December
2016
Since I
have been home all day pretending to be busy I have been bothered daily,
sometimes twice a day, by telephone calls on my landline, by dodgy, usually
Asian sounding, men who want to talk to me about my:
- My recent car accident – never had one, told him I don’t drive, he hung up without another word
- Microsoft engineer wanting to talk about my corrupted computer – told him I use Apple, he hung up without another word
- Man called Dan (a well known Indian name apparently!), he wanted to talk to me about the problem with my telephone line – I hung up.
- Another man called, I didn’t get his name due to his thick accent, he wanted to know if I want to block people spamming me with fake/marketing telephone calls? – Guess their greed overcome the irony of the situation – I hung up.
I am
registered on the Telephone Preference Service, but it’s not made any
difference; the thing is, when I tell some of them I’m not interested they get
aggressive and challenge me.
Most
people, no, scrap that, all people I know bar one, have a key chain /ring with
their house keys and car keys etcetera. Not a certain person I know, he has two
separate lots of keys; one bunch is his house keys; and the other, his car key.
He
doesn’t always put them down in the same place when he comes back from work,
and quite often puts the car key in a separate place to the house keys. This
leads to him playing to a game called ‘Where’s my keys’, and after some few
minutes or so the next round starts, which is called ‘Where’s my fucking keys’;
this is swiftly followed by the final round called ‘Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck,
ooh, there they are, exactly where I left them!’
New
annoying thing is home deliveries; people in the street are out working so the
delivery man knocks on my door and asks if I’ll hold it, and he’ll put a card
through the letter box of the recipient. So far, my record for holding parcels
is 9 days for two parcels containing furniture, they were both close to my
size, and that’s big. Still, look on the bright side, I’ve been here for 6
years (on and off) and it’s getting me to meet some of my neighbours for
the first time.
The other
day I was making a stir fry and put too much Fish sauce in. For a split second
I thought it was Worcestershire sauce and just walloped it in. Imagine what it
smells like when a woman doesn’t wash her lady’s parts for about a month,
that’s what both my dinner and whole house smelt like for the next couple of
hours.
More
cooking things – the other day I made a bacon sandwich and decided to splash
out on a healthy alternative to normal smoked bacon, and I bought Danish Smoked
Bacon Medallions
Look at
the photographs on the photo page and look at all the crap that came out of the
bacon, and supermarkets wonder why they are losing the trust of the people.
As an aside to this I complained to Tesco’s who said they said they would
send me a two-pound voucher to compensate and they would investigate and get
back to me. Below is the text from the email I sent to Tesco’s Complaints Dept:
Sir,
madam, I have just bought a pack of Danish Smoked Bacon Medallions from your
King’s Lynn store, and I am horrified by the amount of muck that came out of
them while they were cooking. First it was a liberal amount white paste that
was more than a little reminiscent of semen, indeed, if I didn’t have such a
craving for a bacon buttie, I would have thought twice about putting something
that looked strongly like ejaculate in my mouth. Then came the water which
spread the semen stuff around the pan. As the bacon medallions cooked the white
stuff then started to char down in to a black and brown paste and finally in to
a disgusting burnt covering of the pan. Please explain to me how; a, this is
natural, and b, how this cannot be messing up my insides? I have photographs,
or you can test this yourself. I look forward to your reply.
Jim
I got the
voucher, which was put towards the Christmas dinner, but a month down the line
I haven’t heard anything about the amount of creepy sperm in my bacon
My
sister, Father, niece and her boyfriend came over Christmas day for dinner, and
I bought the five-bird roast from Aldi, and too be honest, it was great; much
better than dry old turkey. Once we’d all sat down and started eating my
sister asked why I hadn’t made stuffing. Bollocks! I had! I went and recovered
some burnt and dried out stuffing from the bottom of the oven and dished it
out.
A minute
or so later someone else asked why there were no yorkies. Bollocks, again! back
to the oven I went and retrieved the yorkies and dished them out. Problem was,
everyone had already filled their plate and so ended up having a rather sad
rapidly deflating yorkie perched on top of their dinner.
The next
problem was Lacey, I looked at her plate and asked her why she hadn’t piled it
up? She told me she was a vegetarian. Bollocks! I had forgotten. So, she had a
minimal plate of veg. This was because the Brussels sprouts were cooked with
smoked bacon and the spuds were done in goose fat.
I’m on
Tinder now thanks to a drunken evening in Friends Tavern with Sarah, Inna and
Julie*. I am amazed at how many women put pictures of their pets on there
instead of themselves; or more disturbingly, the number who have pictured of
themselves with their daughters, what goes through their minds when they post
that: “I know, I’ll stick a picture of me with my daughter and see if I can
appeal to a pedo, because he’ll be so much better than whatever I had before.”
Jim.
*Julie
and Sarah’s husbands were there, and as for Inna, she’s in a relationship and
apparently, she’s too good for me, so she’s safe.
November
2016
Craig, my
lodger, and I mark the milk in the fridge with our names, this is because we
both swig from the bottle/container and since we are unwilling to swap spit in
bed, we are also unwilling to swap saliva via the medium of plastic 2 to 4 pint
containers. Craig has now taken things to their next level with a new
glyph, that makes his bottle tops super cool. See photos for an example.
I have
decided to cut out milk as I want to lose weight, and I’ll be honest it’s
easier to cut out liquid dairy products than scotch, so I bought some Almond
Milk. It was okay, but all you can do with it is put it on cereal or
neck-it. Whilst standing there sucking the contents out, I saw the
ingredients and being bored decided to put on my glasses and read the stupidly
small text and made a discovery.
The list
of ingredients is in order: Water, Sugar, Almonds (2%), etc, etc. In what world
is this Almond Milk? The main ingredients are water and sugar; so why is
it not called Sugar Water with one fucking almond dropped in as an
afterthought. Are they going to try this con with other legumes?
Also,
where does the Milk in the title come from? If there was milk or soya, then I
could understand the Milk reference, but the other ingredients, before anything
else is calcium and then salt. How can this be legal, it’s like me being
called a sex object, I contain some of the ingredients; two legs, two arms, and
abdominals. In fact, a surplus of abdominals, but only a blind person tripping
on an LSD tab could consider me a sex object.
The other
weekend Matthew, me, Pat and Julie went to Leeds Armoury for the weekend so I
could touch some swords, the problem was that both Matt and Julie get car sick
if they sit in the back; however, Matt decided to see if he would be okay and
tried out the back of the car, it was probably the first time since he had a
booster seat. Julie had to sit in the front in order not to get sick, where she
promptly fell asleep; turns out that sleeping in the back of the car has
different sensations to sleeping in the front.
After a
long day of wandering the exhibits we went for dinner, now my choice would have
been to go to Pizza Express, which was approx. 50* metres from the hotel, but
no… Pat didn’t want to as he said it was basically an up-market MacDonald’s, so
he bullied us in to going somewhere else; TGI Friday’s.
According
to Google Maps it was a 30 minute walk from the hotel, but when you have a trio
of clowns trying to follow the Sat Nav which couldn’t get its bearings because
we were up north, and apparently, GPS doesn’t work up there; then it takes
about 50 minutes.
Now,
remember that Pat didn’t want to go to Pizza Express because of the fact it was
a posher version of MacDonald’s; well, guess what TGI Friday’s is? Not only was
it packed and noisy, but the menu seemed to have a lot less choices than a
Pizza Express.
And to
make me even happier, some ‘cee you next Tuesday’ spread tomato ketchup all
over the red pleather bench we were on, and it smeared all over my brand new
burnt mustard jacket. In other words, I got to wear the jacket once, and then
had to put it through the washing machine.
During
the journey, Pat played both the middle class and old man cards; he forced us
to listen to radio two with Elaine Paige playing show tunes (serious suicide
music) and drove at exactly seven miles below the speed limit there and
back. Sixty-three miles on the motorways and fifty-three miles on the
A-roads; it was certainly fun to sit powerless in the back of the car and watch
all the traffic whizz by.
I have
had the end of the garden concreted over and in order that we can park the
motorbikes there, and I have had a very robust chain embedded in it so we can
chain the bikes to it. The amount of comments I have had about chaining young
women to it shows just how well my friends know me!
