A Hearty Slap Up! Or Not.

Being a seafood loving creature, I tend to eat fish quite often, though I will very rarely say no to a thick, bloody steak!

That being said, I had to say no today, as one of my favourite pubs at home recently underwent a transformation into a bar / restaurant type deal.

It looks lovely on the inside, but in reality, it’s not all that great.

The food was overpriced and of poor quality. I had fish and chips, as this was one of the few things I was able to afford. The starter was some mushroomy thing on toast (it had a fancy name, but that’s all it was) with was underseasoned, soggy and unappetising. It was generally wet. While the fish itself was nicely cooked, the batter was soggy on the underside, the chips were floppy and tasteless, the mushy peas were a mound of solid, shredded giant snot, and the whole thing was covered in salt. Thanks, but I like to be able to add salt to my own meal if it needs it.

Other than that, I tried some of my table’s other dishes; and lets just say I was not impressed. The parsnip mash was not mash, but half liquid, half lumpy vomit, the broccoli was undercooked, the chicken under-seasoned, and the bloody wrong meal come to the table for one of us.

Dessert was okay, but nothing to rave about. I can’t even remember what I had, it was so underwhelming. Something with peach ice cream in it. I love ice cream, I love peach, but this thing was nothing special.

I’d have LOVED to have started my meal with fresh dressed crab, and then had steak (blue, obviously), but that would have left me about fifty quid out of pocket. Fifty! I can go to Weatherspoons and get a perfect steak and a pint for about six quid. And I bet you, a pound to a penny, the steak at spoons would be nicer.

Needless to say, I won’t be eating there again. Yuck.

 

Things That Annoy Me: Children

Most people around will look at a baby or child in the vicinity, and their eyes light up, they rush over and go “d’aww, look at his widdle feet! Isn’t he the most precious little creature in the whole of the world?” Or they’ll find some other feature of said child to squee over, before engaging the parent in meaningless blather about baby clothes and schools and suchlike, whatever the hell it is parents talk about. Indeed, some creepy old crones seem to have a baby sixth sense, and go slithering over to the terrified new mum to coo and caw and offer some unwanted, but probably needed advice.
I personally do not find children to be the endearing bundles of joy the world perceives them to be, I in fact find them to be utterly repulsive. Especially babies.
I’ll start with them.
Not only do babies (if you are female) leech off your body by sucking out all the nutrients that you as a human need, causing you to be exhausted, in pain from backache, tummyache, swollen ankles and stuff, unable to eat your favourite, nutritious foods because it might damage the kid, then they ruin your figure and self esteem (if you care about things like that) by making you fat and saggy, in both tummy and breast department, AND they utterly destroy your sex life for about a year. If I was a man, I wouldn’t want to be having sex with a pregnant female, because there’s a child involved too. Just yuck. And, after the woman’s pushed this watermelon sized, slimy sprog out of the most sensitive area of the body, she’s just a bit too sore for sex, because, you know, she’s had to push a watermelon out her vagina. And if it doesn’t stretch enough, it’ll tear. Like ripping cloth. If that doesn’t happen, the lovely doctor will cut your vagina open for you. While you’re conscious. nd that’s just the pregnancy/birth bit.
Ultimately, babies are noisy, leaky, smelly, spewy, shitty, selfish little fuckrats. All they care about is themselves: when they get fed, when they get changed, which person they want to barf or piss on next. Fuck everyone else; it’s the baby’s way or the highway.
Once this thing that looks like a purple potato has emerged covered in the gloop from Satan’s left nostril, it sets about wailing and shrieking and screaming. And if it doesn’t, and you’re thinking hooray! Peace and quiet! I can go to sleep and forget about the fact my vagina looks and feels like it’s been mauled by a rabid fox with a fondness for serrated knives!
Nah.
The sodding nurse gives it an almighty whap to make it holler. This noise doesn’t stop for around a year or two, depending upon when the kid learns to talk. Then it’s incessant babble, but I’ll talk about toddlers in a bit.
Aside from the screeching, the horrid little leech latches on to your tits and sucks them dry. Nothing is more disturbing to me than the thought of some little parasite draining me dry from my breasts. The very thought makes me want to walk the plank in preference. To me, someone’s mouth being anywhere near a nipple is considered to be more sexual than anything (or jokey if you’re taking stupid pictures with friends…don’t ask) so a child doing it? I can’t get my head around it. I know it’s natural and all that cack, and tits are there for babies, but that is SO not my thing. I don’t like people touching (or trying to touch) my nipples at the best of times. Just fucking yuck.
Once the rat has finished sucking you dry, leaving you lopsided (if it’s not greedy, don’t worry, it’ll drain both soon) it’ll shit itself. If it’s not done that yet, it’ll come. First, you’ll need to wind the kid to stop to getting tunnyache, like the nine months of it for you mean nothing. Guaranteed, this will result in vomit. Babies vomit a lot. I mean, at least twice a day. They seem to vomit just to annoy you. Sorry, but when I burp, I don’t puke everywhere. Even when I’m overfull with beer I rarely puke. It’s bad manners, especially for the person who’s got to clean it up. That’s you, young mother!
But yeah. Shit. Babies, like vomiting, tend to shit one hell of a lot. Expect to change your kid’s nappy about 10-12 times a day. And I don’t mean the 12 hour day you’re used to, I mean full on 24 hour day. It’s going to smell like rotten potatoes. If you don’t know what that smells like, go find a small potato, and leave it to rot in a room/cupboard you don’t go into often. When it’s rotten, go in there and have a whiff. If you haven’t thrown up, it’s not rotten.
The tot’s tush sewage will also be black, tarry and sticky. Good luck getting it out of any material you have around the house; sofas, carpets, the dog etc. You’ve got to wipe its arse (the moment when most kids decide to pee all over an unsuspecting grown up, a look of glee on its malevolent little mug) and powder it, because if you don’t, and you don’t change its nappy ASAP, you’ll have the joys of nappy rash! Hooray! More screaming from said kid. You’ll need to let the air get to its butt, so no nappies for a week, resulting in you running around with a baggie and a mop for all those little accidents.
So, ultimately, you’ll get no sleep, as when the kid’s awake, it’ll be screaming, shitting, feeding and vomiting. Sometimes all at once if you’re lucky. If you get one of those rare moments when it’s not doing any of the above, you’ve got to either give it a bath, or stimulate it with toys or speech, you know, to build a relationship. Why you wouldn’t want to build a relationship between the baby and a cliff by now is beyond me, but parents keep doing it.
Then, mercifully, the thing will go to sleep. You can sleep too!
Just kidding.
If you want to be a good parent, and have no help from anyone else (as is the case with a lot of single parents, sadly) you’ve got to keep the house clean, sterilise everything, cook your own food if you’ve got time to eat, do some shopping, sit down for a bi… Oh, the kid’s awake again. Good luck!

