and we had to wait 2 weeks to watch them on C4. Nightmare! As a couple who have been together for 12 years, we had absolutely nothing to talk about between ourselves for an entire fortnight!

On Boxing Day, shopping centres across the country reported people queuing outside branches of Next at 5am for the sale to start at 6am. Some had reportedly been there all night. Why? Next sales are full of specially bought in crap that spends most of its life being trampled underfoot because the first person to look at it dropped it from the rail and no-one has been able to get near it to put it back since, for fear of being crushed like a beetle beneath the half price boots of a thousand people with nothing better to do with their lives. And the stuff isn’t even that cheap either.

Excuse me if I misunderstand, but I thought the point of motorways was to get you from A to B quickly, rather than using A roads and meandering through C and D behind Howard and Hilda out for a drive in the country. Why then are the bits of journeys on motorways usually the bits when you travel most slowly, often being lucky if you get into 5th gear?

You know the ones, “use both lanes for A34/supermarket/town centre” . I can’t, my car is not physically wide enough to use both lanes. Don’t you mean use EITHER lane?

Two major gripes here. 1) “Local” is a bit of a misnomer. We live in South Oxfordshire, so obviously, our local BBC station is Central, which means we get all the news that really matters to us, like new supermarkets opening in Stoke on Trent. My parents in Lincolnshire are constantly bombarded with news from Rotherham and Leeds. 2) “News” is similarly far from the mark. For instance, last night the first item was in interview with a Brummie fireman in Sharm el Sheikh, explaining in a loud, indignant voice why he wasn’t going home early after the bombings “We saved for ages for this holiday, I’m not disappointing the kids now”. Second item was Tiddles the cat from Solihull who has now spent 3 days up the apple tree in next door’s garden. His owner, Miss Hilda Parkinson, 76, is frantic with worry and local residents are tonight staging a candlelight vigil. Not really, I turned off half way through the Brummie fireman story, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this was on.

I�m sorry, but why are the first words to come into my head whenever he appears on TV (which seems to be practically all the bloody time) �Of shut up, you self important, short tongued tw*t�? And I don�t care about your wife and kids either. So there.

Apparently, in tests, 8 out of 10 cats preferred Whiskas. It would appear then that we have the 2 out of 10 who turn their noses up at it.

Every bloody where you go (especially in Norfolk it seems) there are “Think Bike” road safety signs by the side of the roads. And then there is the irritating TV ad “Now you see him” regarding motorbikes who cut you up when you are trying to turn right. Why are car drivers made out to be the bad guys here? Why should motorcyclists get away with everything, from never queuing at lights, hold ups etc, just riding up the middle of the traffic, to roaring up behind you like a tw*t out of hell when you are waiting to turn. It’s not big and it’s not clever. And in a straight fight, my guess is the car is likely to win. Being surrounded by several tons of metal in this situation is distinctly safer than a snazzy pair of leather trousers and matching jacket.

Sorry, historical rant coming up.
Question 1: How many English kings have been beheaded? Answer: One, poor Charles I, possibly the most misunderstood man in the country’s history (Sorry, couldn’t help that, it’s the Civil War historian in me making another ill advised break for freedom).
Question 2: After whom is the traditional English pub “The King’s Head” named? Answer: see above. For this reason.
Question 3: Why do all pubs called “The King’s Head” have a portrait of any king except Charles 1 (usually Henry VIII) on their sign (honourable exception to this being The King’s Head in Wroxham, which has a fine portrait of Charles)? Answer: Probably because breweries aren’t quite so anal as I am.
If I ever run a pub, I will insist on it being called “The King’s Head” and on having a correct sign hanging outside, namely the bloodied severed head of Charles I in a basket beneath the scaffold.
And while I’m on the subject, “The Queen’s Head” does give more scope, as many English queens have befallen this fate. The usual Queen to be depicted on signs though is Anne Boleyn.
Thank you for your indulgence.

