Wednesday, 3 January 2018

King's Lynn 2018

Feb - May 2018
There has been no blog for the past couple of months because I genuinely have nothing to say, as surprising as that sounds.
First off, an update on my bowel screening. The day after I had the screening, I did nothing but break wind more, at least more than normal. It turns out they pump your arse full of carbon dioxide (or something) to get your entrails to inflate.
So anyway, this past month or so I have witnessed the definition of stupidity and/or lack of thought. I was walking back from Tessies and trailing behind a family of five. Fat mother, fat father, two young fat kids, and a clearly well-fed toddler in a pushchair. They put me to shame with the size of their bellies, collectively, they probably weighed the same as a small family car. Make no mistake, I'm no Twiggy myself, but unlike them I don’t top my Dominoes with sugar or whatever extra calories*.
We were walking alongside an extremely busy main road when they stopped about twenty yards short of a pelican crossing to cross the road – genuinely, about twenty yards! They just stood there watching the traffic for a gap, and I repeat this part, they had stopped to cross almost next to a crossing.
I walked past and approximately ten seconds later pressed the button to cross. Once the traffic had come to a halt, as a result of me walking twenty yards, they squeezed (absolutely correct use of the word) their way past the car blocking them and carried on. It had to be a lack of intelligence that drove them.
My son and his friends knew by the time they were three years old, that the best way to cross a busy main road was to walk the extra twenty yards and press the button. But then from what I could see that family most likely approaches calories in the same way as they approach busy roads - carelessly!
For those of you who think I’m being too harsh, try this simple experiment yourselves – walk twenty yards, and tell me that’s too far to walk to safely cross the road. Twenty yards is (and I hate to use the word) literally twenty steps.
Staying with the theme of chunkiness, I needed a new pair of chinos for my new part-time job, so I went to M&S (it's where old people go to shop or die) and bought a pair. The good thing about M&S is that a lot of their trousers have an expanding waist built in with strong elastic that stretches as your (my) belly does.
However, instead of advertising these as trousers for fatties, i.e. ‘Are you a fat git with a love of chocolate, beer and pizza, and have no will power? Then these trousers will pander to your weakness and grow with you’, they are advertised as ‘Active Trousers’ what a load of bollocks, the only active part is the journey to the fridge and back.
Bad news, judging by the amount of water and white spunk coming out of my bacon, it seems as if Aldi are now using the same supplier as Tescos.
I now work a couple of nights a month driving LGV’s at a rubbish dump/recycling centre and for anybody who strongly believes in Brexit, be aware that the place would fall over if it wasn’t for the Eastern Europeans. The other night I was one of only two Brits working, the other fifteen or so were from Poland, Romania, or Bulgaria.
The Poles were pissing off the other Eastern Europeans by speaking Polish over the walkie-talkies, and as a result you would hear a burst of something intelligible (unless you were Polish) and then another voice come in a few seconds later saying ‘Speak Engish, you bas…’ the last part would be cut off, but I have it on good authority it was a swear word.

Quote of the month from a Portugesy chap:
•    What he said: "When I watch Japanese films, I have to keep pausing them for the Soup Toilets."
•    What he meant: "When I watch Japanese films, I have to keep pausing them for the Sub Titles."

That’s it for now, I just hope my life gets more exciting, not dangerous or anything, just more interesting. Matt, Craig and I are off to Normandy soon, so hopefully I’ll have some material from that.


*It is of course, conceivable that the people in question are collectively suffering from thyroid problems, in which case I apologise and send my thoughts and prayers

January 2018
Greeting all, more waffle and titillation from King's Lynn.

Staying with the playing games theme from last month, I have discovered another game on Steam - Genital Jousting. And i quote from their web site, 'Genital Jousting is an online and local multiplayer party game about flaccid penises and wiggly anuses for up to eight players at once.'

I am now worried that the next game will be vagina wobbling. This is a game where up to eight player online attempt to cross obstacles using a variety of vaginas. the game could have synaptic feedback, and the more exciting the game, the slicker the controller/keyboard, and therefore the quicker the vaggies move.

I tried to use Microsoft paint to express myself with regard to Vagina Wobbling, but it just ended up being creepy. I also googled ‘Drawing of a vagina’ to use here instead – and even by my standards there was some weird shit on there.

Or what about one called The Cunt Hunt, where teams have to track down vaggies across the dry wilderness of an all too real land called Sexscape, and excite them enough that they’ll come back with you. But then I thought about it, and with the record men have of exciting vaginas in real life, there will be a good few games left dry and unfinished, and the Boss level will be soul destroying for all males under the age of twentyfive.

I have a confession to make, every morning I check both Google, BBC news, and YouTube, to see what pedantic fuckery the orange buffoon across the ocean is up to. Some people may say ‘Gee/gosh/achtung* Jim, he’s the president of the USA, not the PM of UK, it’s none of your business!’ and they’d be wrong!

When you have somebody who has failed at every thing he’s ever done, and then was surprised when he won the presidency, and he has control of the strongest military in the world, and we, the UK, have a history of sycophantic PM’s who blindly follow, then I have cause to be worried.

Definition of irony:

Anon: Well, I voted for Brexit as there’s too many foreigners coming over here.

Jim: Ok. I need a haircut, let’s swing by the barbers to see what time they open.

Anon: Ok, that reminds me, I need to find out where the Turkish barbers are, as they do the whole package.