The bad
news is that it cost me five hundred quid, and the good news is that the
neighbourhood cats can no longer shit in my garden, which means that going out
of the back gate no longer means passing something that smells like an open
sewer.
I have
found that my writing is coming on, but I can’t type and think; I’m okay at
writing and creating; whilst putting pen to paper I can let the creative juices
flow through my brain (or scotch – they’re much the same ), but I have found
that transposing the written word to computer to be a real barrier to
achieving, I just cannot put any effort in to typing the pages, it bores me
rigid!
I’ll do
quarter of a page and then go on to Facebook, cartoon sites, military sites,
porn, fox news, YouTube and before I know it the morning’s gone and it’s time
to play computer games. It’s both exhausting and destroying my productivity,
but I have now found someone who is willing, at least for the moment, to do my
typing for me; thus, my productivity has soared.
Jim
*54 yards
for you yanks.
September/October
2016
The end
of my back garden seems to have become the main toilet for all the cats in the
local area, and since society disapproves of me using an air rifle on them I
have decided to concrete it over. To save money I decided to dig it up
myself and to that end ordered a small skip. The chap at the other end of
the telephone told me I needed a licence, so I called King’s Lynn Council and
they said it wasn’t their issue as the land was Freebridge (the local housing
association).
I then
called Freebridge and explained the problem and then heard them discuss the
issue for a minute or so in the background before coming back to me and telling
me that it’s all good and as its Freebridge land I don’t need a license.
So, I
ordered the skip and when it turned up the first words from the driver were
“Hello, mate, here’s your skip, let’s see your license.” And as pleasant
as he was he wasn’t going to leave it with me without a license.
There
followed ten minutes of frantic telephone calls and emails before the owner of
the company got involved and agreed that I didn’t need a license and so the
skip lorry which had been hiding around the corner appeared within two minutes
of the conclusion of the panic and dropped the skip off.
My
biggest fear about having the skip out the back was that some selfish scrots*
would use it to dump all their rubbish, and that has happened to a degree, but
in a rare display of manners they asked me first. I suppose the good
thing about living on a council estate populated with oxygen-thief neighbours
is they are too lazy to walk a few metres to dump their rubbish and instead
just leave on the pavement or grass outside the back of their houses.
With help
from Marc and Chris, (but mainly Chris as Marc’s a bit big to do manual labour)
I filled the skip to the brim with topsoil over the course of a very rainy
Friday afternoon, and Saturday morning a man from a few doors down came over
explained that the builders had denuded his garden and could he please take
some of the soil in the skip? He ended up taking over half of the soil.
I emailed
the skip company first thing Monday morning asking them to come and collect,
and they confirmed back that it would be gone within the next two days.
The following Monday I emailed them again to come and collect, but since I
clearly had a communication problem I asked them to collect the skip in the
following languages:
- Basque – Mesedez biltzeko jauzi du.
- French – S’il vous plaît recueillir le saut.
- Latin – Please Skip colligere.
- Spanish – Por favor, recoger el salto.
- Bollocks – El skipo collecto.
- Turkish – Atlamayı alınız.
- American – Collect the damn skip.
- Welsh – Os gwelwch yn dda casglu’r sgip.
They
turned up the next day and I breathed a sigh of relief as I could park next to
my house again.
Last
month I made bacon flavoured vodka, and it was gopping**. The recipe
called for bacon fat to be put in the bottle, it was disgusting, next time I’m
going to use lean grilled bacon and see if that makes a difference; so I have
rewritten the original recipe:
- Fry off enough bacon so as to produce a couple of tablespoons of fat.
- Put fat in the bottle of vodka.
- Eat the bacon itself.
- Leave bottle to stand overnight.
- Put bottle in freezer for a few hours to solidify the fat.
- Decant through fine cloth/coffee filter to remove the fat.
- Drink vodka.
- Grimace and discuss how disappointed you are with result.
- Pour vodka down sink.
I have
been looking at jobs, either forklift driver/operator or office manager and I
have discovered a common theme; civilians are terribly paid for the work and
hours they put in. When I look at the wages some of the jobs attract it’s
no wonder that a number of public sector workers are miserable grumpy bastards,
which makes it more remarkable when you receive good service. I am really
looking to work part time, that is to say, just the weekends, this will free me
up during the week to procrastinate.
A friend
is a teaching assistant in a special needs school, in other words she works
with disabled children, and I found that TA’s used to get an extra payment for
the amount of clothes they have damaged by the children at her school, but
David Cameron stopped it; in other words he had a disabled son, lost said son
and punished the teachers and teaching assistants for it.
In 2015
the UK gave out approx. 12 billion pounds in Official Development Assistance
(ODA) or Foreign Aid as we call it; of that we gave two nuclear armed counties,
one of which hates both us and women; we also gave a major oil producing
country a massive amount of aid. Why; are their leaders not stealing
enough from their people already and we have to top them up?
- Pakistan – 351 million
- India – 150 million
- Nigeria – 253 million
(Figures
taken from The Week)
Let’s
take a look at those three countries:
- Pakistan has nuclear weapons and persecutes Christians and women.
- India has a thriving space programme
- Nigeria has a great deal of oil
All of
the above are, or should be, should be self-sustaining states. Last I
checked teaching assistants do not have atom bombs, spaceships or oil; the
government seems to be prepared to assist other nations out of poverty, but at
the price of keeping its own people poor.
The
argument that the government is that this money buys us influence, but I would
argue that influence goes straight out of the window as soon as one of the
countries has a self-interest and all that money will have been wasted.
Pat,
Julie, Alexis (their two-year-old granddaughter) and I spent the other Saturday
at Lincoln showground walking around the Motorhome Show and had a lovely
day. As we drove up to the showground I said that I was willing to bet
that since Lincolnshire is basically a giant airfield I would meet someone I
know.
Sure
enough a couple of hours later a lady came up to me and asked me if I was Jim
Drake. Result! Her husband thought he recognised me but didn’t want to
approach me, so he sent his wife. Turns out I had served with him at RAF
Marham in the nineties for a year or so, we had a quick catch up and agreed
that next time they were in King’s Lynn we would have a proper catch up.
A couple
of hours after that we found a stall selling one of the greatest foodstuffs in
the world, bratwurst and currywurst***. We got some coffee and bratties
and sat down and then I bumped into the second person I knew, the welfare
officer from RAF Honington; we had a quick catch-up and I listened to how shit
things were and was glad that I’d left the RAF.
I saw a
woman in Tesco the other day, her shopping included two bottles of Tesco vodka
and Tesco Every Day Value toilet paper and I couldn’t help but think, buy one less
bottle of shitty vodka and then you can afford to buy Andrex Quilted and show
your arse and fingers how much you care for them.
Not too
exciting this month, let’s see if November is anymore scintillating.
Jim
*Short
for scrotum
**Gopping
– Adjective. Nasty, horrible, ugly.
*** A
variation of bratwurst (Yes, I know it looks like a syphilitic
dick, but believe me, it doesn’t taste like it.
August
2016
More
(belated) ramblings from the metropolis that is King’s Lynn; apologies for not
publishing sooner but Deus Ex got in the way and has consumed all my spare
time. For those of you who do not know what Deus Ex is, it is the most
awesomely superb computer game currently in existence.
I hosted
a poker night the other Friday and amongst those invited was Marc from next
door. It turns out that Marc’s idea of poker is to turn up with a bottle
of Jack Daniels Honey, a bottle of Raki,
and a bottle of Jagermeister, in other words, nearly three litres of spirits,
and a stack of plastic shot bomb glasses. Pat, Marc and I started
drinking beer at four o’clock in the afternoon and cooked Texas Hash (basically
chilli con carne mixed with rice). Carlos and Craig turned up at about
seven o’clock and the game commenced shortly afterwards.
Carlos
and Marc then spent the evening swapping between Raki and Jagermeister bombs,
and honey Jack Daniels and Jagermeister bombs, before going on that old
favourite when the Jagermeister runs out; honey Jack Daniels and Raki
bombs. The night ended with Carlos winning and then going home to throw
up three times downstairs and once upstairs all over the bathroom, as well as
trailing vomit up the stairs.
Marc, the
true expert of Jager bombing, got home and threw up downstairs, fell asleep on
the kitchen floor for several hours before crawling to the couch and then
mid-morning managed to get upstairs to bed and spent all day in bed.