It has just been my misfortune to have an appointment at the JR. First of all, it takes ages to get to Headington. Then, there is hardly anywhere to park, so a few happy minutes are spent crawling the car park like pimps, dodging the cars parked on the end of rows and on corners, hovering close to anyone who looks like they might be about to leave. Then you have to pay for the privilege of being ill and needing to see a Doctor - £2 minimum parking charge. Then the intensely impersonal experience of the appointment itself – I think I will tattoo my NHS number on my forehead so they don’t actually have to talk to me at all next time. Sorry I interrupted your day, guys!

I do sincerely apologise for the uncharacteristic non-PC-ness of this rant. Those of you who know me will know that I am immensely intolerant of all forms of prejudice, so much so that I actually agree with Bono and Bob Geldof on practically everything (their children’s names are too much, even for me) and with politicians on practically nothing, However, I have to say, I f*cking hate gippos. Sorry, sorry, sorry but I do. Romanies I have nothing against. New Age travellers are fine. But thieving, dirty gippos I really do have a problem with. Maybe it’s because they all drive brand new Mercs and have all the latest gadgets, maybe it’s the fact they do untold damage and commit crimes in the full knowledge that they won’t be prosecuted, and maybe, just maybe, it’s the fact that when I worked in Norfolk I arrived at the office one day to find our car park infested (and I use that word deliberately) with gippo caravans. We had to spend the next few days ignoring the little sh*ts who thought it was funny to keep pressing the intercom to be let in to the building, the sandwich man had to bring his two sons with him to stop his stock being nicked, and once when I was making coffee, I looked out of the kitchen window to see a child of about 10 having a crap directly onto the car park, behind my car. Charmed, I’m sure.

