Man 'Flu

I have just visited the doc's with what I perceived to be the advanced stages of third degree man 'flu - man 'flu X, in my opinion. a new and virulent strain! I was checked out thoroughly by the lady doc and made to feel that I was only two training sessions short of a world heavyweight title fight! I left empty handed... no drugs, no sympathy, not even a cuddle!

In my disgruntled state I started to reflect. Man ‘flu? Who labelled it thus? Yeah, women. A dismissive term that suggests that at best a bloke is malingering and at worst a cry-baby who can’t handle a bit of discomfort.
 
But whose fault is it that men feel so much pity for themselves when afflicted by this illness? Who is responsible for the pity? Yeah, women.

Why, you might wonder. Okay, consider this.

Back in caveman days when gender roles were slightly different (all right, completely different) men and women had very precise tasks to carry out. Women protected the family, nurtured the children and made the cave dwelling comfortable and habitable. Men were required to protect this territory from rivals, assailants and wild beasts. But more importantly they were expected to go out into the wilderness and hunt, bring back food to ensure the survival of the little Neanderthal family. And if they couldn’t do that, and the other aforementioned tasks, the family was in trouble and under threat, its very survival at stake. And cavewoman knew this!

So, the moment caveman showed any sign that he might not be able to carry out his tasks to the best of his ability, cavewoman sprang into action. At the first sign of a sniffle, a sneeze or a cough she made sure caveman followed her rules. Straight to bed, underneath a pile of furs next to a blazing fire while she plied him with ancient herbal concoctions to stave off illness. Cavewoman knew she could not have her caveman incapacitated for any prolonged period. The family’s wellbeing depended on him being back in action and able to get on with his tasks. Even if he protested that he was okay, cavewoman was not going to listen and certainly was not going to take the risk. Caveman had to follow orders. So, he did what he was told and took to his bed.

And now, as a result of this type of survival programming, ingrained in the psyche of male humans over thousands of years, a permanent mindset has been created in men. And now, the minute they feel slightly under the weather or out of sorts they believe their condition is just a few coughs short of life-threatening. And ironically women have forgotten they are the cause of this mindset, and as a result of that forgetfulness, now have zero sympathy. In fact they have adopted a totally different attitude and a man complaining of winter cold symptoms is an object of ridicule.

So, in the light of the doctor's negligence, it's back to 'ancient herbal remedies' for me - chicken soup, garlic milk with whiskey (don't turn your noses up - it was my mother’s recipe and no, she didn't have Arapaho Indian heritage) and a positive attitude!

Social Media Posting

“Mate, don’t think you’re taking this Facebook thing serious enough.”

“Whatcha mean, serious?”
“Well, it’s s’posed to be for serious stuff, innit?”
“Serious stuff? Like what?”
“Y’know... uh, well, like... holiday pics and like what you had to eat.”
“I posted a pic of melon, didn’t I? People eat melons, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but it’s more about meals and that... like... well... like they post where they been and what they’re eating. Like, uh, Joe Bloggs is in the Dog and Duck and eating steak, yeah?”
“Why?”
“Whatcha mean why?”
“I mean, why does anybody wanna know that this Bloggs geezer is eating steak in some pub what nobody’s ever heard of?”
“It’s social, innit? People like that shit. And then pics of families doing stuff and… you know…”
“Stuff? Like what?”
“Like... like, I dunno, going out fer meals and that.”
“So Facebook’s s’posed to be about eating then, is it?”
“Nah... nah, mate. Yer missing the point. There’s other things, ain’t there.”
“Like... what?”
“Well, things like.... you go to an airport when you go on holiday and you post something like... Joe Bloggs is at Gatwick Airport and eating breakfast.”
“Yeah? This Joe Bloggs geezer likes flippin’ eating, don’t he? I stick a melon pic up and you reckon I ain’t being serious enough! But this Bloggs muppet’s telling everybody what he’s eating! Who gives a toss?”
“Yer not listening, mate, are ya? It’s more than that. You can post stuff about... well, loadsa stuff from other sites, telling people stuff.”
“Yeah? Like what? Stuff you made, or made up yourself, you mean...?”
“Nah, nobody does that. They download stuff... videos, posters, slogans and stuff and they show it to all their Facebook mates.”
“So they post other people’s stuff and just tell it to ya even if you don’t give a shit?”
“Nah, not exactly... well okay, a bit like that but they’re trying to, you know –”
“Nah, I don’t know. You said it was serious stuff they was posting and now’ya tell me they post stuff about what their eating and stuff that they never even made up themselves. And you have a go at me about a friggin’ melon pic!”
“Chill, geezer, I ain’t havin’ a go. Just trying to put’ya right about what’s expected. And it ain’t just that sort of stuff. There’s other stuff too.”
“Like what?”
“Will’ya stop saying that! Stuff like... uh... yeah, like people say they’re interested in going to an event near you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that they’ve seen something they’re interested in and –”
“They are interested in?”
“Yeah, so they tell people.”
“Hang on. You saying they tell people who don’t give a toss that they’re going to an event just ’cos it’s near somebody, even if other people ain’t interested in that event?”
“Yeah... loads of ’em do it.”
“And what happens after they been to this event?”
“Eh?”
“I said, what happens after –”
“Yeah I know what you said. I dunno. Nobody ever says. Nobody ever says whether they actually went or not.”
“You’re having a giraffe, ain’t ya? Gimme that melon here. Fancy a slice?”