Early Saturday afternoon the mating call of a moose could be heard from Marc’s
house as he spent fifteen minutes trying to throw up, but since his body had
gone in to self-defence mode the previous night, he had nothing left to give
except his dignity.
Pat and I
stayed with red wine and were not too bad the next day, and Craig the virgin
drinker (that is to say he doesn’t really drink, not that he drinks virgins –
that would be creepy, not to say really hard to do in King’s Lynn) was at work
the next day and so set an example for all men in the mid-twenties and didn’t
drink. Next day it took me nearly an hour to clean up, but that could
also be because I was moving very carefully.
We went
to an air show at East Kirkby airfield and had an absolutely cracking day
watching aeroplanes flying around and stuff like that. One of the things
that amazed me was the number of people who like to dress up in military gear,
those who are working as actors for the day or who brought along a military
vehicle and want to maintain the efficacy, I can understand, but the rest?
I always
wanted to be, in order; a gigolo, a chef, or a deep-sea diver, but you don’t
see me at specialist events dressed in tight fitting white pants and cravat,
chef whites or a mask and snorkel. I would be happy to wear a gimp suit;
however, I have found that wearing one for more than five minutes at a time
compresses my waist, which in turn causes my belly to push up in to my lungs
which means that I soon become short of breath and pass out.
This has
led to one or two embarrassing situations since the others involved thought it
was part of the whole role-playing scenario and carried on regardless. I
have tried a couple of lycra suits, but they are too brightly coloured and
detract from me being menacing; also, they just can’t take the same punishment
as leather.
Anyway,
back to East Kirkby, while we were walking around touching things the tannoy
announced that the model aeroplanes would be up next and we looked at each
other and said ‘sad bastards’. Then the model aeroplanes took to the sky
and they were bloody massive and fast as shit coming off a slightly warmed
greased shovel; they could have done part-time work as military drones they
were that big and fast.
I’ve
decided to pretty much take a year off work in order to concentrate on writing
to see if I can make it as an author, and I now realise the amount
self-discipline is more than what was required when I was in the RAF; with the
advent of the Internet there are so many distractions at my fingertips.
Facebook
and all the nonsense people post on there is rapidly becoming a favourite,
YouTube is awesome, and as a practising Atheist, there is loads on there for me
to watch debunking religion. The other day I wanted to research archery
to see how I could fit it in to one of my stories and so used YouTube as my
authority. Bows and arrows led to boomerangs which in turn led Quoits
which the Indians used as throwing weapons, which lead to throwing axes, and
then to ninja stuff. In other words, I am getting the art of
procrastination down to a fine art.
Because
I’m now retiring and going to be poor I have started to shop at Aldi and have
to admit to feeling a little cheated; when I buy bacon from Tesco’s and cook it
I always get a bonus – a frying pan full of water, which is quite good for helping
to flavour other things such as onions or Brussels sprouts.
Aldi
bacon seems to have no, or very little water, when you buy the bacon, that’s
all you get, bacon! I believe one of two things is happening here; Aldi,
are removing the water from their bacon; or Tesco’s, the bastards, are filling
theirs with it. Which of the two companies do you think puts the profit
worshiping, penny pinching, selfish shareholder ahead of its customers?
So I now
have a difficult morale dilemma; do I continue buying good quality, natural
bacon from Aldi, cheaply; or do I buy indifferent, water-pumped bacon from
Tescos at an inflated price; and make no mistake, it is inflated, well at least
with water.
Below are
a number of statements about the two supermarkets and their bacon, what I want
you to do is put an ‘A’ for Aldi or a ‘T’ for Tesco’s next to which ever
statement you think accurately reflects the supermarket:
- Cares for customers
- Cares for value for money
- Cares for shareholders and profit more
- Respects customers
- Disrespects customers
- Loads bacon with water and possibly preservatives
- Sells bacon in its natural state
(if
you’re struggling, I have helped by colouring in the individual statements in red or green, unless you’re reading this in black and white, in which
case use your imagination.)
As an
experiment I’m going to buy some chicken breast from each, weigh them raw, fry
them off in a breast competition, and see how much liquid they produce and how
much weight they lose; in this case it’s a win-win for me as I get to both the
winner and loser in a wrap. However, Tesco’s has Heck Chicken Italia
sausages which are the dogs bollocks (metaphorically, not literally)
I have
now linked my blog to Google and the other search engines, but not too well it
seems as I’m not getting too many hits; however, I have been cheered up by the
fact that I send the link out to about eleven people, and since the 05 August,
fifty-two people have viewed my blog. Trouble is I discovered
a couple of weeks later that the I also get counted each time I log on to
update or view the stats, so the number isn’t all that great.
This
month i am going to try my hand at bacon flavoured vodka; Marc’s going half
with me on both the vodka and the bacon, and obviously the drinking. The
recipe calls for you to:
- Fry off enough bacon so as to produce a couple of tablespoons of fat.
- Put fat in the bottle of vodka.
- Eat the bacon itself.
- Leave bottle to stand overnight.
- Put bottle in freezer for a few hours to solidify the fat
- Decant through fine cloth/coffee filter to remove the fat.
- Drink vodka.
- I have also discovered a bacon and chilli vodka which I’ll make next time.
And
finally a misquote:
Marc: “My
knees are starting to hurt when I go up the stairs, it feels like I’m wearing a
burka”
Correction:
“My knees are starting to hurt when I go up the stairs, it feels like I’m
carrying a Bergen”
(BERGEN –
a type of rucksack supported by a frame, used by the military.)
That’s it
for now.
Jim
Normandy
16 – 23 July 2016
Pat,
Julie and I decided to spend a week in Normandy looking at the battlefields,
museums, eating, drinking, French food and touching things in general; and the
week went something like this:
Saturday
– Picked up Pat & Julie from their house and Julie immediately played the
perfect flanker:
Julie: “I
can’t ride in the back as I get car sick in the back seat, and oh yes, I can’t
drive on foreign roads, but I can map read”
Jim: “Do
you have a map?”
Julie:
“No!”
And so
instantly consigned herself to shotgun for the next week, my plan for the next
time is to hire a Ford Transit van and then at least then we can sit three
abreast on the front seat. The trip down to Folkestone was problem free and we
got to the Channel Tunnel about an hour earlier than planned, but no problem,
they put us on an earlier train; however, because the trains were running late
we actually got away pretty much at the time we were meant to anyway. The trip
through the tunnel was as expected – car rocked back and forth a little and was
full of mundane middle age conversation.
French
motorways are brilliant but seemingly every few miles there was a toll booth;
to travel from Calais to Caen cost us 13.00 euros (roughly). On the
bright side there were no (or practically none) HGV’S on the motorways unlike
England where some clown driving a HGV will overtake another HGV, but since
he’s only driving one mile an hour quicker, the wonderful and thoughtful man
will cause a tailback as he overtakes at the same pace as slug has sex, not
rough sex, but gentle sex to prolong the experience, in other words he takes
the next five bloody miles to slowly overtake.
I suppose
the reason for truckers not to use the toll roads it would add another hundred
euros to each load.
Our hotel
in Caen, the Ibis Budget hotel was nice and clean and the rooms were freshened
up every day and unlike certain other hotels they actually trusted the
clientele with toilet brushes; also they were liberal with their distribution
of shower gel, none of those piddly little douche containers that had just
enough in to lubricate the insides of your arse cheeks. Truly the only
thing I can criticise about the hotel was the shower.
Quite
possibly an anorexic dwarf would have been comfortable in the cubicle, but a 185cm
bear-like middle aged man was most definitely not. The cubicle was so
narrow it was impossible to move without the clammy-cold shower curtain
lovingly wrapping itself around you; if I want that kind of affection I’ll go
and drag a two-day old corpse out of the arctic ocean and cuddle it. When
I turned on the shower the pressure of the water flipped showerhead out of its
cradle and straight down on to smack me in the face; this seems to be a
recurring theme with me.
The other
issue was that the on/off lever poked out in to the (seemingly) middle of the
stall, so that every move I made, meant I inadvertently either turned the
shower off, or changed the temperature so causing me to scream like a little
boy who has woken up and to find *Michael Jackson in his bedroom.
