And another thing...........

We’ve all seen those people to whom the rules don’t apply.  You know the ones I mean:

• The one that doesn’t need to wear a seatbelt – because “they’re for poofs”.
• The one that doesn’t bother using rubbish bins – because “there’s people paid to pick up rubbish”.
• The one that drives and uses a mobile – because “I need to stay in touch”
• The one that walks its Pit Bull terrier without a lead – because “I’m hard”.
• The one that plays its music at an earth shattering decibel rate – because “it’s my right to listen to what I want”
• The one that parks on double yellow lines – because “I’m only gonna be a minute”.
• The one that rides a bicycle with no lights – because “I can see everything well enough”.
• The one that doesn’t pick up dog sh*t – because “it’s dirty and smelly”.
• The one that walks down the street at 2am yelling its head off – because “I’m awake you w**kers”

For all of these people (and possibly a few others I can’t immediately bring to mind), I have a solution.  If the rules don’t apply, I can exact any justice I feel fit.  For example:

• No seat belt.  Easy one this: scrap the car.  If the driver is still in it – well that’s just plain unfortunate.
• The litter lout.  Easy again.  Whatever you drop, you have inserted into whichever orifice we so choose.
• The mobile user.  Try hands free – that’s where you have your bloody arms chopped off.  Now use your phone; let alone drive the car!
• The dog walker.  You get muzzled, impounded for a fortnight, fed Winalot and then, if nobody claims you, you appear on one of those dozy adverts for dog rescue centres.
• The music player. You have your ears pulled off.  And then your music collection is consigned to the deepest pit in the country so that nobody ever has to listen to that crap again.
• The double yellow abuser.  You toe nails are cut with a chain saw.  This would mean you requiring a disabled badge, but due to the fact that your car is now soup cans, you’ll have to pin it to your walking frame.
• The bike ‘no-lighter’.  You are set alight.  Everyone can see you then.
• The shi*t leavers.  We pick it up – you eat it.
• The 2am yeller.  I personally am allowed (because the rules don’t apply) to come down and smash you around the head with a piece of 4x2 until your ears ring.  I’m then allowed to pull your legs off and beat you with the soggy ends.  Once you’re suitably soggy, I can try and push your face through the drain.

Now you lot chose not to abide by the basic rules the rest of us try to live by, therefore you are exempt from the society we try to create.

You cannot seek the services of the police, the ambulance service or the fire brigade, as these are services that we in a civilised society opt to pay for.

You decided to drop out.  You don’t wish to conform.  You simply don’t want to belong.

That’s fine.  Just don’t have the gall to moan if any of the above should happen to you.

Don't call us..........

Phone rings.

WIFE:  It's for you.  It's the bank.

ME: Hello.

BANK: Hello.  We'd like to discuss your account.  Can you verify you are who you say you are?

ME: Can you?

BANK: We don't need to.  We phoned you.

ME: How do I know that?

BANK: Because we phoned you!

ME:  Ahhhhh.  Yes.  But how do I know you're who you say you are?

BANK: We'd just like to discuss your account.  We're Blah-de-blah Bank.

ME: I'm sorry.  Under the Data Protection Act I'm unable to supply you with that information.

BANK: What information?  We just want to talk to you about your account.

ME: I'm sorry.  Under the Data Protection Act I'm unable to supply you with that information.

BANK: Are you being deliberately obtuse?

ME: I'm sorry.  Under the Data Protection Act I'm unable to supply you with that information.

BANK: You really aren't being particularly helpful.  Can you supply us with your password please, so that we can discuss your account?

ME:  No. Under the Data Protection Act I'm unable to supply you with that information.  I can however charge you £20 for this phone call and any additional charges that may occur by me being on the phone and not watching the football as was previously the case.

BANK: Are you being serious?

ME: Yes.  And if you'd like that in writing, a further charge of £20 will be payable.

BANK: Please contact the bank as soon as possible.

Phone goes dead.

WIFE: What did they want.

ME: No idea.  What's the score in the football? 

And this is why it's never a bright, clever or particularly wise thing to do to phone me whilst the football's on!  

Do the shuffle

Is there such a thing as "shuffle" on any form of digital music player?  If I ask my pc to play stuff at random from it's quite considerable library of music, I invariably end up with much the same stuff as the last time I asked.

Is there some kind of malignant virus lurking in the bowels of my HDD that decides (and this is a completely arbitrary affair) that what I really want is yet another offering of Fat Bottomed Girls (the song, I hasten to add) as opposed to, say Chris Isaak's 'Wicked Game'?

This virus (and let's call it Darren, just for the sake of giving it a name) also resides in my I-Phone (Oooo.  Get Me.  I gotta posh gadget.)  The strange thing about this revelation is that I actually created playlists on my phone, and yet Darren still manages to give me Fat Bottomed Girls when I really wanted Thin Lizzy's "Dancing In The Moonlight".

