Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Big Cranes
Big cranes, right. The massive big high ones they use to build blocks of flats shaped a bit like a giant letter "r" (the cranes that is, not the flats). Well, how do they build the cranes in the first place?
Youth
Youth, right. Wasted on the young. Robbie Williams said that. So did someone else. Can't remember who. Too old.
I see that the widow of murdered Warrington family man Gary Newlove is calling for the death penalty again. You go girl. The youths who did that should be buggered senseless by the big men on death row whilst they're at it. Fucking savages!
Free Papers
Free papers, right. What the fuck's going on there?
Call me old fashioned, but in the olden days a boy about 14 years old used to ride round on a bike at 6 in the morning and deliver papers through your letter box. Every Wednesday your mum would pay the local newsagent, and at Christmas that same poor boy, the one who got up at 5am every day for a year in all sorts of weather, would be given 10p by my parents for his trouble. You could buy a lot with 10p in those days, so everyone was happy.
Now when we were at school we used to play a game called British Bulldog. Basically, the whole school stood in a line across the middle of the playground and you had to force your way through to the other side whilst they used whatever means they liked to stop you. It was rough and got banned in the end. For some reason I was quite good at it.
Now I use those same skills every day when walking from Piccadilly Station to the office. The reason. Free fucking papers. I swear they can't even give the fucking rags away, so they employ hordes of down and outs and illegal immigrants, immune to the fucking hideous Manchester climate, to hand them out.
They don't just leave a pile of them to be picked up. Oh no. They thrust them in front of you as you walk through the rain. I counted four of the bastards this morning. It's like running the gauntlet in Gladiators, but with no hope of bumping into Ulrikakakakakakaaaaa at the end of it.
And another thing, why is it called the Manchester Evening News when it plaining is nothing of the sort because the first edition must be out at like 6am. And the real loser in all of this is the poor paper boy, who won't be getting his Christmas box this year because some out of work plumber from Poland has nicked his job. Bastard!
Call me old fashioned, but in the olden days a boy about 14 years old used to ride round on a bike at 6 in the morning and deliver papers through your letter box. Every Wednesday your mum would pay the local newsagent, and at Christmas that same poor boy, the one who got up at 5am every day for a year in all sorts of weather, would be given 10p by my parents for his trouble. You could buy a lot with 10p in those days, so everyone was happy.
Now when we were at school we used to play a game called British Bulldog. Basically, the whole school stood in a line across the middle of the playground and you had to force your way through to the other side whilst they used whatever means they liked to stop you. It was rough and got banned in the end. For some reason I was quite good at it.
Now I use those same skills every day when walking from Piccadilly Station to the office. The reason. Free fucking papers. I swear they can't even give the fucking rags away, so they employ hordes of down and outs and illegal immigrants, immune to the fucking hideous Manchester climate, to hand them out.
They don't just leave a pile of them to be picked up. Oh no. They thrust them in front of you as you walk through the rain. I counted four of the bastards this morning. It's like running the gauntlet in Gladiators, but with no hope of bumping into Ulrikakakakakakaaaaa at the end of it.
And another thing, why is it called the Manchester Evening News when it plaining is nothing of the sort because the first edition must be out at like 6am. And the real loser in all of this is the poor paper boy, who won't be getting his Christmas box this year because some out of work plumber from Poland has nicked his job. Bastard!
Bagels R'Us
I got stopped in the street the other day and asked if I'd audition for a TV bagel advert.
Didn't Ross Kemp start out doing a Kellogs Fruit and Fibre advert on TV? Asking yourself ""what would Ross do?" at those difficult life-changing moments is a good strategy for life, but if they think I'm going to Afghanistan to get shot at by a bunch of death worshipping fascist camel jockeys they can do one.
Monday, 11 February 2008
I've Got an iPod ... !
How cool are these things?! They're not for old people, though. I'm 41 and I think I'm pushing my luck sticking trendy white buds in my ears.
Nearly killed myself walking from the station to work this morning because you can't hear the cars and trams coming when the music on.
Please don't tell this meddling left wing government or they'll ban in-ear buds, iPods, cars, trams or something.
Big Issue Sellers
Big Issue sellers, right. Now, before I start ranting on, I of all people are the first to reward enterprise over plain and simple begging. These guys are out there in all sorts flogging a shite magazine when they could be simply sat there with a mongrel and an old McDonalds cup asking for money. So there. Enterprise is good. Enterprise works. God I sound like Gordon Gheko from Wall St.
Anyway, I wonder how many of the Manchester Big Issue sellers actually read the thing before they try and flog it? I ask this because I reckon most of them can't speak English. I'll grant you they're virtually all immigrants, so I applaud them for getting out there and working instead of claiming asylum and associated benefits (they wouldn't do both, would they, and even Manchester in February must be warmer than Kurdistan with an AK47 up your arse).
I digress. The reason I don't think they can speak English is their pitch, which basically consists of standing there in a high viz jacket saying, "Big Issue, please?" with an inflection that leaves you in no doubt their asking a begging question. And you just feel like saying, "Mate, you've got a pile of the sodding things in your other arm, so stop asking me for one!!". And if that doesn't work, look around you. In St Anne's Square the other day there were four Big Issue sellers. They're springing up like fucking Starbucks!
Anyway, I wonder how many of the Manchester Big Issue sellers actually read the thing before they try and flog it? I ask this because I reckon most of them can't speak English. I'll grant you they're virtually all immigrants, so I applaud them for getting out there and working instead of claiming asylum and associated benefits (they wouldn't do both, would they, and even Manchester in February must be warmer than Kurdistan with an AK47 up your arse).
I digress. The reason I don't think they can speak English is their pitch, which basically consists of standing there in a high viz jacket saying, "Big Issue, please?" with an inflection that leaves you in no doubt their asking a begging question. And you just feel like saying, "Mate, you've got a pile of the sodding things in your other arm, so stop asking me for one!!". And if that doesn't work, look around you. In St Anne's Square the other day there were four Big Issue sellers. They're springing up like fucking Starbucks!
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Conductors
Conductors, right. Or are they called train managers now? I wonder what the official training manual says about whether they should wake up a punter to for his ticket. I bet it says they've got to, because I bet some people just pretend to be asleep so they don't have to buy a ticket. Fucking fare dodging scroungers!
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