Julie,
who it seems is brighter than me, or has more experience with enclosed spaces
explained how to use the shower properly:
1.
Push shower curtain back against the wall
2. Turn
on water and whilst holding the showerhead and aiming it at the floor of the
cubicle to allow it to warm up
3. leave
shower curtain scrunched up against the wall
4. step
in to shower and shower body all over and under
5. switch
off shower
6. This
is important – do not touch the bloody shower curtain
7. soap
up
8. shower
off
9. dry
body
10. spend
five bloody minutes mopping up water in bathroom in order that it is a safe
operating environment
11. curse
size of cubicle and curtain
12. move
on with life until next shower
13.
repeat steps 1 -13 above
Sunday –
Pat being the old romantic he was had been in contact with Julie’s pen-pal from
her childhood and arranged for her to meet us; but because Julie knew nothing
about it and she doesn’t like surprises, when she found out she got a right
monk on and had a face like a baboon’s slapped arse for the next couple of
hours, not that anybody would have noticed, what with her being in the front
seat and all.
On the
way to the American Cemetery we stopped off at a Café called. La Cremaillere,
where It was good to see that even the French have mastered the art of shit
service. The waitress for our section acknowledged us immediately and
then having teased us with a pleasant ‘Bonjour’, left us alone for bloody ages;
that said the coffee was good, but too be honest the length of time it took she
could have given us Mellow Birds and I probably wouldn’t have complained.
For the
Americans and Europeans who read this rubbish and wonder what Mellow Birds is,
simple; think of a cup of really good coffee that has been passed through the
digestive tract of junkie crack whore and only then do you get to taste it,
that should give you an idea of the type of taste. I find that the best
way to have Mellow Birds is to mix it with lots of milk and several spoonful’s
of sugar, and then throw it down the sink and have a glass of water instead.
You can disguise the taste and pretend it’s something else but coffee, but
joking aside, if you have to actually drink Mellow Birds the best way is strong
and hot with a spoonful of cyanide or strychnine.
We
visited the American cemetery at Omaha Beach, a seemingly clinical place to be
buried, then travelled on to Pointe de Hoc, where the amount of damage
inflicted on the site amazed all, as did the stories of the Rangers who climbed
the sheer cliff face to attack it.
After
that we visited the German Cemetery at Le Cambe, which was a much more people
friendly place, lots of trees and shade. Each German soldier is buried
with a comrade, and it was sad to see how many of them were simply labelled ‘A
German Soldier’, this is because they have not been able to identify
them. I seem to remember that Brit squaddies are now offered the
opportunity to have their DNA kept when they deploy in case of the worst case
scenario. We also visited the Omaha overlord museum which was a little
interesting, just a bit small.
Monday –
We walked in to Caen and stopped off at Café Le Pavillon and had
croque-monsieur and really good coffee for brekkie, which was very nice as was
the service and a good price. It was then Julie came up with one of the
best things I have ever heard her say; sitting there she looked down at the
floor and the 50 x 50cm pebble dashed concrete slabs and uttered those immortal
words:
Julie –
“They’re attractive concrete slabs.”
Jim
(mockingly) – “So marks out of ten, with ten being granite inlaid with gold and
lapis lazuli and one being a bag of cement and a bucket of water how attractive
are they?”
Julie –
“Don’t take the piss, I’d have them in my garden.”
Que one
not amused Julie, but it did become a recurring theme for the rest of the trip.
Spent the
rest of the day walking around Caen, the only problem was that the temperature
was up to the mid-to-late thirties and very soon all were perspiring rather a
lot; me in particular was suffering big time. Because I hadn’t thought
about it again, I wore normal loose cotton boxers which soon became a moist
sweat rag and proceeded to chew up the insides of my legs at just about
testicle height. I finished up the day with severe burning on each thigh
and walking like John Wayne (wide gait).
That
evening a quick inspection showed both upper thighs were red raw with probably
about a micro-millimetre of skin left on each before the blood started
trickling down my leg. But because I was unprepared to go through the
next day with what felt like a blow torch between my upper fat thighs, I had
stopped off at a chemist and bought a spool of bandage tape which I applied the
next morning to prevent chaffing.
But due
to the fact that I’m not too bright I hadn’t anticipated what would happen when
I had to remove said tape in the evening. Pat’s suggestion was to have a
shower and the water would loosen the adhesive and make it easier to come
off. Wrong! The shower made it easier to hide my tears, but that
was the only effect it had; I was convinced that a great deal of skin came off
with the tape but a quick inspection showed a lot of hair missing but no flesh.
A
challenge to all who reading this – try being my size, shifting your ball sac
and trying to look up between your legs; I damn near had a heart-attack with
the straining I was doing to get a look. I put so much effort in to it my
glasses steamed up so I had to keep coming up for both air and to wipe the
condensation off the lenses. FYI – if you want to know what horrible is,
it’s my upper red-raw thighs viewed up close through steamed up glasses.
We
stopped off in Carrefour and I bought a pack of briefs, but the French must use
a different sizing chart to the Brits as the XXL I wore were quickly renamed ‘sweaty
nut crushers’.
Caen
Castle was very interesting and manned by very nice and knowledgeable staff and
just shows what an arse Napoleon was (from what I gather he destroyed it for no
other reason than it was bourgeois), the grounds and museum were beautifully
kept and a pleasure to wander around, the museum was closed from 1130 – 1400 as
the country was having 3 days mourning for those who died in Nice, so we
wandered off in to Caen itself for coffee.
Some
people, including a politician or two, seem to be working alongside
ISIS/Daish/Douchbag, or whatever they are called, and making this a war between
religions – this is wrong! At the moment in the middle east more Muslims
are being killed in suicide bombings than Christians are being killed in the
west.
Yes, I
realise that there are two main branches of Islam, but to be fighting and
murdering amongst themselves is childish and ridiculous, think of all the time
and lives wasted when Catholics and Protestants spent a hundred years or so of
bickering over who was right:
Catholic
– Our god is the right god!
Protestant
– No, our god is the right god!
Catholic
– Hang on, your god is our god!
Protestant
– True that, fuck it, want to get drunk?
Catholic
– Guinness?
Why
couldn’t that be the end of Christian sectarian violence, oh I know, too many
self-interests and profit. The current war, if it can be called a war, is
I believe caused by two things, and neither of them are true religion:
lack of
education. On the whole educated people are intelligent and capable of
making informed choices of what is right or wrong, at least until either
self-interest disguised as religion, politics, profit or the most evil of all,
marketing, gets involved, then all bets are off.
Poverty/inequality/unfairness.
In Europe the killing seems to be by those who have been disenfranchised by
colour (racism) and/or poverty. They wish to humiliate the target
and population that has made them powerless and humiliated them. And yes
religion is a factor, but only because it allows them or those who point them
to justify their act.
Rant
over, and yes it caught me off-guard just as much as you, and I’m sure someone
will come back to me with a rebuttal.
Anyway,
carrying on.
We
wandered down to a café called L’Ardoise which served very nice coffee.
After lunch we walked up to Abbey aux Dames which was a very impressive
building as was the church next to it and had a guided tour, which ranks
amongst the shitiest of all guided tours. The tour was all in French (way
to cater for your foreign tourists) and because the abbey is now used by local
government we only got to walk around a gallery and a couple of rooms,
seriously boring.
By this
time the arthritis in my knee decided to pay a visit and I was loads of pain
and knackered, so I sat down on some stairs while the guide gave a brief with
lots of hand-waving. When I stood up my knee gave way and I staggered
uncontrollably for about five paces and just as I was about to straighten up I
hit the wall.
It wasn’t
just any old wall, it was a wall with a two metre by two metre very, very old
painting hanging on it, coincidentally at just about hand height. Just as
I was about to slam into it, I managed to get my hand off to one side and on to
the stonework and stopped myself from ploughing straight through it; I ended in
a one-armed press-up position with my nose just touching it. You know
that expression somebody has on their face when they catch you squatting and
crapping on the windscreen of their brand new car, well, that’s the expression
the guide had on his face.
By the
time we had finished at the abbey, Caen castle was open so we spent a few hours
walking around the grounds and museum and it was very nice, but again Jim
showed all present why it’s not a good idea to go on holiday with an obese
Brit. In the museum you exit the exhibits to the foyer by walking down a lovely
staircase, when I say walking, I mean daydreaming and not noticing that there
another three steps to go and falling down them in an effort to get the
attention of the very attractive lady behind the ticket desk.