Ahh, good old Brexit, feeding off the deepest darkest desires, but not affecting the daily needs and wants.

 Anyway, in the United Kingdom when men and women hit age 55, they get offered bowel screening. I’m now 55, so I got my appointment through. As part of the procedure, you are sent an enema kit by courier. There are instructions as to how to self-administer, which I followed.

A question – why courier it – is there a real danger that the regular postmen and women will realise what it is, steal it, and then have enema parties? 

In the pantheon of shitty undignified things I have ever done, self-administering an enema whilst laying on my side on the cold bathroom floor has got to be the right at the top.

I lubed up the very thin and flexible tube and then spent a couple of minutes trying to bend it in my arse, problem was, it was all slippery. At one point I thought it was In, only to water the back of my ball sack.

It's at times like these I really wished I was In a relationship, after all there is the old saying 'When stuffing something up your bottom, it's better to have someone else do it.'

The whole procedure, from the self-administering, to the camera going up, wasn’t as romantic as I thought it was going to be/could have been. I don’t know how gay men, adventurous couples, and porn stars do it. The second the camera pushed its way past my sphincter, all I wanted to do was have a poo, or at the very least, fart.

I had to wonder, does it depend on the girth, the thinner the ‘stuffy-up-there’ object is, the more you want to fill the space with something, hence the overwhelming longing to shit myself; and therefore, the fatter the girth, the more full you feel, hence the satisfied sounds coming from those ladies starring in porn films.

I turned up for the procedure about ten minutes early, and whilst the receptionist checked my paperwork, I had a quick look at the magazines on offer in the waiting room, you can tell a lot about an institution from its reading materials. It turns out that the March 2017 edition of Good Housekeeping is the go-to magazine for people who are going to have other people in their bottoms. I would have been worried if the selection was Chat, Bella, or Take a Break, as i would have then expected to read my story in one of them.

When it was my turn I was walked down to the changing room by a very nice Health Care Assistant, and given a pair of navy blue paper shorts with a long slit down the bottom, and also a backless hospital gown to protect what dignity I could have whilst a team of four (very professional) nurses inspected my lower colon. I wonder if they score their clientele afterwards?

The camera was lubed up and switched on before it descended to my bottom, and as it swooped down towards its target hole, I was amazed at how hairy my arse was; it looked like it was ploughing thro’ a monotone jungle. It reminded me a little of the helicopter scene in the new Jumanji film.

I laid on my left hand side and got to watch the camera explore my nice clean pink tunnel. It seemed as if the camera thrust itself in for a good few feet, but in reality was only a few inches. As it probed and wiggled its way deeper, I started to see what looked like rust on the side walls, it took a few seconds for me to realise it wasn’t actually rust.

Near the end of its journey, the camera found a polyp, and it took the nurse seconds to remove it; for those of you fascinated by the whole procedure, just go on to YouTube and type in ‘polyp removal colonoscopy’ and you can follow a myriad of others on the journey.

And that was my Monday.

Stepping back slightly, on Friday 12th January I got a phone call from a company called Munnellys saying they had my CV and would I like a job driving mini buses and a road sweeper at RAF Marham? Hell yes. It’s a chance for me to put to good use the LGV license I paid 2000.00 for. Due to having the camera up my arse (as detailed above) on the Monday morning, I started Tuesday 16th Jan, and immediately ran in to a problem.

As it was my first day, I started at 0730, instead of 0700. They called me at 0715 to ask where I was, and I said ten minutes out. They gave me a name, Tony, and a number to call when I got there. When I got there I walked in and asked for Jack, realised I had asked for the wrong name and corrected myself to Tony. Both blokes looked at me and said ‘No one of that name here!’ I then showed them the text message from their head office with the details, including the name Tony, and they shook their heads in denial.

For the next fifteen minutes I sat in the car dialling the number the text message had given me, but either no answer, or pre-recorded message telling me their office hours. Then one of the blokes I had spoken to a few minutes ago came wandering out and asked ‘You our new driver?’ I confirmed I was and he replied ‘I’m Tony, come in to the office and we’ll sort you out.’ And..... Just like that, my cunt detector switched on.

I was technically self-employed, but the company paid the tax and NI for me, so there is no messing around. There were however, four negatives to this wheeze:
  • No holiday pay.
  • No sick pay.
  • They charged me 17.50 per week to process my pay (17.50 x 52 weeks = 910 quid), in other words, nearly a bloody grand a year!
  • I also had to pay an Apprenticeship Levy of 1.61 per week.
  • Somebody mentioned that I also have to register with HMRC as Self-Employed (this one I have to check up on).
And the fuck, fuckity kicker is – they haven’t had a road sweeper in eighteen months. Either the guy in the head office lied – in which case he’s incompetent, or he didn’t know they had got rid of it, in which case, somebody else who reviewed the job specifications is incompetent. Either way, there’s incompetence.

So long story, still long and whingy, I handed in my notice on the second day, and worked until Friday afternoon. I ended up working 4 days and, after deductions, took home 281.72.

We had a poker evening the other night, and for the first time ever, Pat won. It was also the night he didn't get absolutely blotto (a normal occurence for him when playing poker), so perhaps there's a lesson there. Thinking about it, we have been playing poker on and off for about seven years, and although this is the first time he's won, it's a hollow victory. All the money we've taken off him in the past, and all that we're going to take off him in the future, will not be compensated by this one piddly win.

That's it for January.

Peace, out


*Select according to nationality

No comments:

Post a Comment