First of all may I say that yes, this is a fantastic stadium, for both sports and music. However, whose bloody stupid idea was it to build in the city centre? This makes travel to and from an absolute bloody nightmare. As previously ranted by Jonathan, we went to see U2 last night. We would have gone to Twickenham instead, but we were in Norwich when they played there, so Millennium Stadium it was. Not so bad, we’ve done it for rugby and the Tsunami benefit concert, and it is usually a 2 hour drive, followed by parking in a well sign posted huge (i.e. enough space for 1000s of cars) Park and Ride site, with frequent buses which leave when all seats are occupied, not when no-one else can physically squeeze in à la Japanese bullet train. Return journey has hundreds of buses lined up at pick up point, ensuring swift removal of happy revellers (if Wales have won) or weeping drunken fools (if Wales have lost). All in all, a good system. Those of you who know my deep seated hatred of any form of public transport know that this is praise indeed. However, last night can only be described as a farce, and it is my learned opinion that Cardiff city council and the Millennium Stadium have both recently taken on new logistics managers who between them could not organise either a p*ss up in a brewery or a f*ck up in a brothel. The case for the prosecution:
1. Directions on the Millennium Stadium website say that Oxford is a comfortable 2 hour drive from the Stadium. Maybe it is, when there aren’t 70000 people trying to get to a concert. We left home at 2.30. We got to the stadium at 7.45. That to me makes over 5 hours.
2. The website directs everyone to 3 different P&R schemes, all “easily accessed from J33 of the M4”. Ominously, one is open all day, but the others do not open until 4.30. Never mind, by the time we reach Cardiff it is 6pm.
3. All the motorway signs from Bristol onwards do the same.
4. All cars duly travel to J33 on M4.
5. Signs to P&R sites do not exist. Not one. Anywhere. 1000s of motorists have to decide which way to go. First choice on leaving the slip road is “Cardiff” or “Services”. Only those not desperate for a pee choose Cardiff. Next choice: “Cardiff West” or “Cardiff central”. Not such a clear call this one. 50% go in each direction. We chose Central, figuring that is ultimately where we need to be. No more signs exist at all, except for “city centre”. No P&R sites in evidence. No buses in evidence. We eventually arrive at the edge of the city centre, to be met with roads closed as the Race for Life (lots of sweaty, red faced women wearing pink) is going on. What a triumph of organisation!
6. No-one in Cardiff appears to know anything. We ask in turn a policeman, traffic warden and car park attendant how to get to any of the 3 sites, to be met with a) blank stares, b) incorrect directions, c) “Oh, it’s that way, just follow the signs” d) incomprehension of Jonathan’s home counties accent (I think he pronounced his Us properly and that threw them – e.g. U2 concert/OO2 concert) or e) “I don’t know mate, I’m not from Cardiff”.
7. We eventually find the site that has been open since 11am. Just to reiterate, the stadium can accommodate 70,000 people and the tickets have all sold out. This site has space for 200 cars at most. It is so full that people are parking on approach roads, and we are officially directed to a field about half a mile from the bus stop (at which it must be said there are no buses), which appears to be a gypsy encampment. To further illustrate this, the gate to the field is being manned by an Irish guy who looks like he has neither shaved nor washed for a month and a skinny kid who tries to get money from everyone entering the field. The gate is closed after each car enters and I feel distinctly uneasy. Deciding that we would like to return to a car with all four wheels and a stereo, we decide to pass on this charming option and take our chances elsewhere.
8. We try to park on the side of the road somewhere but everywhere is permit parking only.
9. Eventually, more by luck than judgement it has to be said, we find the County Hall P&R site, which again has space for approximately 200 cars. There is a huge queue approaching it, and a small, slightly stressed looking man wearing a hi-vis vest running up and down, waving his arms a bit and shouting “car park’s closed, it’s full”. By this time Jonathan is feeling so belligerent, it is already 7pm and we know the chances of finding car park number 3 are slim to non-existent and our only other option seems to be driving to Barry Island and getting a taxi back, so he ignores said official, drives up on to the pavement and parks beautifully on the immaculately kept County Hall lawn. Everyone else behind us in the queue thinks what a great idea this is and follows suit. We lock up, get to the bus stop (where 3 buses are waiting this time), and ask the poor harassed looking official if we are likely to be clamped. He looks around, decides that by now there are so many cars parked wherever they happened to stop that there aren’t enough clamps in Wales to do everyone, so looks at us with tears in his eyes, shrugs his shoulders and walks away forlornly to pick up his bike and retire to the nearest hostelry over a pint or three.
10. Bus leaves when full and deposits us about 5 mins from stadium. Finally, something appears to be working correctly.
11. As an aside, the return journey took us 2 hours 20 mins from stadium to front door. P&R operated as clockwork, car wasn’t clamped, no traffic on M4. Perfect.

Just to top off this perfect evening, I managed to faint within 10 minutes of finding our seats (£50 allocated seats, top tier, very close to closed roof) as it was so bloody hot and sweaty. St John’s Ambulance sorted me out (may I say what wonderful people they are, one and all) and then when we were on the point of cutting our losses and going home, they said “ Oh no, you can’t waste your evening by going through all this and not seeing OO2. Come with me, I’ll get you somewhere better to sit” So we were escorted in the service lift down from level 6 to pitchside level, straight through security and ticket control, and into the £85 unreserved seating and access to pitch area, as there was a lovely breeze blowing there. I was introduced to the Doctor on duty who was told to keep an eye on me, sat down and then watched 2 hours of extremely good U2 in complete comfort, with nice St John’s people checking I was OK every so often. I say again, what fantastic people they are!

OK folks, sorry to jump on a bandwagon here but Jonathan says I complain about these all the time but never get round to ranting about them. So here goes. I can, honestly officer, see the point of speed limits and speed cameras in residential areas, or around schools, etc. There is obviously a point here – at 3pm, any self respecting 7 year old just wants to get home to watch whatever drivel CBBC is churning out these days, they do not necessarily remember their Green Cross Code (Incidentally does anyone remember the Tufty Club? I always thought a small furry animal was a really bad advert for road safety – I mean, how many dead, squashed ones do you see on the average A road??). However, on an empty motorway, at 2am, why a 40mph limit? (Leave London on M40 via Hammersmith to encounter this). In a one mile stretch of road, there are about 5 cameras. Still, looking on the bright side, this does allow for the average BMW driver to accumulate approximately £300 in fines and 15 licence points, which is an automatic ban, in the space of about 40 seconds.