I got her
attention and very nearly an ambulance, but once I had convinced her that was
actually the way all large men from England came down the stairs she let me
limp off while trying to hold in my tummy and maintain what dignity I had left.
When we
had finished in the castle we went for a walk in Caen and was underwhelmed by
it all and decided to have some dinner. We choose La Poterne restaurant
which continued the theme of shitness for the day; the service was good but the
food fell well foul of the trade descriptions act.
As a
starter I had scampi tagliatelle, which was a real let down, it was shrimps,
they hadn’t even the decency to use king prawns or prawns, but bloody shrimps –
the cheapest and nastiest aquatic creatures around. The filet steak main
course had bags of flavour but had the same relation to filet as I do to a
great lover – it came from the same stock but in no shape or form was the real
thing. It was the same size and thickness as a shoe insert and like me was
swamped with fat.
I have
had better frying steak from the special offer section at Tescos, and not a
proper special offer, but the sad special offer counter where they put all the
food that is damaged or limp or about to go out of date, you know, where it all
goes to die.
The
miniature glasses of red wine had aspirations of being a high quality vinegar,
except it aimed high and fell low, imagine mixing battery acid and vinegar with
some red food colouring and you’ll get the picture. It was a shame as the staff
were so nice and helpful, but perhaps that was to compensate for the food &
drink.
That
evening we said goodbye to Françoise and then Pat and I went to the bar of the
neighbouring hotel for a drink where met a biker called Dave who was 69, rode a
Harley Davidson, was single and still lived with his mum, lucky git!
Tuesday –
Went to Sword beach which we walked along for 20 minutes until Julie did her
1920’s re-enactment of a rich white woman and had a swooning fit on the beach
opposite the statue of Bill Millins. So we dumped her in the shade and
Pat legged it back to get the car. We then left her in the car with the
air-conditioning running for about half an hour while Pat and I went to the cafe
at Pegasus bridge for a cuppa, again it must have been some body’s day off day
as the service was shit as we noticed the staff seemed to be having lunch
around the back and only came out when summoned. By the time we actually
hit the museum at Pegasus Bridge Julie had recovered enough to join us, but the
experience was a little tense as we kept waiting for her to hit the floor
again.
Arrived
at Gold Beach just as they were closing, so Julie quickly used the toilet and
we left and went to the Juno Beach museum, which was interesting and covered
the Canadian contribution to D-Day, but to be honest, there wasn’t enough guns
and shit, on the way there we discovered that Julie had left her handbag bag at
the Gold museum, and so had a minute or so’s panic, before calming down and
realising that the museum was closed so there was nothing we could do at that
moment.
That
evening we went to an eat-all-you-can Asian buffet in Caen, which was really
nice; problem was that Pat is allergic to Monosodium glutamate (MSG) and over
the next couple of days his foot became so painful he was practically incapable
of walking, so he ended up spending Thursday in various wheelchairs and we
wheeled him around.
Wednesday
– We got back to the Gold Beach museum at crack of dawn, well at 0930(ish) in
order to retrieve Julie’s handbag; the museum was, although small, very nice
and well laid out and also gave some local history as well as the British
contribution. From there we went on to Arromanches and visited the 360
museum there, which was quite impressive and further touched on the British
contribution to D-Day.
From
there we went on to Bayeux for military museum and the British cemetery.
As an aside, I still prefer British war cemeteries to any other; but that said
I have only ever seen Brit, German and Yank graveyards, perhaps others are
nicer. As we went in to the museum I complemented the young lady behind
the ticket counter on how beautiful France was and how nice the people in
France were.
She
replied with her nose in the air something along the lines of ‘I am not French,
I am from Normandy!’, This is the kind of response you get when you speak to
someone from Yorkshire or Cornwall. The best thing about the museum is it
had tanks, and those who know me, know how much I love touching tanks.
Looking
through the photo’s for the day I see I was wearing my pink t-shirt, and again
I look like a chunky man who is torn between being a thug and wanting to come
out as gay; ah, choices, choices. That evening we stopped off at
Carrefour and bought some food and in the evening chilled out in the hotel
garden and enjoyed a picnic.
But I am
convinced there was a hidden agenda; Pat & Julie had packed a picnic set
and I am sure that they were determined to use it in order to justify their bringing
it along. Still, it turns out that red wine tastes just as good from a
plastic beaker when drunk with friends as it does from a posh wine glass when
drunk with snobs.
Thursday
– We arrived at Utah Beach Café at 0825 and as we walked in the owner looked up
from where he sitting at a table with a group of friends and said “I am having
my coffee, go and find a table and I will be with you when I am finished” and
then ignored us. This made me laugh as this is what I stereotype French
people in France as. I say ‘in France’ because I have worked with French
Servicemen and women in NATO and they are, collectively and individually,
superb.
A few
minutes later he wanders through and takes our order for three croque-monsieur
and three coffees, and when I paid the bill twenty minutes later I nearly had a
heart attack, 39 euros (32 quid) for what was in effect three average sarnies
and three average cups of coffee. Still, Julie got to admire the concrete
floor.
Utah
museum was fascinating and gave a broader picture than I was expecting and was
well worth visiting. From there we went to Sainte-mere-Eglise and visited
the museum there, which again was comprehensive and well laid out. We got
there at late morning and the town centre market was already closing, but we
managed to grab a baguette with a large sausage which was full of fat; normally
you would say that if it was a bit fatty then it was full of flavour, but in
this case it was just full of fat, but credit where credit’s due – it was
cheap.
We were meant to visit the Caramel factory at Isigny-sur-Mer but it was closed so we spent an hour walking around the factory shop, well, Julie did, dragging Pat around, I just hoovered up the free samples of caramel and cheeses.
We were meant to visit the Caramel factory at Isigny-sur-Mer but it was closed so we spent an hour walking around the factory shop, well, Julie did, dragging Pat around, I just hoovered up the free samples of caramel and cheeses.
That
evening we went to Flunch for dinner. Flunch is something that would do
well in GB; you collect your starter and dessert, unless it was the ice-cream,
from the front of the restaurant and then choose your main course, pay up and
receive a ticket. When you have finished your starter, you wander up to
the grill, give them your ticket and they will cook whatever meat or fish you
have ordered, then off to one side is a counter absolutely laden with various
vegetable dishes from which you can help yourself to as much as you like.
The food was really nice and as a follow up, the ice-cream counter was very
impressive.
Looking
back on this write-up one of the things I haven’t mentioned is where we went
for brekkie most mornings. We found that most French eateries don’t open
until 0830 – 0930 and that when we went out to the museums and such, the cost
of food was prohibitive, so we tended to go to MacDonalds, which like the rest
of Europe, has none of this bollocks about a breakfast menu only; they will
cook you anything, but just like the British MacDonald’s the coffee was pretty
good, but in smaller cups.
On an
unrelated subject, I note that a number of the museums and restaurants didn’t
have toilet seats on the toilets in the gents; do French men crap differently
to the Brits or this just a general plan to stop blokes bowel bombing on their
property?
Friday –
We visited the Bayeux tapestry and were very impressed, the part that made me
smile was when the auto-guide said that there is a belief that the tapestry was
probably made in England; the museum was nice, but could have done with more
swords, spears and war like things. From there we went to the Le Grande
Bunker, a massive bunker near the sea front.
We
finished the day at Merville Battery and then went back to Caen and paid
another visit to Flunch where again we all tried to eat our own body weight in
fresh vegetables.
Saturday
morning on the journey back to England we stopped off at Honfleur and spent a
couple of hours wandering around the market touching things, before finally
heading home. We got to the channel tunnel an hour early, and again they
offered to put us on the earlier train, but again, everything was delayed, this
time by 90 minutes, but it wasn’t a problem as we chilled out in the sun with a
lovely picnic and still got home in time to do some serious drinking.
Jim
*Allegedly
June –
July 2016
Let’s
start with a rant – Why when you are leaving a gent’s toilets do you have to
pull the door open? Every time I go to a public toilet there is some
minger (or several) who either have had a piss or dump, and then walk out
without washing their hands.
