How Insulting!

Many people have insulted me over the years. Many people still do.

I’m not talking about people who swear at me, or tell me in no uncertain terms what they think of me. I’m referring to clever little put downs that are rude but funny.

Below are some great examples of insults that I have stumbled upon while travelling in cyberspace, peppered with one or two that I have picked up from other people.

If you had brains, you’d be dangerous.

Keep talking – one day you might say something intelligent or interesting.

How do you manage to get dressed in the morning?

Don’t feel sad – there are a lot of other talentless people around.

Even stupid people think you are stupid.

If you spoke your mind you would be speechless.

Humans are meant to live and learn. You just live.

You’d be out of your depth in a puddle.

Crikey – take that bloody mask off. Oh sorry – you’re not wearing one.

Hi – I’m from Earth. Where are you from?

How did you get here? Did somebody leave a cage open?

When you fell out of the ugly tree, did you hit every branch?

100,000 sperm and you won the race?

You’re the kind of person they would use as a blueprint to build an idiot.

Calling you “stupid” would be an insult to stupid people.

Is there a village somewhere missing an idiot?

I look into your eyes and get the feeling someone else is driving.

You’re a sandwich short of a picnic.

As an outsider, what do you think of the human race?

You are living proof that man can function without a brain.

Something crossed your mind? Must have been a long and lonely journey.

Here are some insults from some of my favourite comedy shows:

Blackadder:

"We live in an age where illness and deformity are commonplace and yet, Ploppy, you are without a doubt the most repulsive individual I have ever met. I would shake your hand but I fear it might come off."

“Yes, it's not the only thing that is "very small indeed". Your brain for example – it is so minute, Baldrick, that if a hungry cannibal cracked your head open, there wouldn't be enough to cover a small water biscuit.”

“Percy, far from being a fit consort for a Prince of the Realm, you would bore the leggings off a village idiot. You ride a horse rather less well than another horse would. Your brain would make a grain of sand look large and ungainly and the part of you that can't be mentioned, I am reliably informed by women around the Court, wouldn't be worth mentioning even if it could be. If you put on a floppy hat and a funny codpiece, you might just get by as a fool, but since you wouldn't know a joke if it got up and gave you a haircut, I doubt it.”

"The eyes are open, the mouth moves, but Mr Brain has long since departed, hasn't he, Percy?"

Red Dwarf:

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. Look at me – I’m disgusting. I look like you in your best clothes”

“I am Holly – the ship’s computer, with an IQ of 6000 – the same as 6000 PE teachers.”

“The mind-probe was created to detect guilt, yet in the case of Arnold Judas Rimmer the guilt it detected attaches to no crime. He held a position of little or no authority on Red Dwarf. He was a lowly grease-monkey, a nothing, a piece of sputum floating in the toilet bowl of life. Yet he could never come to terms with a lifetime of under- achievement. His absurdly inflated ego would never permit it. He's like the security guard on the front gate who considers himself head of the corporation. So, when the crew were wiped out by a nuclear accident, Arnold Rimmer accepted the blame: it was his ship, ergo his fault. I ask the court: look at this man. This man who sat and failed his astronavigation exam on no less than thirteen occasions. This sad man, this pathetic man, this joke of a man. I ask the court one key question: would the Space Corps have allowed this man ever to be in a position where he might endanger the ship? A man so petty and small-minded he would while away his evenings sewing name labels on to his ship-issue condoms? A man of such awesome stupidity, he even objects to his own defence counsel. An overzealous, trumped up little squirt, an incompetent vending-machine repairman with a Napoleon complex, who commanded as much respect and affection from his fellow crew members as Long John Silver's parrot. Who would put this man, this joke of a man, a man who couldn't outwit a used tea bag, in a position of authority where he could wipe out an entire crew? Who? Only a yoghurt. This man is not guilty of manslaughter. He's only guilty of being Arnold J. Rimmer. That is his crime. It is also his punishment. Defence rests.”

"Look, we all have something to bring to this discussion. But I think from now on the thing you should bring is silence."

