Well, in the immortal words of
Dave Grohl as he stepped onto the stage at The Cheese and Grain in Frome all
those months ago (have I told you that story?), IT'S BEEN A LOOOOOOONG
TIME! Life just got busy and I didn't have time to sit and rant......but
normal service is now being resumed.....
Now, I'm not going to bother
telling you the whole Curry's story, it's old news and you've all heard it
however, this happened a little while ago (I wrote it when it happened in about
February but didn't finish it because I got sidetracked by bloody Curry's!)....
I know this is old news but WHY
OH WHY OH WHY do I bother ringing up call centres? I ordered a
very long, very heavy set of blinds for my patio doors, and inevitably, when Mr
Yodel delivered them, he'd squashed the well-over-8 foot long package into his
fucking Mini Clubman, and they were damaged. I did mention the squashed
package to Mr Look-At-My-Face-I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck-About-Your-Squashed-Package
as I stupidly signed for the delivery, I don't know why I even took it, but I
did. Anyway, once we opened it and confirmed it was indeed damaged, I
went onto the catalogue website to book a return, however due to the size of
the package it directed me to phone their helpline instead (and boy I bet
they're regretting it now). So I rang up. Unfortunately, there was
somewhat of a language barrier between me and the customer service
operator. I explained that the item was damaged and that I'd like to
arrange for it to be collected. To cut a long and tedious story short, it
took me slightly short of half an hour to a) make myself understood and b)
understand what he was on about. He said (I think) 'oh no, we can't
collect it, you will have to take it to the post office because it's less than
10kg', so I explained that whilst it indeed IS slightly less than 10kg, it's
also well over 8 foot long, and that me being little more than 5 foot and
having a gammy leg would find it very difficult to carry it the 20 minute walk
to the nearest post office. 'Well I will try and book a courier with
Yodel', he said 'but I don't think they can pick it up DUE TO THE SIZE'.
SORRY WHAT? THEY FUCKING WELL DELIVERED IT, WHY CAN'T THEY PICK IT
UP? Anyway, after much insistence on my part, the booking was made.
The delivery/collection man arrived about 6pm today to pick it up - the very
same chap that delivered the damaged item approximately 24 HOURS AGO.
Now, if you'd delivered something to my house approximately 24 HOURS AGO, you'd
probably remember, because of the way my estate is designed, you have to park
on a road then walk along a 40 foot path before you get to my front door - that
coupled with the fact that you'd delivered an 8 foot long package approximately
24 HOURS AGO, I'm sure you'd know you'd been to this very same house
approximately 24 HOURS AGO. He said 'ah, so when was this delivered?' -
ARE YOU FUCKING TRIPPING MATE? 'Yesterday.' 'Ah, so is it damaged?'
YOU FUCKING WHAT? There is now a Yodel man walking around Wiltshire
like he's got a 8 foot long pole up his ass.
Back to the present day.
On Wednesday, in my lunch break, I went to Tesco's. (No shit, I hear you
cry). It was Wednesday so it was fairly quiet, there was only about
20 customers in there. This is a fact - about 18 of those customers were
UTTER FUCKING CUNTS. Before I even got in the store I knew it was a bad
idea - I pulled into the car park, pulled my car round and started to swing
into a space and a lady was just walking across the front of my car with her
trolley so I politely smiled and waited and she smiled back and then - do you
know what the utter NIPPLE did? She walked INTO THE SPACE SHE COULD
CLEARLY SEE I WAS SWINGING INTO, WITH HER TROLLEY, AND THEN STARTED
LOADING HER CAR THROUGH THE SIDE PASSENGER DOOR. RIGHT IN MY WAY.
So I had to reverse back in order to drive off at speed and swing into a space
on the other row while shouting YOU STUPID FUCKING SACK OF SHIT out of the
window. And then I get in the store to be confronted with more fucking
PLANKTON. Standing three abreast at the end of the checkout to have a
chat - putting a pushchair right across the end of the shaving gel aisle and
then not even moving when a polite 'excuse me' is offered, meaning I knocked
over a cardboard display full of fucking sanitary towels over - an old man
taking forty minutes to decide whether to pick up cod or haddock - and even a
staff member manouvering his stock trolley in front of the salad bowls and
making me stretch my five foot tall body to impossible proportions to reach a
bag of fucking leaves. LEAVES I ASK YOU. Who eats
leaves? I'm not a panda, although I have given myself two black eyes
running down the stairs before now. Anyway, when I'm Prime Minister I
will make it illegal to shop in Tesco's if you're a prick.