If by some miracle you manage to get through babyhood without committing murder or suicide, I commend you. Well done! Now come the joys of toddlerhood, or The Terrible Tantrum Extravaganza, as I like to call it.
The Sims 3 got this right, toddlers need to learn how to walk, talk and shit in a toilet instead of their pants before they become children and get ridiculed for shitting their pants and crawling about, babbling nonsense words.
So, after many falls, injuries and more screaming, your toddler can walk! Congratulations. It just makes it easier for the little fuckwit to get into trouble. The fireguard by the fire to stop the kid crawling into it? As a biped, it can lift that thing right off and get hurt. The iron lifted high out of reach of a crawling baby? On two legs, it can reach up and squish its own face because it can pull the cord down. Frying pans, books, the cat’s tail, anything that can be grabbed, will be grabbed, and if the desired item moves away, it can now be chased, leading to general chaos. Any kind of dangerous situation your kid can get into, it will get into. Children seem determined to injure themselves in as many ways as possible, as if there is some kind of competition going on at PlayGroup: Who can be the most severely hurt before we hit three years old? Extra points if you lose a limb. You’re going to have to spend every waking moment ensuring it doesn’t jump out a window or under a car or off a cliff, that it doesn’t get stuck under a bed, behind a cupboard, in the oven… At least you don’t have to carry it any more.
Now for the talking. With some luck provided that neither you nor the child are as stupid as your average chav, your child will pick up talking fairly easily, provided you do it right. The thing is, once it starts talking, it won’t stop. Imitation and irritation go hand in hand here, as the brat will attempt to say everything you do. Like a parrot, but less cute. Okay, misspoken baby words can be seen as adorable by many, but to me, it’s a source of noise I can do without. If you can’t hold an intelligent conversation with me, shut the fuck up.
Once it understands the basic concept and meaning of some important words, your little bipedal shit sack will use them only to their own advantage. “Want.” “No.” “Give me.” “Hate you.” To name just a few choice words and phrases a toddler will employ to get what it wants. Indeed, if these demands are not met, a disaster beyond imagination will occur.
It’ll throw a tantrum.
You know those times you’ve been to the supermarket/coffee shop/brothel, and some horrid little delinquent is screaming blue murder because its parent won’t give it a solid gold tippex bottle or something of the like. You look at them and think “Davy Jones, why doesn’t that inconsiderate parent shut that little brat up? I’m trying to enjoy a quiet shop/cuppa/shag here.”
The parent stands there, defeated, and gives in, ending the tantrum and trying hard not to drop kick the smug look off the horrid thing’s face as everyone in the vicinity shakes their collective heads.
Well guess what new parents! That’s you, standing there in your unwashed hair and scraggy clothes, wilting in the glares of fifty odd shoppers, enduring their mutters like heat seeking sharks and wishing you could be swallowed up into the floor (because you’d get some sleep then, at least) because your disgusting little deviant is screaming and roaring like a gorilla on fire, with a contorted look of red-faced, bug-eyed constipation rage on its warped little phizog, screeching like a banshee for all to hear, hurling itself on the ground until it gets its own way.
And you give in, don’t you? It’s so much easier to buy the chocolate or t-shirt or pony than to discipline the child, because you’re so… damn… tired. Trouble is, if you give in to tantrums, your ghastly little demon spawn will learn that by having a tantrum, it’ll get what it wants. Toys, food, whatever; at home, out and about, wherever. It’ll start doing it to your friends, if you have any left by this point. Your best girl friend has a new coat, and is trying to drink some red wine or other staining beverage? Your kid wants it? He or she will grab the glass, spilling the wine, ruining coat, carpet and friendship for life. Then it’ll scream because it got wet and didn’t get its own way.
The proper way to deal with tantrums is to ignore them. DO NOT give in, no matter how tired you are, no matter who is looking at you funny, you put down your shopping/coffee/prostitute, you go out of the establishment, do not speak to the child, you put it in the car and stand outside for a few minutes, or until it’s stopped crying. You then sit it down, get down to its level, and say you don’t want to see it behaving like that again. Then you kiss and make up. If it behaves, buy it a small treat, and say they’ve got it for being good. Alternatively, before you go out, say “If you are good, I’ll do ________” something nice. If they’re bad, they don’t get it. No matter what. Remember, tantrums and attention seeking/deliberately annoying behaviour will get worse before it gets better.
I hate kids, but I know how they work.
Toddler toileting. I don’t really need to say much, because toileting means no more shitty nappies to change, and no more trouble for you, provided your kid knows how to wipe its own arse.
And now, on to children.
My dislike of all things baby/child related decreases as the child ages, as expected. The more able they are to hold an intelligent conversation with me, the more I can put up with them. I still greatly dislike kids though, as all they seem to do is answer back, think they’re funny, don’t eat properly, play up and talk bollocks. They have no concept of danger, as no one under the age of fourteen does (this age is increasing as people become obsessed with YOLO and SWAG). They irritate the fuck out of me.
There’s not really anything more I can say about annoying kids without repeating myself. Okay, kids can be charming. Some of them are clever, and have been raised properly by their parents to be decent members of society. These kids I can deal with. Sometimes they come out with something so ridiculously stupid or insightful that it’s funny. And while children, toddlers and babies are all incredibly selfish, at least they don’t judge people for being gay, or black, or disabled.