Two of my favourite insults supposedly come from Winston Churchill:

Woman: Sir, you are drunk!
Churchill: And you, madam are ugly! But at least I’ll be sober in the morning.

Woman: If you were my husband I would poison your tea.
Churchill: If you were my wife I would drink it.

Finally, here is a sketch from Alexei Sayle’s TV show, which I personally think is hilarious (my warped sense of humour I’m afraid). It demonstrates the clever use of put-downs but the point is emphasized with mindless violence.



What are your favourite insults?

Exploding Children

WARNING – if you don’t like tales of vomit and poo and babies, stop reading now.

I remember, with fondness, the first time my eldest son exploded.

It was approximately 3am in the summer of 1993. My wife had just returned from the hospital with our first son and I was lying there in bed on that first night, struggling to sleep. I am a light sleeper and the sound of a third person breathing softly in our room was a little too much noise for my level of tolerance. The light breathing of my little one started to become more agitated and louder. After a minute or two, he was crying softly.

“I’ve just fed him,” said my wife. “I think his nappy needs to be changed.”

Leaping out of bed like a hero, I said. “I will do it.”

I don’t know who I thought I was – some kind of super Dad perhaps. Dressed just in underpants (a sight that was pretty dreadful even then), I crept around the bed, picked up my new son and stumbled to the bathroom. By this time, he was crying really loudly (possibly at the sight of me in underpants). I was stunned that a creature so small could make so much noise. The more I tried to soothe him the more he screamed. His face started to turn red.

I clumsily extracted him from his babygrow and lay him onto the special plastic contraption we had bought to, apparently, make changing a nappy easy. It was perched on the bath. I knelt in front of it.

For a few seconds I actually thought I knew what I was doing. My son was facing me, his little legs kicking in front of me. I pulled the tabs on the disposable nappy and opened it up to reveal a vision of hell.

The nappy was full of a green-black substance that frankly looked alien to me. And it was sticky – boy was it sticky. For a second I thought it was alive. And the odour, though not utterly revolting was deep and menacing.

Breathing in, I went for it. I carefully wiped away as much of the foul substance as I could from his bottom and disposed of the contaminated baby wipes slowly and carefully into yet another plastic contraption we had bought. I was careful to avoid getting the green substance onto any part of my skin. I placed the final baby wipe into the contraption and turned back to my son. That’s when he exploded.

First, a huge fountain of urine spurted out of his little todger, hitting me directly on my throat. I reacted the same way that any other person would do having been hit by fresh urine for the first time; I screeched and fell backwards, clawing at my throat as the foul warm liquid ran down my bare chest.

As I fell, I was aware that the fountain was not stopping. The floor, the plastic contraption, my son and I were all covered in urine. It was relentless. How could a small baby contain so much pee? I had it in my hair – MY HAIR!!

When it finally stopped, I had to set about cleaning up the mess. I carefully cleaned the baby first, then the plastic contraption. I lay down a towel and carefully placed my now happy baby onto it. He watched with interest as I mopped up. And then he exploded again – this time from the other end.

I watched in horror as another lump of green stickiness spurted out onto the towel. In panic, I picked up my son foolishly thinking that would somehow stop the mess. It didn’t. He hadn’t finished. Not by a long way. And there was more pee as well.

By the time he had finished, I was covered in urine and green poo – and so was he. And the worst part of it was that the green crap had somehow found its way to my fingernails. MY FINGERNAILS!!!

My wife, wondering what the screeching was, came and rescued me at this point. She was surprised to find that I was the one screeching, not my son. “What are you feeding him?” I wailed. “Poo shouldn’t be THIS colour!”

Since then I have had a major aversion to the substances that explode out of children. Sadly I have had to cope with such trauma on numerous occasions.

Around a year later, I was playing with my eldest son, this time unaware that my wife had just fed him. He loved being lifted into the air; he would whoop with delight as I raised him above my head and lower him back down.