"Delete 'Fat Bottomed Girls'" you say. 
"Righty-o" I say.
"No more 'Fat Bottomed Girls', eh?" you say.
"Nope.  Just endless plays of 'Dancing In The Moonlight'" I say.

This random shuffle thing doesn't really exist.  It's all down to what Darren wants.

• Darren is no fan of classical music, hence Barber's 'Adagio For Strings' never appears on my shuffle. 
• Darren can't spell Tchaikovsky, so that's "The Nutcracker" gone west.
• Darren detests Country & Western (I must admit to feeling some empathy there), but Crystal Gayle has a pretty enough voice and deserves even a modicum of airplay.
• Darren doesn't recall the 'proper' 60's, so he'll only allow "Ferry 'Cross The Mersey" and "Delilah".  Classics such as "Go Now" (the window lickers anthem (private joke - you know who you are)) and "Anyone Who Had A Heart" just gather ether dust.
• Darren must be a proper Queen fan.

Darren does have one redeeming feature:
"Angels" and "I'd Do Anything For Love" have never featured on my shuffle.  (See previous post).

I know I could just delete all the stuff that gets overplayed in shuffle mode, but I also know full well that Darren still wont give me my Adagio, and even worse, I honestly believe that "Fat Bottomed Girls" is indestructible.

And the winner is...........................

It's that time of year when all the music channels play back-to-back "All Time Greatest Love Songs". 

Apparently "we" vote for these televisual compilations, but to be honest, does anyone really know of anyone who actually voted? 

TV 'delights' such as X-Brother, Dancing on Stars, Big Factor and Strictly Dull in the Jungle have all proudly proclaimed their own indivdual winners as "the viewers choice".  But are they?  Are they really?? 
Personally, I know of one person who voted once (C'mon Bubble - you can do it).  Hardly constitutes the masses, does it?

It's a bit like the National Lottery.  How many people actually know somebody who's won a small fortune?  I don't mean "My mate's grandmother's best friend's next door neighbour's vetinary nurse's first cousin twice removed" kind of knowing.  I mean actual face to face knowing.

I won seventy-four quid once.  Does that count as a "small fortune"?

Methinks I have sussed out The Great British Phone Voting Swindle".  Methinks the TV Companies that make these programmes 'invent' phone polls that more or less mirror what the popular press report each week.  "Jedward In Quit Storm Unless They Gets Proper Recognition" proclaims The Sun.  TV Company reads this and keeps them in for another week.  See how it works? 

I suppose nobody gets hurt (if you discount mental anguish at occasionally stumbling over such shows whilst searching for half-decent TV programmes), and nobody is actually parting with money on non-existent phone calls, but please stop saying the results are "what the public want".  They ain't - they're what the TV Companies want.

Oh.  And it's a toss-up between "Angels" and "I'd Do Anything For Love" for the Number 1 spot on the Love Songs thingy.

Somehow, it always is.

Why's there half a melon on your head?

From the off, let me just state that I ride a bicycle.  It allows me to get to work and back: round the guys' houses for football and occasional forays with the wife into unchartered territories (a whole blog devoted to such things will surely appear in time).

Right.  Now you know that I'm not just an angry car driver.   Neither am I an irate pedestrian.   I'm a cyclist.

The simple task of propelling a bicycle in the right direction is pretty simple.  You sit on it - legs go up and down - you steer a bit - you arrive at your destination - you get off. Job done!  Or at least you'd think so, wouldn't you?

There are a certain breed of cyclist out there that have a whole different approach. 
Not for them a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt.  Oh no.  They're dressed head to foot in Lycra. 
Not for them a red light on the back.  Oh no.  They've got half of Blackpool Illuminations twinkling away. 
Neither would they stoop to a simple headlight when they can have a flashing one that for all the world makes them look like pretend policemen.

And then, to top it all, they ride like Formula 1 motor racing drivers.

Now I'm not suggesting I'm the fittest bloke in the world (in fact, I'm pretty close to having one letter changed in the statement), but I'm only going to work for God's sake.  There's no rush.

Try telling that to the lunatic "bike lane tear arses".  They're all flashing lights and "look at my Lycra".    They won't give way to other, more sedate cyclists: they yell abuse at car drivers (who, incidentally, are also breaking the world land speed record in order to be able to say "I bloody hate being at work"): they terrify pedestrians as they fly past like some kind of fluorescent, twinkling apparition.

But the thing that really makes me chuckle about these wannabe Chris Hoy's is the crash hat (some even have yet more lights attached  - they look like a plane coming in to land at Gatwick).

I'm all for safety, but I ain't wearing half a bloody melon on my head.