Greenday’s Well Publicised Tantrum

So everyone’s been whining about Billie Joe throwing a wobbler at some concert or another a little while ago. Apparently, he got drunk / was on drugs / is a brat and had a bitch fit because the people in charge cut his band’s time by half an hour because Usher overran his time slot.
Wait what?
Some dickhead overran his allotted time, so they cut another artist’s time?
That, to me, is completely unfair.
Sure, BJ could have behaved with a little more decorum and had a quiet word with managers and co off stage, but to be honest, if I’d have been in that position, and had my time cut with no warning, because some ignorant, moronic dickface had been inconsiderate and stupid, I’d have thrown a wobbler too.
Concerts overrun, okay? It’s part of the damned package. Artists play with the audience and have some fun instead of just singing like a CD and being boring.
What I have a problem with is one shitface doing it and making another artist suffer for it. If they were that worried about time, they should have cut Usher off when he overran.
It seems like it’s acceptable to do it to one artist but not another. What the fuck gives? Were they worried Usher would have a tantrum and sue them or something?
I don’t know and I don’t care, but ultimately, I think Billie Joe had every right to be pissed off, and people saying he acted like an idiot have a point, but in my opinion, it’s acceptable considering the way he and his band were treated.

I’d rather listen to their music than that bollocks rap that people think is music.