Invariably
they have to grasp a handle to pull the door open, therefore spreading their
germs and viruses to all who follow them; in other words, the likes of me are
penalised, I wash my hands, therefore destroying the germs on my hands leaving
a blank canvas for some dirty twat’s poison to infect me.
Since I
doubt a strongly worded letter to any of the proprietors will make them rush
off and reset the door to open the other way so I has to be pushed, or in my
case – toed open, I’m going to have to start carrying hand-gel with me every
time I go to the pub or indeed any other establishment where the architects
have put zero thought in to just how minging the average British man is.
My
printer is running out of ink so I went to Currys PC World and nearly fainted
at the prices they wanted, so went on Amazon and bought what I wanted for about
half the price, but this was also because I bought generic knock-offs, but the
reviews were, on the whole, positive, and it’s Amazon so I know if I have a
problem they will help me sort it out.
As seems
to be typical with my life, I had a problem! I opened the ink cartridge
and it immediately poured all over my hands and computer desk, funny as
anything if it had of happened to anybody else. I cleaned up the
cartridge and the desk easily enough, but it took several days to get all the
ink from my hands and from under my fingernails.
Realising
I had been cheated, or at least sold a duff product, I emailed Amazon with a
complaint, and they in turn passed it on to the third party vendor, which
turned out to be First Call Inks; below is the email trail between us:
15 Jun 16
– 1st email sent by me to First Call Inks about a faulty printer
cartridge:
The 525BK
does not work in my printer and as an added bonus has leaked all over my desk
and fingers, my hand looks as if it belongs to a Dalmatian dog. Please can you
replace it? All the others seem to be working fine. Please see
attached photos which i hope entertain you as much as they do me!
Many
thanks.
You only
get one photo, it turns out the statement on Amazon that ‘The total size of
attachments must be less than 10 MB’ is actually bollocks, and it must be
substantially less; to that end, i’m not too sure you’ll be able to read the
error message from my PC screen, but it says ‘An ink tank cannot be
recognised.’
15
Jun 16 – 1st email reply from First Call Inks:
We will,
of course, replace the 525bk today for you. If for no other reason that
we found our whole email very entertaining I do apologise that it managed to
cover your fingers in ink and for your future reference would add that you must
always remove the little label tab before the orange cradle. You may like
to wait a few seconds between. I don’t mean to add insult to injury but
it’s probably handy to know. As for the Amazon limit, I can confirm that
it is not ‘bollocks’ as both your photos arrived for our office viewing.
Any further issues please do not hesitate to get back in touch.
Kind regards
Lee
Kind regards
Lee
15
Jun 16 – 2nd email sent by me in response to reply above:
Bugger,
my bad, just read the packaging. If you don’t want to replace – i’m good
with that, it’ll teach me that not all obese white men in their fifties know
everything!
Jim
15 Jun 16
– 2nd email from First Call Inks:
Dear
Jim. We like you! It’s no problem to replace whatsoever. Plus with
comments like ‘my bad’ we’re sure you’re pulling our leg at your description of
yourself!!
Kind regards
Lee
Kind regards
Lee
Anyway, a
couple of days later a new cartridge turned up in the post and was successfully
fitted after reading the instructions, so kudos to First Call Inks for their
service.
Mark and
I get to the gym most weekday mornings and get there just as it’s opening,
0630, and I am amazed at the number of pensioners who are there before us; if
these buggers keep staying healthy the pension deficit is definitely going to
get worse.
Craig and
I went to the gym the other evening (Craig’s a friend and is wonderfully
flexible – a quality I appreciate in young men!), anyway we were doing our
thing and we took notice of the other blokes using the weights next to us; well
I say took notice, to be honest the amount of swearing and noise they were
making they really demanded attention.
There was
a group of about 5 – 6 of them, all white and clearly King’s Lynn born, and all
were being as loud and as obnoxious as a group of England supporters in
Marseille, and their liberal and loud use of the words f*ck, c*nt and wanker
meant they were in effect intimidating/dominating the whole gym; they were also
of the weight-training school that has the doctrine of when you complete your
set, drop the weights on the floor so they bounce everywhere and let everyone
else in the gym know just how awesome you are.
After
about 30 – 40 minutes one of them decided the lights in the gym were too bright
and went and switched off the main lights, leaving on only a low-level light
that slowly pulsated through red and blue light – all very romantic, but crap
for training in.
In
contrast there was a group of young Brazilian men on the next set of multi-gym
who were actually far more impressive in their own way; they were quietly
talking amongst themselves and were having a competition to see how many
wide-grip pull-ups they could do. Quite a lot is the answer, so they were
a great deal fitter than the loud mouths around the corner and set a far better
example; bloody foreigners – coming over her, showing us how to use a gym
properly!
I spent
three weeks in Bristol retraining to be a forklift instructor and I stayed in
the Radisson Blu, and as seems to be the case with most of the English service
industry, all the staff are foreign; Southern Irish, Indian, Eastern European
and from the Baltics, and all of them are, to a man (and woman) polite and
friendly.
Talking
about hotels, let’s look at the difference between British hotels and American
hotels. American hotels are designed around both service and profit,
British hotels are designed around the same principles but approach things
differently.
A Yank
hotel room will have (in my experience) a kettle, a coffee machine and fresh
coffee pads, a lot also have a microwave or even a two-ring hob and, usually, a
small fridge. A lot of the hotels also have a laundry room which costs a
couple of bucks to use the washing machines and tumble dryers.
British
hotels are a lot different, you get a cheap kettle with some stagnant water at
the bottom that even a frog would feel uncomfortable crapping* in, a couple of
sticks of, in this case, Tchibo coffee, which despite its pretentious name, I
think tastes like licking a dog’s left testicle, but there is usually a good
selection of teas; and my new favourite gripe – a laundry facility which is not
a launderette, but a service.
Below is
the cost of using the laundry service in the hotel:
6 x
T-shirt @ 4.40 = 26.50
1 x
trousers @ 6.50 = 6.50
6 x
undies @ 2.30 = 13.80
10 x
socks @ 1.90 = 19.00
Total
cost = 65.80
Their
defense is, and I quote ‘They come back ironed’ – bollocks! For that
price I expect them to be silver-plated and delivered by slapper who’s game for
anything.
Nobody in
their right mind would pay that kind of money for a week’s worth of laundry, so
I went online and found a launderette called ‘At the Well’ which also doubles
up as a café (or is it the other way around?) which charged me 4.00 for washing
and 2.00 for tumble-drying, in other words, 6.00 in total; and I got to sit in
small very nice café with a cup of good coffee and perv at the female staff.
The
Radisson Blu hotel room was very nice and I had only two criticisms; very low
level of lighting and no bog brush. The level of lighting is such that
it’s virtually impossible to read any documents when the sun goes down; I
actually had to use the torch (flashlight) on my mobile (cell) to read the
control panel for the aircon. I mean it’s very romantic but I’m not here
for seduction, I’m here to study. The best way to read at night is to
walk ¾ mile to MacDonald’s (not that I would do that) or shift a side table in
to the toilet and sit on the bog.
Update on
above paragraph, I mentioned to the hotel staff how crap the light was and they
provided me with a standard lamp with a nice bright bulb.
The
missing bog brush seems to be a bigger issue; a number of hotels I have stayed
at over the past few years do not give you a means of removing skidmarks.
I’m willing to bet that cleaning ladies who work in the world’s hotels are not
paid a ‘turd bonus’ for cleaning up this shit. More to the point each
floor must have at least one cleaning trolley with a really disgusting brush
covered in a serious mish-mash of brown DNA (the worst kind).
Found a
shop that sold crispy bacon flavour vodka, but forgot where it is, for the
muslims reading this, that’s like a double dose of evilness.
Traffic
was awful so I elected to walk to the training facility each day, it was about
two miles and gave me the opportunity to see why so many cyclists are in
conflict with both pedestrians and cars. A small number of drivers were
casual knobs, but the seemingly majority of cyclists had been to knob school
and passed with distinction, that qualification gave them the right to cut up
cars and do the same on the pavements to pedestrians.
There is
an underpass at Templemead that is in the process of being renovated and it has
signs up saying ‘Cyclists dismount’. Not a fucking chance! Twice I
heard women tell the cyclists that they had to dismount, one of whom was
pushing a small child in a pushchair, and both time I heard them take some
vicious abuse from some penis busy taking pleasure from having a hard saddle up
his arse.