Didcot Parkway railway station must be one of the busiest suburban commuter stations in the country. At 7am and 7pm the number of people either being dropped off for or collected from London trains is staggering. So why in their infinite wisdom have the powers that be decided that only 3 short stay parking spaces are needed? Of course, it would help that if you are meeting someone from a train that is due to arrive at 1908 then the train actually arrived at 1908 and not 2046, as then you wouldn’t need to park up and waste yet another hour of your life staring at the white mini skirts and blotchy legs heading for a night out in Oxford or Reading. And don’t get me started on the number of bloody taxis that form queues there, filling the station forecourt, Station Road and A4130 and solving you the problem of where to park, as you can’t actually get within half a mile of the station in the first place….

Our cat PJ is now 8 years old, and has always used a litter tray successfully. So why has she suddenly now become unable to hit the litter tray every time she has a crap? She goes to the tray, has a sniff to make sure it is hers and then digs a little hole in the litter (which presumably is for said crap). She then sits with her front feet in the hole, lifts her tail, points her arse over the edge of the tray and proceeds to crap on the bathroom floor. She then gets out of the tray, looks at it in a bewildered manner, indicative of “I’m sure I just had a shit, where did it go?”, covers up the hole and stalks off with a look of complete and utter disgust on her face.

Ever since I had my first two teeth, my mother has insisted that I visit my dentist every 6 months for a check up, which I do. I brush my teeth every day and do not over indulge on sugary snacks. I try to eat lots of calcium. Still, I have more mercury than Freddie in my mouth, and 4 crowned teeth. Unfair though this is, things could be worse so I grit my teeth (no pun intended) and get on with it. Jonathan, on the other hand, hates dentists and refuses to go. He has to be forced to clean his teeth as he hates doing this as well, eats more chocolate than Ghana can produce, doesn’t touch anything that came from anywhere remotely near a dairy, and practically bathes in Coke. He had his first dental check up for 6 years a while ago, and was given a completely clean bill of oral health. And he only has one filling. And he only made the appointment because he gets dental insurance through work so it was free. Much as I love him, sometimes I don’t like him very much.

Could I please point out to the no doubt countless numbers of long distance lorry drivers that are reading this post, that in order to overtake something on the road in front of you, you actually need to be driving faster than they are? Handy hint: you have a limiter fitted which limits your top speed to 56mph. So does he. You are driving flat out to achieve these dizzy heights. So is he. You will therefore not get past him. Do not try.

Why do people who work in banks act so disgusted when you go into a branch and dare to ask for some of your own money? Isn’t that what they are there for? Or am I missing the point again?

First of all, let me apologise for the potential inflammatory nature of this post, as I know that several readers out there, having been born and raised in "The Shire", will want to see me hanged drawn and quartered for this, but what the hell is the obsession in small villages of knowing absolutely everybody's business, all the time? I don't live in such a place, but my in laws do. On my honeymoon, I was unfortunate enough to suffer from dysentery after some dodgy ice cubes in Bali. Six weeks later, at Hobbiton annual summer fete, at least 3 people who I did not know from Adam came up to me and asked me how I was doing, as dysentery can be awful can't it. Excuse me, but what the bloody hell does the state of my bowels have to do with anyone but me? Similarly, I also know, having been told to at least 2 separate sources, that the daughter of someone in the village was caught short on her way to the village church for her wedding, so stopped for a pee behind a bush. Again, don't even know who it was, but I'm sure she feels so much better for knowing that I , and now you dear reader (although for those hobbits amongst you, I bet you already knew and can tell me anything I ever wanted (or not) to know about both the lady in question and her parents) know this.