The Long Voyage Home

Seeing as taking a trip in a car to or from work is a disastrous and stressful experience I’d rather avoid, I decided to once again take the bus.

Though I was shielded from the dreaded cyclists, I cannot say these were pleasant trips.

Okay, the journey there was fairly uneventful, but the one home was a completely different matter.

Bearing in mind I’d been at work all day and was as thus tired, hungry and irritable (like I need an excuse) I was in no mood for irratants. On observing a child in the front seat, I nearly backed out and walked home. But, she was asleep, so I reckoned I could bear it.

Five minutes passed as I stared out of the window, lost in my own thoughts. We soon stopped at the local Sikh temple to pick up worshipers. It all went downhill from there.

The main passengers coming on to the bus were elderly Indian ladies, all wearing those pretty shawly things they do (which I actually quite like) and jabbering like a bunch of little monkeys.

Seriously, you know when you sit in a café or restaurant or such like, and you zone out slightly and become aware of the background noise? The babble and clatter? The sound that’s always used in films?

That was the bus for half a fucking hour, except it was all in old lady voices, and a different language.

I actually felt like I wasn’t in England any more for a moment or two.

Seriously though, this noise was the kind of eardrum stabbing din that would make a parrot hang its head in shame. It was incessant and unrelenting, and several times I felt myself sliding off the cliff of sanity into the frothing, foaming sea of delightful lunacy. Many homicidal fantasies were had.

If the noise wasn’t bad enough though, the woman in front of me smelled like curry. Stale curry. If you don’t know what stale curry smells like, you’ve never been a student. I know it’s a “stereotype” to say Indian people smell like curry, but this one seriously did.

I kept getting blasts of it in my face every five minutes or so. You know how you get used to a scent? I’ll bet this woman had a sensor in her hair to tell her when I’d got used to stale chicken tikka masala from last month, and her scalp would send out a pulse of old food Eau Toilette right into my poor nose.

To make matters worse, some mad old cat lady decided she’d park her big ol’ arse next to me, and spent the next twenty minutes or so trying to expel her lungs from her ribcage into my hair. I’m too scared to look just in case there’s phlegm there.

Wait, it gets even better.

When I finally escaped the noise, odour and potential tuberculosis of one bus (having to sidestep the women who sat in front of me, as they’d decided to have a conversation right in front of the bus doors) and jumped on the connecting bus, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Which soon turned into a retch.

There was a tramp on the bus, and by god did he stink.

 

I have a lot of sympathy for some homeless people, you know, life’s got you down and used you as its toilet paper, but having a fairly good sense of smell, I really don’t like being near them for longer that it takes to give them a fiver or a sandwich. Being in a confined space with one with the heating on?

Fuck.

There were also a bunch of dirty chavs in the back, swearing and playing Nikki Minge or whatever her name is, or Justin Beaver (I can’t tell the difference) like chavs tend to do. I was ready to commit murder.

Coupled with a tantrum throwing child, a woman who kept trying to engage random people in conversations about her frog collection and the bus’s squeaky brakes, I’m lucky I haven’t been incarcerated yet.

Things That Annoy Me: The Cyclist Edition

I would like to think that there are few things in life that annoy me, but the truth is, as it is with many people, that nearly everything pisses me off in one way or another.

Now, these irritants are often easily dealt with, minor annoyances that can be endured, if not ignored. Things like someone putting the spoons away the wrong way round, so your hands touch the spoon head instead of the handle, the wind blowing hair into your eye, or the Kraken popping up and eating your ship. A simple, minor annoyance that can be dealt with quickly and one that has no continuing adverse effect on your day.
I know these things can build up and make a person explode, I am just as guilty as the next pirate, but most of the time, I can let it go.

But.

If there’s one thing that annoys me more than anything, it’s cyclists. Fucking. Cyclists.
I do not enjoy driving, I have never enjoyed driving. However, in this day and age one must recognise it is a necessity, and I can’t rely on my mother to continue to ferry me about everywhere. It’s immature and thoughtless on my part if I expect that. However, rather than drive, I’ll walk if I can, or get the bus. It’s a pity there’s no sea travel in the Midlands. Sucks to be a pirate in the Midlands.

Anyway, I started my university placement recently, and as amazing as it is, it’s a bitch to get to. There is no straight bus route to the location, and any driving route is fiddly and stressful. I’d been leaving the house early every day to ensure I got to work on time, however, the damned bus would always be late, condemning me to an uncomfortable and irate half hour wait in the cold while I waited for the next connecting bus.

ANYWAY.