I was sitting on the floor in the lounge lifting him up, lowering him down and lifting him up ad nauseam. He was giggling and I loved it. Unfortunately, I overdid it and he exploded.

A fountain of vomit spurted out of his mouth with such force that I almost fell backwards. It splashed out onto my T-shirt and ran down the inside onto my bare chest. It was warm, sticky and horrifically smelly. My wife came in to see what the screeching was (me again) and screamed at me: “Don’t let any of it go on the carpet”.

There I was holding a puking child, screeching like a banshee (both of us) and squeezing my legs together so that the unending fountain of vomit didn’t splash onto the carpet.

My final tale also involves vomit. Again, it was my eldest son. This time, we were in the park kicking a ball around. He was two and I was trying to train him to be the next George Best. After a while, he started whimpering.

“Are you OK?” I asked. He started crying. Like any caring father, I picked him up held him close to comfort him. And then he exploded. He threw up all over me. Once more, the foul substance found its way under my clothes and onto my naked skin. I screeched in disgust and this time there were plenty of people around to laugh at me. And they did – with gusto.

I ran to the car like a man possessed, kicking the ball as I went, carrying my screaming child and almost puking myself. People stared at me as if I were an alien. By the time I got back to the car, I had it in my hair, all over my coat and even running down my trousers. The car was a complete smelly mess. When I returned home, I had to clean up myself, my son and my car.

There have been many other tales of child explosion in my life and they have all been revolting. Thankfully, those episodes are now over as my children are both teenagers.

I’m looking forward to relating tales of their explosions when they have become mature adults.

I think I’ll wait until the day the get married.

A Touch Of Grey

Well they’ve done it again: those guys from “Just For Men” have produced yet another miracle that has left me speechless with shock.

The good news is that they seem to be acknowledging the fact that grey hair does not necessarily turn a man into an ugly old codger who is repulsive to women.

The bad news is that they are still exploiting the deep innermost fears that most men have in their middle age.

I was eating a bag of crisps when I saw the commercial for the first time today and now my telly screen is covered with half-chewed potato product. Why? Because once again I ranted with a mouthful of crisps and poor Mrs PM had to endure my tirade.

“Who do these people think we are?” I yelled. “When a man becomes grey, does he bloody well lose his marbles?”

She actually agreed with me that this particular commercial was ridiculous, before making me put away my soapbox and clean the telly.

I would embed the advert into this blog to show you how utterly dreadful it is. However, I simply can’t bring myself to do it. I just can’t – it is so awful. If you are desperate, you can find it on YouTube.

Picture the scene.

A man is sitting on a psychiatrist’s chair. His hair is almost grey but there is evidence that the war against nature has not completely been lost. The narrator says:

“Sooner or later you and your grey hair will face an identity crisis”.

Now for me, the words “identity crisis” say “midlife crisis” and any man feeling inadequate will be punctured by those words.

The man in the advert morphs into two versions of himself; one has a full head of jet black hair, the other has a full head of grey hair that is pretty close to being white.

Sitting in the chair facing him is a sexy female psychiatrist who is staring at the morphed men with a professional air, and not in the least bit surprised that there are now two men in front of her.

The grey-haired version of our hero says “My hair says experience”

The black-haired version of our hero sneers and says “My hair says energy”.

At this point I said “Bleeuuurrghhhh!!!”

As with all “Just For Men” commercials, the miracle cure was then introduced:

“Touch of Grey – Best Of Both”

We then see the original semi-grey man, combing some goo into his hair and our narrator says:

“…combs away a little grey without getting rid of it all. Never too much; just right”

We then see the two men re-morph into a single man with black hair but just a little grey here and there and he says the following (please make sure that you don’t have a mouthful of food when you read this – your computer screen will never forgive you):

“Now I look like I know what I’m doing – and can still do it.”

And what of the professional female psychiatrist? Instead of running from the room, screaming about men splitting into two people and then rebonding, she turns into a fawning bimbette, obviously in awe of the mutant who has appeared in front of her.