I will use cats as my example, but this will also work for ducks, pigeons, rabbits, deer, foxes etc. As a rough guide, if it running away from you and hiding up a tree/in a bush/down a well, chances are it does not want you to chase it to “play” with it. In fact, it probably wants you to piss off and leave it alone.

My local health centre has recently changed its appointment system. Herewith let me illustrate how crap it is.
1. You wake up on Monday morning feeling like shit. Decide to see Doctor. This is your first mistake.
2. Phone Health Centre. Spend 4 minutes waiting for receptionist to finish her tea/biscuit/chat and answer phone.
3. Spend another 4 minutes being transferred to someone else.
4. Be spoken down to by receptionist who thinks you are scum for being ill. Ascertain that there are no appointments available this morning.
5. Ask for an appointment this afternoon instead.
6. Be told that afternoon appointments are not available until 1pm and to ring back later.
7. Decide to ask for appointment later in the week.
8. Be told that no appointments are available for pre-booking, you need to phone up on the day.
9. Resolve to murder said receptionist should you ever be granted an appointment and get to enter the hallowed turf of the Health Centre
10. Go back to bed with whisky and ice cream and immediately feel better.

Oh, for the sake of f***, man, it’s only a game. Have a pint and enjoy yourself. (I know I don't usually mince words and use asterisks where letters mean so much more, but if I say what I mean Jonathan can't access this page at work as it "contains foul and offensive language")

As soon as we have 5 minutes of sunshine, British people lose all sense of style (OK, I appreciate that not many have one anyway, but…) White pasty legs poking out of baggy khaki shorts the like of which my Grandfather wore when he conquered Burma, or worse still satin running shorts a la 1975; midriff baring tops on the fattest, most unattractive people; string vests; disgustingly badly looked after feet in hideous hippy sandals, or that other peculiarly British phenomenon socks with sandals. One image that will stay with me until my dying day is following an English guy through the leather market in Chania, Crete in 90 degree heat, who was committing at least 3 of these aforementioned crimes – khaki shorts, sunburned bright red legs and arms, string vest, sandals and, this is the worst bit, calf length maroon polyester socks. I still shudder to think of it.

Why do these only seem to worn by people who should really steer clear? Oh. My God. Is there anything more unattractive than a huge expanse of white flabby belly lounging about between hipster jeans and a midriff baring top? And please, by all means pierce your belly button, but as a handy hint, if the jeweller has a tough time pushing the stud through several inches of fat, chances are it ain’t going to look too good.

I applaud the decisions made by those who opt to be safe rather than stylish by wearing a helmet whilst cycling. However, could I please point out to the seemingly 95% of people who wear them back to front that not only is this not stylish (i.e. you look like a twat) but it is also not safe. The plastic extension (for want of a better description) is meant to go at the back of your head to protect your neck in the event of an accident. But then again, fall off and break your necks, see if I care.

Is this man the luckiest in TV? Just look at the jobs he has: Top Gear - driving sexy new cars very quickly, and getting paid for it. Brainiac - playing with explosives and exploding caravans, as well as doing more schoolboy fun stuff of the like, and getting paid for it. Time Commanders - playing at being soldiers, and getting paid for it. What next- a month in the Playboy mansion? Spending a million quid in a weekend? Being an international rock superstar? I guess some people are born lucky. I can't even hate him for it - he seems like a really nice guy too.

The original Band Aid single was, and remains, an absolute belter of a song, and Bono's line "well tonight thank God it's them instead of you" will quite rightly go down in music history (even though he does sound slightly constipated). So, I can see why he wanted to do the same line on the new (crap, in my opinion) Band Aid 20. But, after all that fighting with Justin Hawkins over it, the least he could have done was make a good job of it. Instead of sounding like he needs a shit, he now just sounds like shit. What a waste. Justin would have been much better. And on the subject of Justin Hawkins, despite myself, I am starting to find him strangely attractive. I think it's something to do with the pirate outfit he wore at the NEC on Wednesday. I think it's the Johnny Depp connection. Either that or his arse, which is quite a fine specimen indeed.