Now, because I'm clearly so
good at life and adulting, I have started to receive 'agony aunt' type letters
asking for my advice on various situations (I haven't, I'm making this up for
your amusement but they will be based on real life cuntery I have
witnessed). So please read on for the first in an occasional
series of 'Sorting Out Your Shit, with Aunty Margie'.....
Dear Aunty Margie
I don't have many friends,
so spend a lot of time scouring the Spotted pages on Facebook for anything that
might interest me. In addition to being a billy-no-mates, I have a
digestive issue which causes me to load my pants at inopportune moments.
Just recently on one of the Spotted pages, an anonymous poster was asking for
volunteers to try a new herbal-based concoction for people with wrecked guts, you
didn't even have to meet the person, you just sent them a message with your
details and they would send you the product in the post. Well, with my
bowels, you can imagine, I jumped at the chance, and whizzed my details off to
the absolutely-unknown-and-in-no-way-qualified-to-fuck-around-with-science
dingus who posted the offer. To cut a long story short - I received the
mystery herbal substance, took it without hesitation and now my gizzards have
fell into my shoes. I want to sue the person who sent it, but my
solicitor told me that I have no case because 'I'm a dozy, gullible
twat'. What should I do?
from Dave
Browntrouser of Shepton Mallet
Dear Dave
Here's what you should
do. Buy a cork and don't be such a dozy, gullible twat.
love Auntie Margie
Yes, that was an actual real
post on Spotted Shitsville - an anonymous person offering a herbal remedy for
ass problems and literally fucking hundreds of people saying YES PLEASE SEND ME
SOME. You all deserve your assholes to turn inside out, you TWATS!
Well, what a bloody joke! The massive 55 inch telly we bought LESS THAN THREE MONTHS AGO has fucking broke already! It was TWO AND A HALF GRAND FOR FUCK'S SAKE! (I say 'we bought', what I mean is 'he bought' - but what's his is mine, and what's mine is mine, right?). It was his own fault - he put the rugby on yesterday - now any self-respecting telly is going to spontaneously combust if you put that pile of old shite on it. He's not happy AT ALL. They collected it today to take it away for repair, and the jolly chap at the end of the helpline, who sounded suspiciously like Joe Lycett (who we're going to see in a couple of weeks, comedy gig fans), said 'it will be back with you on SATURDAY' - that's SATURDAY - SIX WHOLE FUCKING DAYS I'm going to have to spend watching a tiny telly in the bedroom! We only use that telly for porn! Better get the screen wipes out!
Now, I've had a moan about this on Facebook already, but I'm going to moan about it again. It's the time of year when it rains. And rains make floods. And floods make people turn into ABSOLUTE FUCKING TWATS. There's a particular road nearby that floods every single time it rains, it's near a river and the road always ends up blocked. The highways people always put the 'road closed' signs up, but there is always at least one, and usual more, total JAPSEYE who thinks 'ah, fuck it, my Clio will easily make it through that three foot high puddle' - within yminutes there's a picture on Facebook of the massive TOOL stood on his car roof, steam coming out of the bonnet, mobile in hand, ringing the fucking fire brigade. They then have to go and tow the cunt out. Never mind that they could be doing something far more important, like SAVING AN ACTUAL INTELLIGENT PERSON'S LIFE. Oh no, they are wasting their precious time and resources rescuing a fucking pea-brained SKIDMARK because they thought they'd try and be clever by ignoring the flood sign. Now, when I'm Prime Minister, things are going to fucking change, let me tell you. Here is my manifesto - if you drive into a flood and get stuck, you must get yourself rescued, don't ring 999. If you call the fire brigade, my new law says that they have to tell you to 'go and fuck yourself, you RECTAL WART' and then send you a bill for a thousand pounds for blocking their phone line with your nonsense call. Then, when you eventually sort out your own rescue, I will have your car crushed and your driving licence permanently revoked. Then, I will send Phil Mitchell round to pound your snivelling face into the ground. Then I'll have you shot. Got that? Good.
Things that annoy me #7932 - people that say 'burglarize'. It's burgled, you nobs. You live in Wiltshire, not fucking Texas.
Today's Fun Fish Fact - there is a thing called a bony-eared assfish.