The point I’m trying to make is, seeing as the busses are useless (I’m looking at you, Stagecoach X17), and ridiculously priced, I decided to take the car today. Plus I had my laptop and I’m lazy and didn’t want to carry it.

I left with two hours to spare to avoid rush hour traffic. Two hours. Two, fucking hours for what should be a fifteen minute journey. The reason for this? Rush hour had already started at half seven in the fucking morning, and there was an abundance of

CYCLISTS

They. Were. Everywhere.

In the middle of the road, not moving over, having no consideration for other road users or pedestrians, nope! They just went weaving all over the place, making sure to slow right down on the corners so all people with respect for human life had to slam on the brakes and trundle along behind them at four miles an hour, unable to overtake.

Even when I pipped my horn at some bastard who thought it would be funny to cycle in the gutter, turn and see me coming and scoot out into the middle of the road, he didn’t fucking move. I swear, I’ll run the bastards down, the filthy landlubbers. If only you could keelhaul people with cars.

It just pisses me off beyond comparison, how these twats can be so inconsiderate and risk their own lives with abject stupidity. If a three tonne metal box on wheels comes roaring up behind you, you get the fuck out of the way. If you’re walking in the road, you move over, because you don’t want to get squashed. Why can’t these imbeciles just move over to the side of the road, or even better, stop to let traffic past?

Okay, I understand that it’s not possible all the time to stop, you could be in a rush, or something like that, but if a long line of cars, or just one car, is behind you, unable to overtake due to windy roads or whatever, pull the fuck over and let them past. Has it ever occurred to you that they could be in a rush? Some of these arseholes don’t even move over for emergency vehicles. “Nope, I’m a cyclist, they can go around me and all other traffic can move, but I don’t have to”.

Consider this.

That extra twenty seconds it cost that ambulance to get around you meant that somebody died.

The bloody cheek of it all is that cyclists think that drivers are the ones to blame! Sure, you’ll get moronic chavs and YOLO/SWAG type oxygen thieves who drive like lunatics, but the majority of drivers actually slow down on the roads, because hey, they don’t want to kill someone.
And what happens when a cyclist is weaving around like a drunk bluebottle and gets hit by a car coming around the corner at night? Despite the fact they’re not wearing high-visibility clothing or a helmet? It’s all the driver’s fault. Even if they did everything they could to avoid a collision, they’re still the ones at fault. It’s fucking ridiculous.

Even when I’m a pedestrian I can’t get away from them! Cycling on the pavement (which admittedly, I prefer to the road, but hear me out) and, as with the road, charging along slap bang in the middle of it, running old ladies down and sending small children flying off across the street in a one way trip to a coma. Even when I try to cross the road they’re not paying attention to red lights, and go haring off into traffic or people. I saw one son of a pile of pig shit catch an old man’s arm with his handlebars, causing the poor bloke to fall over, and the cyclist paused only to shout at him for getting in the way, then cycled off! I ask you.

(The old man was okay, just shaken, but that’s not the point)

You know, if they actually paid to use the roads like the rest of us did, and had licence plates on their bikes to identify them, maybe I wouldn’t have a problem. Maybe then, cyclists would be a bit more respectful of other drivers, knowing that when they act like twats on the road, they can get into just as much trouble as a car user.

And before all you cyclists out there reading this flip your shit, I KNOW there are people out there who do obey the rules of the road, and who are considerate to drivers, but I am yet to see one. I’m sick of being late for work/school/university/appointments because some selfish cockblast thinks he can own the road on his teeny tiny metal frame of piss.

The annoying thing? They totally do. Car drivers are too afraid of hitting the cunt and suffering to do what they deserve, play car hockey and punt the little spunk monkey into a ditch.

Riff Raff, the Well Spoken Delinqent

A very good evening to you all.

It would appear that once again, I am in the mood to write a blog, or many.

In the past, I have not been able to continue blogs for more than a few months, so I doubt this will be any different. Oh well, who gives a stuff.

However, a few warnings before we begin.

There will be swearing.

there will be awful poetry

There will be references to sex.

There will probably be a lot of offensive topics mentioned.

I tend to rant a lot.

Though I do occasionally talk about things that make me happy.

Religion will be made fun of.

As will stupid people.

There may well be boobs.

Here there be dragons.

It’s going to take a while for this to kick off, as I haven’t finished making myself into a pirate yet. Give me a week.

In other news, my 21st birthday is approaching with alarming speed, so with undue haste I am forced once more to become a year older. If I’m a little distracted, forgive me.