Am I the only one who despises these kinds of advert? I’ve ranted about them before but they are getting worse. They are preying on our fears, guys. They are trying to make believe that you can mutate into a successful good looking man who only has to wink at a women to ensnare her.

It will not work. Instead of looking like a grey-haired man you will look like a muppet. Don’t believe them. If you are in the middle of a midlife crisis this is NOT what you need.

We are being exploited again, guys. There IS no elixir that will make you irresistible to women or turn you into a successful businessman.

Don’t forget – if you have wrinkles and grey hair, you will look normal. If you have wrinkles and jet black hair you will look like a goon.

Worse still, if you think that “Touch of Grey” is middle ground, then consider this scenario:

What if you run out of the goo before you have completed the job? You will end up with one side of your head black and the other side grey. You will look like this:







You be a complete arse and have to shave the whole lot off, which will age you even more and kick your self-esteem in the nuts.

Don’t go there – I implore you. Please, just grow old gracefully.

Boring Boring Premiership - Part Two

Another English Premiership season is over. Guess what? Manchester United won it again.

On 11th August 2008, I posted my predictions for the English Premier League (see it here). Guess what? I predicted that Manchester United would win it.

Now, does this make me Nostradamus? Should I go out and buy a lottery ticket for next week, knowing that I will surely win and become a millionaire?

No – of course not. Why? Because, as I said in August, the Premiership has become so predictable that even a man like me, who supports a team in the third tier of English football, can predict who will be crowned the English Champions. Furthermore, I managed to predict the top four – although I chose second and third place the wrong way round.

As for the rest of the positions, clubs like Stoke City, Wigan Athletic, Middlesborough, Fulham and Newcastle United let me down, but by and large my predictions were not too far away.

All this goes to show that I was right – the Premiership has become a boring season long spectacle. The games are exciting to watch but the result is totally predictable. There were one or two exceptions but generally that was the case.

I know for a fact that exactly the same will happen next season. There may be the odd surprise but I know that Manchester United will batter Wolves and Arsenal will destroy Sunderland.

I won’t repeat the previous post and moan again; I’ve said all I need to say.

However, what I would like to happen is for somebody somewhere to level the playing field somehow.

I look back fondly to the days when a club could come from nowhere and win the league or a cup. I remember great days when players actually played for the love of the club and not a colossal salary.

In my lifetime, Walsall, the club that has taken possession of my soul, has beaten Manchester United and Arsenal. That would not happen now, unless those clubs fielded a weakened team.

The heart of football has been wrenched out by the bony hand of corporate greed. We now see multi-millionaires throwing enormous sums of cash at the biggest clubs.

The romance of football is becoming a fading memory.

And, to be perfectly honest, it saddens me to the very core of my being. It used to be that Premiership clubs could compete with each other – now they can’t because we have a four-tiered league within a league.

It has been a sad season for true football fans and it will continue to decline as more and more millions come into the elite clubs.

I implore the governing bodies to level the playing field and do something about this. A wage cap would be a start. Getting rid of the so-called “big four” would be an alternative – if they want to play the likes of Real Madrid, Barcelona and AC Milan week in week out, let them do it and let the rest of us enjoy a more competitive competition.

The game I grew up with and loved is dying, dear readers, and the disease it has is incurable greed. Why else would American and Russian billionaires pump millions into clubs they know nothing about? Is it because they suddenly become Chelsea or Manchester United fans overnight? Of course it isn’t. The sport has become big business and the very soul of it is blackened as a result.

The grim reaper is hammering nails into the coffin of the game I love; he has almost finished.

Men Versus Women

I often generalise about women (much to Mrs PM’s disgust) and despite the criticism I stand by what I say.

Women are fundamentally different from men.

I’m not just talking about appearance (even I know that); I’m talking about outlook on life, reaction to ideas, inner thought processes, goals – just about everything in fact. Mrs PM sometimes accuses me of being sexist, but I think I’m being observant. We are different creatures.