The NHS is in the news a lot at the moment. Today, even Trump, the man with a face like a melted spacehopper, has started having a go about it. We all know it's in crisis, despite the dedicated, hard-working and probably absolutely knackered staff trying their best to deliver a Harrod's service with a Happy Shopper budget. The fault certainly doesn't lie with them. But who the fuck does he think he is, to criticize our NHS? This is a man who thinks it's fine for everyone to own a fucking gun, causing hundreds of deaths and injuries each year in the US, but doesn't think everyone should have access to hospital treatment when they need their blown-off face rebuilding. We recently had cause to call the NHS helpline for the old man, at 5pm on a Friday afternoon - their advice was that he needed to be seen by a medical professional within a few hours, however they said because it was still within surgery hours, we had to ring the surgery to see if he could have an appointment that evening - that's right, at 5pm on a Friday afternoon - well I didn't hold my breath, however I should have had more faith, as I rang the surgery, explained the issue, and by 5.45pm he'd been seen by a doctor and given appropriate medication. All for £8.60. Can't fault that, but of course there are people that are waiting unacceptable lengths of time for treatment and not getting a decent service. But it's a bit like someone slagging off my brother - I'm allowed to call him a beardy ginger twat, but WOE BETIDE anyone else is mean to him, or they'll suffer my wrath! So, Donald Bumhole, sort your own fucking house out before poking your nose into ours, fuck off and mind your own business!
When I was a teenager, I was, and still am, a HEAVY METAL fan, however, I did like to keep abreast of all types of music in the hit parade, and celebrities in general. In the 80s, rapping and hip hop became quite popular, and there were all sorts of brilliant rappers called brilliant things like Grandmaster Flash, MC Hammer, LL Cool J and The Fresh Prince (although DJ Jazzy Jeff was a bit of a bellend's name), and celebrities had normal, actual proper names like John Craven, Angela Rippon and Grotbags. These days, I have no real interest in what's hip, hop and happening on Top of the Pops (does Jimmy Savile still present it?) and I couldn't give a flying fuck what Kim Krapdashian has called her latest sperm donation from Kanye Ballsack, however, I have noticed that celebrities these days have some of the absolutely shittest names ever. For example - apparently there's a singer who calls himself 'The Weeknd' - what the chuff does that mean? His real name is Abel - although clearly he wasn't able to think of a decent fucking stage name. Also there's a prick on telly that calls himself 'The Situation' - how pretentious is that? The only situation you need to be in mate is one at A+E, with a cricket bat round your chops. Although saying that, back in the olden days there was an 'actress' on Emmerdale Farm (I know, 'actress' is stretching it a bit) who was named Malandra, after her own parents, Malcolm and Sandra. All I can say is thank fuck her parents weren't called Floyd and Angela.
(This comes with the warning that I have just eaten some incredibly strong cheese and therefore my mind might not be operating on a wholly rational level)
Hello there! I hope you all had a lovely Christmas (well, most of you - some of you are twats). I spent Christmas Day with family, managed not to kill anyone, and then spent a lovely couple of days ALL BY MYSELF watching three months' worth of Casualty and Holby City. Thank FUCK that greasy Mr De Luca took a bullet to the spleen! Urgh! We spent a quiet New Year's Eve night in, just the two of us and a bottle of bubbly, and received a lovely Snapchat video of the kid in a toilet holding back her mate's hair so she could send the contents of her stomach to the sea to make room for more vodka *proudmumface*
Anyway, 2017. Who'd have thought that the glowing citrus candy-floss haired dog turd would not have been assassinated by now? What is the world coming to? So there's nutters that take out good people like John Lennon, Jill Dando and John F Kennedy (can you only be offed by a madman if your name begins with J?) but not one to be a hero and save the earth now? The mind boggles. Anyway, I did a lot of my favourite hobby this year of seeing great bands and comedians - Foo Fighters x 2 (did I mention I saw them at a very intimate gig at the Cheese and Grain in Frome?), Robbie Williams, Guns N Roses, Iron Maiden, Royal Blood, Jimmy Carr, Greg Davies. We didn't do a lot of our other favourite hobby of watching fast motorbikes whizzing past us while stood in the pissing rain, due to the old man's incapacitated leg, however hopefully this is on the mend and we can resume our normal bike timetable this year.
Sadly, we lost our lovely Grandad this year - a man who has left the fantastic legacy of two particular phrases that are said almost daily in our house. The first is 'you know, him with the wanky eye' and the second 'milking a frog, Rache?'. I'd love to explain these to you, but I'm not going to, as I think they are more fun when you don't know the context. But please feel free to take them and use them as you see fit, and when you do, think of Prickly George.