My
lasting memories of Bristol are the how good the city is set up for cyclists
and pedestrians and the smell of marijuana.
My next
annoyance is that Microsoft are continuing their push of American culture; they
keep changing my default proofing language settings on Word to ‘English (United
States), so as I type all the British words like ‘Favourite’ or ‘Flavour’ keep
coming up underlined in red, therefore making me doubt my own spelling.
Now I
understand that the average American may be unable to cope with the occasional
crazy ‘u’ thrown in to a word, but the rest of the free world has an education
system that caters for the thick amongst us and teaches us correctly.
Bloody Yanks, coming over here corrupting our language with their new-fangled
ideas.
The
forklift instructor course was a lot more in-depth than I imagined, I thought
it would be like the majority of military courses – turn up, show willing, play
the game, drink tea, pass the course. Due to my below average
intelligence I was studying Health & Safety legislation practically every
night and getting up early to get in some extra study.
Julie,
Pat and I are in Normandy for a week in July, let’s see how that goes.
Jim
*The
Radisson Blu kettle was empty.
27 May
16. First an insight to how much times have changed. I was sitting in the
fast lane of a motorway and looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a Skoda
trying to overtake me; twenty/thirty years ago that would never have happened –
unless of course I was driving a Lada.
Recently
the BMW/Audi coalition of wanker drivers has been supplanted by a couple of new
gits; Range Rover and Mitsubishi 4-wheel drive pickups. Other than the
tossers who drive Range Rovers clearly having lots more money than me, but less
road sense, it’s hard to pick something to criticise, well, their selfish road
sense obviously, but other than that, I’ve got nothing.
Mitsubishi
drivers however! Why would you buy, or why would a manufacturer give
their vehicles names like Barbarian, Titan, Warrior?
A quick
check of the dictionary of Jim shows that:
Barbarian
– one who rapes and pillages, does that describe the owner – a wannabee creepy
killer?
Titan –
why name a vehicle after a brand of condoms and vibrators – is this because the
drivers are a bunch of penises or c*nts. If they are not named after the
jonnys and battery operated pleasure machines it means they are named after the
original Titans, who in their own way were just as creepy; Cronos both shagged
his sister and cut his father’s balls off; and as for the rest – they murdered
a child, roasted and ate him.
Warrior,
okay that one’s not too bad, after all we all want to be a warrior, using
swords and bow and arrows and rescuing damsels in distress, just like on Game
of Thrones, where Brienne, a woman, walks the length and breadth of the
country; or Jamie Lannister, a brave knight who, oh wait, shags his sister,
much like those who drive the Mitsubishis/perhaps this one does tell u
something about 4-wheel drivers; and too be honest probably the only difference
between them and Range Rover drivers is money.
One of my
Clks is a young skinny thing (male) and I noticed the other day while staring
at his crotch (as you do) that his issue belt on his issue trousers is so large
that it protrudes about 6-inches in either direction. Now, when I joined
up you were taught to trim your belt so it fitted with a bit left over so that
after it went through the buckle there was enough left over to go through the
first tab; now they are told to leave it as it is and adjust it out as they put
on weight – which they invariably will between PAYD (shit food) and the
drinking culture (we apparently don’t have) in the military; but at the moment
it looks like he has wrapped the bloody thing around himself like a small Boa
constrictor
Staying
with the subject of PAYD, a couple of my lads would rather go back to their
rooms and have porridge for lunch or dinner than go to the mess, when I look
back on the days of how the messes used to be, it shows me how much the
military has fallen.
I have
joined Slimming World in an effort to lose weight and go to the meetings every
Thursday with Pat and Julie. The format is the same for each meeting; pay
money, get weighed and have your inadequacies exposed to the group. We
all sit around in what is basically a big circle of trust and when it’s our
turn explain why we have failed that week (in my case) or succeeded in Pat and
Julie’s case.
Most of
the people there are women and a number of them are quite inspirational with
the amount of weight they have lost; and even with their large sizes are also
rather pretty. They are also, on the whole, quite strong characters and
there is a decent amount of banter going on. The host, or compere (not
too sure of the correct spelling) is a very nice, bearded gay man, who controls
all present and reads out your gains or losses and as much as I don’t want all
and sundry to know how much of a porker I’ve been this past week I really don’t
have a problem with him (mildly) shaming me.
Including
Pat and myself there are only five blokes, and the other two are incredible;
one of them has lost over five stone and the other has lost over three
stone. I keep thinking that the only way I’ll lose that kind of weight is
to spend a few weeks in Auschwitz, or one of the kind of camps that Trump is
going to need in order to cleanse the USA of its immigrants1.
The
friend of a friend (Mark) recently dropped her phone in water, so to rescue it
she put it in rice to absorb all the moisture; unfortunately, she put it in a
packet of Uncle Ben’s microwave rice and wondered why it didn’t work.
Because
I’m leaving the RAF, the military sent me on a 3-day resettlement course, and
whilst there I had to stay in a Travelodge, cheap and cheerful sums it up
perfectly. The only two issues I had were that the bath and the breakfast
were slightly inadequate.
Now I
didn’t actually have a bath, but the lady I was on the course with told me that
the overflow was set so low that you couldn’t actually have a full bath.
You apparently had a choice of sliding down and submerging your body, but this
meant spreading your legs up on the side, or sitting upright and doing your
legs and bum. Crap way to relax after a day having your brain fried
trying to absorb loads of information; but great way for Travelodge to save
money on water.
The
shower while nice and hot, had the shower head set so low, that the only way I
could actually get a proper shower was to spend the entire period I was in the
shower carrying out a forward lunge; you know, the type you carry out while you
are in the gym and doing a leg workout. The upside was that after three
days my leg muscles were better exercised.
An
interesting factoid for you; Travelodges don’t have dining facilities; but to
be fair they do try their best, they give you a choice of one of two sugar
filled buttie-boxes (see photo page). Because I’m greedy, I accepted the
buttie-box and then walked over to the Little Chef, of which there is
apparently always one next to a Travelodge.
When I
mentioned to the waitress that I was on Slimming World and what did she
recommend, she muttered something about going to Stamford (a town just down the
road) and simply gave me a menu. From what I could see the food is not
sympathetic to both dieters and vegetarians; still, going with the theme of Jim’s
a greedy bastard, I had a fry-up every morning and a burger or fry-up every
evening.
The
upside was that the staff on the reception in the Travelodge and the staff in
the Little Chef were very nice and helpful.
I have
finished work for the next four months and yet I’m still up every week day
morning between 0530 – 0600 to go to the gym. My training partner, Marc,
is rather large around the girth and as a consequence when he is doing mat work
(sit-ups, side-sits, plank, hip raise) he reminds me of a Walrus on the beach
to such an extent that I almost feel as if I’m in a nature documentary.
While we
were training I noticed one of the guys who works there goes around with a
Swiffer type thing wiping spit off floor to ceiling mirrors, does he hoard the
used pads and then distill them down for the steroids; I wonder what his
chat-up line is in the pub?
Jim
1A bit of controversy for my
American friends
07 Mar
16. I have been finding work quite stressful and recently it got to the stage
that if somebody sent me a snotty email or was rude to me on the phone, I had
to lock myself in the toilet and spend a few minutes trying not to cry, this
coupled with me not sleeping means I was signed off from work for a couple of
weeks as apparently I was suffering with stress.
When I
went back to work I sat down with one of my bosses and had a chat about the
future and we both agreed that the workload was not going to get easier or
less; in fact, with upcoming deployments for some of the staff it was probably
going to get worse.
All the
management in PSF/PMS work overtime practically every day, and I have now
realised that between commuting an hour each way, plus going in half an hour to
an hour early every day, and working half an hour to an hour extra every
evening, and quite often working through my lunch break, I simply cannot cope
and long term I’m going to break myself even worse and require more than a
fortnight off; possibly even do permanent damage to myself.
I’m in my
early fifties and I don’t want to become a nutter so I quit; my last day in the
office is (approx.) 12 May and my last day in the RAF is the 31 Aug.