I’d like to prove this to Mrs PM and to any other people out there who disagree with me. One item of proof is that fabulous book written about the differences between men and women:

“Men Are From Earth; Women Are From a Completely Different Galaxy in an Alternate Reality”

Once more I have trawled the internet for evidence, not only for your benefit, dear reader, but also to prove that I am correct. Here’s what I have observed and discovered:

SOCIAL GATHERINGS

When women get together, they basically sit and talk all night about anything and everything. What’s more they actually listen to each other and do care about what is said. They also want to know the intimate details of absolutely everything about the other females present.

When men get together, they barely talk about anything other than sport, the women they fancy or beer. The most used phrases on a lad’s night out are: “It’s your round” and “I’ll have a pint of bitter.” If a man starts talking about his innermost feelings he is ignored in favour of discussions about changes to the offside rule.

CINEMA AND THE MOVIES

Women will quite happily sit watching a romantic comedy like “An Officer and a Gentleman” or “Dirty Dancing”. They will cry and laugh at the same time. The hero will be a hopeless romantic (barely like any real man) and will sweep the heroine off her feet at the end of the film and ride of with her into the sunset to start the happiest family in the world ever.

Men will go to see an all out action film, starring Sly Stallone, Arnie Schwarzenegger, Bruce Willis, Hugh Jackman, Tom Cruise (as long as it’s not a romantic movie) or preferably all of them. The movie will be thin on plot but high on explosives and will feature a plethora of gratuitous sex and violence throughout.

GROWING OLD

Women grow moustaches when they grow old.

Men grow boobs.

GETTING MARRIED

When a woman gets married she spends 99% of the time thinking about every aspect of the big day; the dress, the ceremony, the flowers, the meal, the romance of it all.

When a man gets married he thinks about the stag party.

TELEPHONE

When a woman calls another woman on the phone, they will discuss life, the Universe and everything for hours and hours on end.

When a man calls another man on the phone, the conversation goes something like this:

MAN1: What time are you going to the pub?

MAN2: 8 o’clock at the Red Lion.

MAN1: See you there.

SHOES

The average woman owns 351 pairs of shoes.

The average man owns one pair of shoes and a pair of trainers.

FRIENDS

Women will compliment their friends. Sometimes they mean it; sometimes they will compliment even when they are envious and think that their friends have a better outfit.

Men insult their friends constantly. Four men in a pub will call each other names like “Fatso”, “Boghead”, “Squeaky” and “Troll”.

BATHROOMS

Women have 2451 items in the bathroom cabinet. Men do not understand what 2445 of them are.

Men have six items (five if they use an electric razor).

SUCCESS

A successful man is a high earner who makes more money than his wife can spend.

A successful woman is one who can find such a man.

LOVE

A woman wants a knight in shining armour; a man who is full of romance and will carry her off to heaven in a tsunami of flowers, cuddly animals and soft music.

Men just want to have sex.

DIRECTIONS

If a woman is lost, she will stop and ask the nearest person which way to go.

If a man is lost he will drive around for hours, convinced that he is on the right track; he will be oblivious to the fact that he may be driving around in circles: “I didn’t know there were THREE Houses of Parliament in London …”

MOODS

Women have an infinite amount of moods depending on various combinations of external influence. Men understand none of them.

Men have three – horny, hungry and tired.

PERFECT DATE

The perfect date for a woman involves the man treating her like a princess throughout the date. He will be thoughtful, complimentary, chivalrous, romantic and supportive. He will wine her, dine her, listen to her, understand her, be at one with her and be her soulmate. She will be able to confess anything to him and he will be understanding and sympathetic. He will be generous and give her gifts.

The perfect date for a man involves sport, TV, beer, stupidity, games and sex.

GETTING READY

Women take an eon to prepare themselves for a night out, planning the outing meticulously using colour coordination to ensure that every aspect of make-up, perfume and clothing complement each other perfectly to make her the most glamorous princess in the world. This task takes hours and hours and she will change her mind and her clothing often.

Men take five minutes and care more about that first beer than their appearance.

