People that smell

People that smell, right. There's really no need is there?

I had this bloke worked for me and he stank. I mean, STANK. Everybody who knew him knew it but no-one did anything about it.

Anyway, one day the client complained about the smell, so I had to have a word. The poor bastard (actually, he was very rich) genuinely didn't know he stank. The next day he came in smelling of flowers, I kid you not. I then got a thank you from the client. They were really grateful.

So, if you smell and don't know it, FIND OUT! And then please either do something about it or don't bloody sit next to me on the sodding train!!!

Carla from Coronation Street

I bumped into that Carla from Coronation Street at the train station this morning. You know, the sexy one from Underworld that keeps lusting after her dead husband's brother, Liam.

God, she's bloody gorgeous, even without all that makeup on. I think I'm going to become an actor. How hard can it be?

Flu

Flu, right. It's horrible. I've just had a bout. That's why there haven't been many posts on here. You have a bout of flu. It makes it sound like a fight then. Like you've just gone 10 rounds with that skinny boxer with the knackered face from Manchester.

Valentines Day

Valentines Day, right. What's that all about?
OK we all know we're getting ripped off at Clintons - £4.95 for a piece of card and a red envelope? Come on! And don't even get me started at the extortionate prices florists charge for roses. Mercenary bastards!!!

Things is, you know the way they start flogging Easter eggs in January? Well I've noticed this year that there's a whole new sector sprung up - catering for all the men who forgot, or remembered and thought they could get away with not sending flowers and that a £4.95 card would do the job.

I left the office last night and there were hordes (I kid you not) of chinese people flogging single roses from a bucket. They don't miss a trick do they. Anyway, I went for a beer and when I left the bar the buckets were pretty much empty, so business must be good.

Still, I'm sure they're all VAT registered and declare the income on their tax returns. I also believe that pigs and DC10s can fly, lever is pronounced levver, and that Bob Hope is going to live forever.

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!