For all
us to be constantly working this hard means there is something wrong; either we
as a team are incompetent, or the workload is too great for the number of
people we have. Myself, the FS and the WO have over eighty years’ experience
between us, and the officers have been in for some time as well, so on the
whole, it’s not incompetence. So I put it down to the workload and what I
perceive as a lack of manning and a failure within our processes and
procedures.
traditionally
one of the ways to insult somebody in the military is to call them ‘Sir’, and
the favoured response is ‘Don’t call me sir, I work for a living’; that may
have been the truth half a century ago or even 10 years ago, or in the Army,
but in respect of most of the officers I have met or worked for/with their
defining characteristic is how hard they work.
Sure they
trickle in at 0815-0845, but they tend to stay until at least 1900, and they usually
take work home with them (Sometimes they forget to bring it back in, or it’s
classified material), but the point is that nowadays they are a different beast
to that of the past.
A lot of
the problems I’m having, stem from the fact I don’t sleep much, and so two
nights a week I take a sleeping tablet to at least try and get some sleep. A
couple of Saturdays ago rather than have a drink, or three, I took a sleeping
tablet and must have swallowed it the wrong way because I saw every hour on the
clock; one out of pack must be dud to make you appreciate the rest more,
perhaps next time I’ll try it as a suppository and see if it’s more effective.
The other
day at work I thought I was having a migraine as I couldn’t focus on the
computer screen, so for five minutes I sat there with my head in my hands with
my eyes closed waiting for the attack. when I opened my eyes I noticed one of
my lenses laying on my desk in front of me, it had fallen out of my glasses and
I was just too stupid to realise.
I have
discovered a new something that annoys me – extremely fat women who park in the
disabled slots at Tesco because they’re closer to the door. News flash – being
obese, having a big mouth, being common and dressed in yoga pants two sizes too
small from Primark is not a registered disability; it also gave me sight of two
rather large unsightly cameltoes that seemed to have lives of their own.
Perhaps if the tubbies parked a bit further away they could actually burn some
calories.
Maybe
Primark could institute a policy of ‘When you get on the weighing scales and
have to lean forward to a dangerous angle to see past your belly, then you
can’t have a pair of yoga pants.’ Although, that said, they may already have
that policy in force as the tubbies I saw were clearly wearing pants two sizes
too small, which means their taste is worse than I thought, or they sent
someone slimmer in to buy the pants for them.
The other
week Craig tried the soup diet and it seemed to go something like this:
Monday –
Pea and garlic
Tuesday –
potato & parsnip
Wednesday
– Pizza
Thursday
(and onwards) – Fuck it!
I’ve
heard a rumour, which may, or may not be true, that he misunderstood the
concept of the soup diet and instead of replacing the evening meal with soup,
he replaced all three meals a day with soup, and then wondered why he was
struggling with it; but I have yet to confirm it…
I’ve
started getting spam on my blog, and like Facebook it must target its content
as all the spam I’m getting on my blog is either Porn or Diet related, for
example:
‘do u
love it to have an erotic adventure with a girl, boy or man? Visit our site for
quick sex contact.’
Or:
15325-buy-cheap-viagra-
Even
randomized SEO* programs know what type of person I am
I went
round Pat & Julie’s for dinner the other Weds, Julie had made Spagbol and
had it cooking all day in the slow cooker; I did the taste-taste and felt it
was a little short on flavour and added some sea salt. Because I’m an amateur I
didn’t realise that sea salt is an awful lot stronger than regular salt, and so
ended up nearly giving the whole family sodium poisoning, the good news is
it’ll be a while before they ask me to help again, but that said, there is no
Italian family I know who puts sweetcorn in their bolognaise.
That’s it
for now & I’m counting down the days to I finish at work.
Jim
*SEO – Search
engine optimization
22 Jan
16. Greetings from King’s Lynn. Due to my advancing age I’m having a few
problems so I went to the doctor who prescribed a fortnight’s course of
laxatives and a month’s worth of sleeping tablets, the sleeping tablets are
only for Friday and Saturday nights; however, she strongly recommended not
taking both at once, and I agree. The side effects on the sleeping tablets include:
Some
people using this medicine have engaged in activity such as driving, eating,
walking, making phone calls, or having sex and later having no memory of the
activity.
I feel
that combining the sleeping tablet and a dose of laxative may lead to a new
activity being added to the list above; waking up in a brown bed. The other
concern about the sleeping tablet is, and again I copy and paste from the
internet:
Zolpidem
has become a leading date rape drug. Unlike Rohypnol
(“roofies”), which was banned in 1996. This application of the drug was
highlighted during proceedings against Darren
Sharper, who was accused of using the tablets he was prescribed to
facilitate a series of rapes.
Two
things fall out of this concern; no matter who you are, if you come around to
my house, don’t accept a drink that I don’t make in front of you; and once
Craig learns of this application, I’ll be locking my bedroom door every night.
I’m
trying to both cut out meat and alcohol for the next few weeks, not too sure
how it’ll go; going meatless is a boring and tedious procedure, and combining
that with no booze makes me wonder just how dull some people must live life.
Those who do not drink or eat meat for religious reasons must seriously get
their highs in prayer or in the case of catholic priests, bugger, let’s not go
there!
Perhaps
it explains religious fanatics – they are aware of crushingly boring and empty
their lives are without Scotch and steak, and compensate by blowing or shooting
the shit out of things. Be honest, how many atheist terrorist groups are there.
There is an exception to the wacky religious idea – Church of England, or
Anglicans in general; they get the best of all worlds, meat, alcohol and
shagging their parishioners.
Anyway as
part of this self-abuse I made a dish of
roast veg and just before it was ready without looking properly reached in to
the cupboard and grabbed the container of Bisto and whipped up a portion of
*chicken gravy and poured it over the veg. Several minutes later I realised the
chicken granules must have been off as it tasted funny. I then went to check
the expiry date on the tub and realised that I had used bloody Bisto cheese sauce.
In my defence it tasted nothing like any cheese sauce I’d ever had, and just
what I would expect stale chicken gravy granules to taste like. So question
time, why make one container almost identical to the other – idiots!
The other
day I requested the presence of an airman from another section in order to, not
quite bollock him, but stress that he had done something wrong and as a result,
let the station down. Because I’m a biff I didn’t specify a time for him to
come up and as a result he came looking for me when I was in the tea-bar taking
my medicine. Do you know how hard it is to tell someone off while mixing a
packet of laxative powder in to a cup of water, his eyes keep straying down to
the packet lying on the counter which has emblazoned on it ‘Effective relief
from constipation’?
Driving
an 80 mile round trip every day to and from work I am weekly surprised at what
I see and not in a good surprised way, you know like a free cake or a pre-paid
prostitute or gigolo; but in a ‘Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck’, surprised way or a ‘What The
Fuck’ surprised way. The number of cars and vans I see with one headlight out
is incredible; driving in the other morning I started to count them and got
distracted at number seven by somebody playing the ‘Let’s overtake & screw the
consequences’ game and couldn’t be arsed to restart it as I realised it was
0715 in the morning and I was depressed enough at the behaviour of certain
other road users.
One
morning I was behind some numbnuts whose car seemed to be limited to 35 miles an
hour and so I checked the road ahead and seeing what looked like a car in the
distance with both his/her/moron sidelights on and one headlight out. I clearly
had time to whip out and overtake, which I did, and realised too late that it
indeed a car with one light out, but in front of it doing about double the
speed was a motorbike.
As I
pulled in front of Mr go-slow the bike roared past me, missing me by about a
second and never even slowed down. A good few seconds later the clown with one
headlight tootled on by without a care in the world. The thing is, I’m toying
with the idea of taking my bike test and buying a bike, but at no stage will I
be dumb enough to ride an all black bike, wearing black clothing on a black
bloody road in the dark at approximately double the posted speed limit.
That’s
the rants over for this week, but having to drive in to work every day shows me
that we need more police on the roads, or at least more safety cameras. For
those who are against the idea of safety cameras, perhaps we can harness
technology and put artificial intelligence in to them so they only operate when
somebody does something stupid and selfish; and instead of calling them speed
cameras or safety cameras, we could call them Twat Detectors?
That’s
it.
Jim
*Yes I
know about the statement above about cutting out meat, but be honest, once
you’ve tasted chicken gravy you have to wonder how many chickens were harmed in
its making.
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