There are many more things I can talk about, and probably will do in future posts. Do you agree with what I’ve said above? I know that most men will do but this post will be seen as controversial to women, and maybe I will be treated as a sexist pig. To be honest, I’m not. I love women and I embrace the differences – it’s what makes them interesting to me.

I still don’t understand them but I am getting there.

Random Questions

I’ve just come across a blog with a load of random questions, presumably answered by the author at the request of somebody else.

I have decided to steal these questions shamefully, ruthlessly and with no remorse whatsoever and answer them myself. Why? Because I thought it might be a bit of a laugh.

Here goes:

Just drank 15 shots, what would you be doing?
I would be lying on the floor telling anybody who would listen that I loved them. Then I would probably fall unconscious.

Do you hate the last person you kissed?
Nope. I don’t kiss people I hate.

Ever licked someone's cheek or forehead?
Yes and unfortunately I still bear the scars.

When did you last throw up and where?
It was in Blackpool last summer. I was at a 30th birthday party and had been feeling off-colour all day. The party was good but I ate and drank virtually nothing. I arrived back at Mrs PM’s father’s house just in time to throw up in the bathroom. I spent the entire night doing the same and had to miss a cricket test match at Old Trafford the next day. I was most disappointed.

Have you ever flown on an airplane?
Hundreds of times.

What do you carry with you at all times?
My wallet, credit cards, keys and mobile phone.

What happened at 9:00 am today?
I was reading through a pile of emails.

Are you mean?
I can be sometimes.

Ever have a sleepover with the opposite sex?
Of course - Mrs PM is the opposite sex.

What was the last song you listened to?
Nazareth – Please Don’t Judas Me. Listen to it here ==> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Um6bP1TeuQU

Do you and your parents get along?
My dad died when I was 19. I get on reasonably well with my mother.

Do you wanna tell someone how you feel?
I always tell people how I feel – that’s why I am accused of being a ranting old grump.

Have you ever kissed anyone whose name started with a J?
Yes.

What holiday is your birthday closest to?
Hallowe’en. Says a lot really.

How many different things did you drink today?
Four. Tea, decaffeinated coffee, grapefruit juice and fizzy grapefruit flavoured water.

Do you think you've changed over the past year?
Yes, definitely. The older I get, the grumpier I get but I am becoming far more confident. Beware my 50th birthday in three and a half year’s time. I will be unbearable.

Who is the last person to send you a message?
A mate asking if I wanted to see a rock band at a pub.

How old do you think you'll be when you have kids?
I have two kids already.

Do you think you'll be married in 5 years?
No. I’ve been there, done that, written about it, bought the T shirt, paid the price. I'm happy as I am.

Are you waiting for something?
Yes – that elusive lottery win so that I can leave the rat race and travel the world.

Were you happy when you woke up today?
On a Monday? Not bloody likely.

If you could change your eye color, would you?
No – Mrs PM likes my blue eyes.

What were you doing at 8 am this morning?
Driving to work.

Do you like to have long hair or short hair?
Short at the moment.

Do you want a different hair style?
Bloody Hell – YES. In fact, I want a complete hair transplant. I would shave the whole lot off if Mrs PM would let me.

What was the last thing you hid?
Cat food from Jasper, our bear-sized cat. He is on a diet.

Name 3 emotions at this exact moment:
Happiness, frustration, love.

Have you ever intentionally made someone jealous?
No. I couldn’t do that.

Do you spend a lot of time with your parents?
Not nearly enough.

Do you flip your pillow to the cold side?
No.

Do you sleep with one leg out from under the covers?
When Mrs PM steals the duvet, yes.

What woke you up this morning?
Radio Five Live news at 7:00 on the clock radio alarm.

How many times have you eaten sushi?
Probably about ten times. It’s OK but overrated.

What made your day today?
Watching the finale of the current season of Lost. It’s been one of those sad days...

What's something you are looking forward to in the near future?
A weekend in Amsterdam in June.

This time last year, were you single?
No.