Well there hasn't been much swearing or potentially offensive content yet, but I'm sure I can rectify that now. WHAT IN THE NAME OF FUCK HAS QUICHE GOT TO DO WITH REMEMBRANCE DAY? Yes, I know I'm a little late to the subject, but I've been busy. But in keeping with most of my other rantings, I'm going to whinge about Tesco. A couple of days before November 11th, we went shopping, and to my utter bewilderment, a couple of members of staff were stood by the deli counter, standing back admiring their handiwork - they had painted some poppies on the display along with the words 'Lest We Forget'. Lest we forget what? The fucking Branston pickle? WHAT? WHAT? WHY? Why did they think this was appropriate? You can see it now - those poor, frightened young men, being blown to absolute fuck in the trenches, and for what? SO THAT OUR MELTON MOWBRAYS WOULD BE FREE TO LIVE IN PEACE. I'm sure when they were being stretchered over No Mans Land with bullets raining down upon them and their fucking limbs hanging off they felt so much better knowing that because of their efforts the world would now be free to have a nice dollop of Hellman's on top of their quiche Lorraine. I'm sure their grieving families, when receiving the dreaded telegram from the King telling them that their loved one wasn't coming home, said to the postie 'well at least it wasn't in vain, pop in and have a mini chicken satay and a scotch egg'. My point is, we of course must remember the immense sacrifices that were made in the terrible wars that our country has participated in, but in my opinion this band-wagon jumping crap makes it all meaningless - giant poppies on County Hall, supermarkets selling fucking Remembrance Cheese, it's a piss take and needs to stop. Where's the dignity in having a poppy stuck on the front of your fucking Skoda?
Things that annoy me #3960 - the opening credits of crappy American tv shows that are still popping up a good twenty minutes after the show has started - FUCK AWAY WITH THAT.
So over the holiday season, you inevitably see friends or family that you may not have seen for a while, and probably the most used phrase when it comes to the kids is 'why, haven't they grown!'. Uh, yes. Yes they have grown. Because THAT'S HOW BIOLOGY AND THE PASSAGE OF TIME WORKS, YOU CHEESEGLAND. Next time it happens, I'm going to say 'oh no, she hasn't grown, you've actually shrunk, you tiny womble, so Merry Christmas and get your nose out of my groin'.
It's my kid's 21st this year, and she thinks she's having a party - well she's sorely fucking mistaken because there's something MUCH more important happening on her 21st birthday and that's THE ROYAL WEDDING. The Ginger Prince has bagged himself a stunner and some of the 'media' has literally SHIT ITSELF INSIDE OUT because she's American and SHOCK HORROR mixed race! Oh you can hear all the racist Daily Mail readers now, having massive coronary events because she's not pasty white and named Jemima Farquharson-Bumhole. Lots of bollocks being spouted on the internet about how 'she's a gold digger', 'she wouldn't look at him twice if he wasn't a prince' - HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW THAT? Do you know them personally? Has she actually told you 'yeh, I'm only boning him for the cash'? No, thought not, so fuck off back to writing scaremongering bollocks about how eating chocolate gives you cancer. I'm not a Royalist, I don't mind them but couldn't actually give too much of a fuck one way or the other, but at the moment, when there is literally NOTHING good happening in the world and the news is full of Trump, failing NHS, corrupt government and a seemingly never-ending stream of sex pests coming out of the woodwork, if something like a Royal Wedding makes people feel a bit of happiness, let's go with it!
This time last year I wrote in a blog about fireworks - nothing changes - it is currently 6.30pm on the 1st January, and fireworks are going off outside. WHY? DID YOUR CLOCK STOP YESTERDAY EVENING AND YOU'VE JUST REPLACED THE BATTERIES, YOU FUCKING IRRITATING BALLHAIRS?
Anyway, I'm back on the lettuce wagon tomorrow, so a final word before I go and put as much junk food into my mouth as I possibly can - my advice for a successful year -
- Don't be a twat.
- Moan and bitch and whine and then laugh - a lot.
- Do lots of fun things, because when you die, I guarantee you won't be saying 'shit, I wish I'd cleaned the bathroom more often'.
- Listen to music, any music, whatever takes your fancy. Do it often.
- Be truthful to thine own self, or summat.
Happy New Year!