Are you a big fan of thunderstorms?
I love them. Next time I see one, I intend to try photographing lightning.

Do you ever think "what if" about anything?
All the time.

Who was the last person of the opposite sex you had a conversation with?
Mrs PM.

Do you think relationships are hard?
Not at all.

Has someone of the opposite sex ever told you they loved you, and meant it?
Yes. A couple of times.

Do you say hello daily?
Many times.

Are you good at giving directions?
I like to think so. Other people disagree.

If something was wrong, who is the first boy you would go to?
No idea. It depends what is wrong.

Who is the first girl you'd go to?
Mrs PM or, failing that, one of my sisters.

Do you always answer your texts?
No. I am often told off for it.

Did you sleep in past noon today?
No.

Talked to an ex lately?
I speak to the ex-wife fairly regularly.

Do you want someone back in your life?
I’ve lost touch with a few people over the years due to my own inability to make an effort. It would be nice to see some old mates again.

Is anything annoying you right now?
Yes. British politicians claiming inappropriate and possibly illegal expenses (see my previous post).

Is this summer gonna be a good one?
It had better be – I’m sick of rain.

Are you satisfied with what you currently have in life?
Yes – apart from not having millions of pounds.

Have you ever skipped school just because you were tired?
No. I was a swot really.

Anything you would change about your life right now?
Thousands of little things but the only major thing would be a massive injection of cash from those lottery people.

Would you ever date someone who thought they knew EVERYTHING?
No. I don’t like know-it-alls.

What do the majority of people in your life call you?
Dave (or “Arse”)!

Are you texting or IMing anyone right now?
No.

When is your pet's birthday?
Apparently two have birthdays in March and we haven’t a clue about Spike the old cuckoo-cat.

The phone rings, what is your ringtone?
The Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin. Listen to it here ==>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c05E6kyHu8E

Did you go anywhere yesterday?
Yes – Tesco for the weekly shop and a curry with the in-laws.

Last time you talked to your mom?
On her birthday last week.

Where's the last place you walked to?
Apart from tramping around work today, I walked to the Indian Restaurant yesterday.

Last time you had a sleepover?
Last week – I was on a business trip to Zurich.

Do you speak another language other than English?
A little German and a little more French (see the last but one post)

What did you do last night?
Had a curry.

Whats on your schedule for tomorrow?
Work again, sadly!

Whats on your bed right now?
Jasper – he’s a lazy fat cat.

You're thinking about someone, aren't you?
At this precise moment? Myself.

That was a minor diversion from my usual nonsensical drivel. Feel free to follow my example and steal the questions for yourself. Just don’t grass me up.

Anarchy In The UK

I’ve been a little more prolific today – this is my second post of the day.

Recent events in the world, and in the UK in particular, have made me start thinking about politics – or should I say lack of politics.

First of all, we have a global economic crisis, due to the greed and arguably criminal activities of bankers; a crisis that leads to a credit crunch, increased poverty and a deep recession that is chewing away at everybody’s savings.

The Battlestar UK has been caught in the gravitational pull of a huge black hole and is drifting inexorably towards the void.

Its pilot, one Gordon Brown has tried in vain to convince all of us that he and his government are steering the UK in the direction of prosperity. I have always been sceptical of anything that comes out of a politician’s mouth; they consider themselves to be champions of the UK and on the people’s side – I have simply never believed a word of it. In my opinion most of them are liars.

There has been cock-up after cock-up after cock-up; if it wasn’t true it would be an absolute joke. I’ve looked at the Labour Party and thought to myself – is this the party I voted for? And then I’ve looked at the Conservatives, led by a man who seems to have no talent whatsoever; David Cameron. His policies are based on what he reads in the red-top tabloids – whatever is unpopular at the moment, he will adopt (no matter how absurd). And it just gets worse – as Gordon Brown’s popularity has dwindled, he has actually started to steal Cameron’s ideas. You couldn’t make it up could you?

Is there an alternative to Brown’s Labour Party or Cameron’s Conservatives? Why yes – there are the Liberal Democrats, a party led by the largely anonymous Bob – or is it Thingummy Bob? Hang on, it will come to me in a minute – ah yes! Nick Clegg.

I’ve sat and watched the news, read the newspapers and seen the government’s popularity slip towards oblivion as Cameron, who has had to do nothing, has watched his popularity rise. I mean, he has only needed to sit and smile as Labour have self-destructed.

Now, however, fate has kicked the UK in the balls yet again. Now, thanks to the Daily Telegraph, our beloved government, and most of the opposition as well, have been exposed as lying, cheating and thieving blackguards who have been fiddling expenses to line their own pockets.

Members of Parliament (MPs) are allowed to claim their out of pocket expenses, mainly due to having to live in London, potentially miles away from their constituencies. Most have purchased expensive properties in the London area and claimed expenses on those properties. But they have, quite frankly, been taking the absolute piss and claiming absurd and ridiculous payments, as well as manipulating the system to maximise their income, straight from the taxpayers, i.e. me and every other UK citizen.

Here’s a list of some of the things that caught my attention in the newspaper at the weekend:

(1) An MP who “forgot” that he had paid off his mortgage and claimed payments up to £16,000. How on earth would anybody forget that they had paid off their mortgage?
(2) Another MP who claimed £13,000 for a mortgage he had paid off.
(3) Another claimed £5,000 for furniture for THREE properties.
(4) Another MP who tried to claim £8500 for a huge plasma television set and nearly £2000 for a rug imported from New York.
(5) Small beans, I know, but another MP claimed £115 to have 25 light bulbs changed at his London home.
(6) Another claimed £2000 to have his moat cleaned. HIS BLOODY MOAT!!!
(7) Another female MP “accidentally” claimed for her husband watching a pornographic film.

You can find more here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/8039273.stm

And this is just the tip of the iceberg. MPs have been selling homes, paid for by us, in such a way that they can avoid paying capital gains tax. Some MPs have made an absolute fortune this way at our expense; and the worst think is, that these MPs think that they have done nothing wrong. So, not only are we all suffering because of a global credit crunch and incompetence of bankers, the very people who supposed to be running the country and those who’s job it is to oppose those running the country, are ripping us off further.

There are thousands of people in the UK who are struggling to pay off their mortgage because of the recession and are in a position where they may actually lose their homes; yet here we have a bunch of thieving fat cats abusing the system to line their own pockets.

And the crowning turd in the swimming pool is the fact that the majority of them THINK THEY HAVE DONE NOTHING WRONG.

What planet are these people living on?

People up and down the country are furious and absolutely livid. Even those who hate Gordon Brown must be totally disillusioned at the antics of the only viable opposition.

The definition of anarchy is:

Absence of any form of political authority.

Political disorder and confusion.

Absence of any cohesive principle, such as a common standard or purpose.

The Battlestar UK has just accelerated towards the black hole. Now is a great time to become an anarchist – I think most people in Britain are harbouring a great desire to do just that. If ordinary people such as me were to break or flout the rules in the way that some of our so called honourable MPs have done, we would be sacked from our jobs immediately and possibly prosecuted for flouting the law.

The whole sorry thing is an absolute disgrace and I for one am ranting endlessly about it – and I’m not alone. The TV cameras have been out on the streets of Britain asking the people what they think and almost everybody is outraged.

We are not going to forget this. The House of Lords has been re-badged by the media as the “House of Frauds”. The worst offenders, if they are not sacked, will lose their seats in the next election for sure. In 2010, when Gordon Brown faces the people, he will suffer, as will his counterpart. The prospect of mutiny on Battlestar UK has never been more possible.

Finally, I’d like to share with you two reactions that I read today that made me laugh about all this (and I needed a laugh I will tell you):

One reader said that the British electorate must envy Ali Baba because he only had 40 thieves to deal with.

Another said that his grandfather had told him that only one man had ever entered the Houses of Parliament with honest intentions – and that was Guy Fawkes.