Christmas Shopping

I popped out to go food shopping just before Christmas. For me. One basket, that’s all. Big mistake. The ‘mindless’ were out too. In droves. Stopping for no reason in an aisle for a chat; wandering around in that ‘I’ve no idea why I’m here’ gait; staring at shelves as if they haven’t seen any products in shops before. (“It’s a feckin’ yoghurt. You never seen one?” I wanted to say to one woman who seemed to have gone into a fixated stupor in one of the aisles); pushing trollies around with unfeasible amounts of totally unnecessary food in them as if Armageddon has been announced and that’s the end of the world’s food supply.

Meanwhile, I’m in ‘commando shop mode’ (get in, get it, get out); if any one had been looking at CCTV footage the scene would have looked like one of those sci-fi movie special animation shots where the masses are in slow-mo and the alien is whizzing about like a dervish on high-grade amphetamines.

I survived but I’m not sure I provided the perfect Christmas spirited response when the checkout person asked, “You ready for Christmas?” when I replied, “Shut the f**k up and gimme a bag. I ain’t a bleedin’ juggler.”

Dry Cleaning

I went to the dry cleaners. The assistant said, “Can I take your name.”
I hesitated and then replied, “Well, not really. I need it.”
She looked up from the PC screen. “I meant, so I can look you up.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. I gave her my surname.
“Sydney Road,” she said, after a few seconds.
“What about him?” I said.
“Uh… sorry. I meant your address. That’s where you – ”
“Live. Yeah. It is.”
She tapped in some more ‘stuff.’ It took a while. Perhaps there was a ‘comments’ box. Then she said, “Monday lunchtime?”
“That’s really thoughtful,” I said. “But, uh… look, I hardly know you.”
She frowned. “Sorry… I mean your dry cleaning will be ready then. Is that okay?”
I nodded.

I’m not going there again; well, except for Monday lunchtime. Too many bloody questions! 

Tooth Route

I drove past my dentist's practice today. Every time I do that I am reminded of when I had two teeth pulled a while ago. So, maybe writing about it will rid me of the association I make when I take that route.

Firstly, let me say, the dentist team was great. They made sure I was comfortable, communicated with me and made it a pain free experience. Most of that latter bit is down to the local anaesthetic but once the appointment has been completed that gradually wears off and then reality kicks in. My jaw (on the left side, where the work was done) felt like I'd taken a full-on right hook from Mike Tyson. 

I remember the actual procedure being pretty quick - half hour to extract both teeth. Painless at the time too since the dentist injected me in a number of different places with about four gallons of Lidocaine or Articaine, or whichever one they use (I still think in ‘old money’ so that’s about 18 litres for those of you who think like Europeans and about 32 pints for those of you who think like a pub goer). As for the actual extractions the only thing I felt was the guy boring down vigorously with a metal ‘bar’ to try and ‘lever’ the two teeth out - I guess they weren’t giving up easily having been there since the late 1800s. I have to confess thinking that in the modern age tooth extraction would be a bit more sophisticated - maybe a laser beam directed at the tooth, gently softening it and then a vacuum cleaner style suction system gently easing it away from the gum. No, I think I've been watching too much Star Trek. It's none of that. I'ts no more sophisticated that getting a pick axe and digging it out, but with the added benefit of the drugs. 

Back at home, I had to rinse my mouth regularly throughout the day with a salt and water mix that reminded me of swimming in the Dead Sea but without the heat (I know, 'cos I actually swam in it once.) On the first night after the extraction the discomfort woke me up at 4:00am. I mention the discomfort, but it might have actually been hunger that woke me, having been limited to eating like a vegetarian Trappist monk in Lent post procedure. I remember really fancying a midnight feast (if that is possible at 4:00am.) I resisted the urge and considered a paracetamol snack instead. I resisted that too. I’m not keen on taking them - I'd already had half a dozen throughout the day on top of the anaesthetic concoction! I comforted myself with the thought of breakfast - porridge through a straw.  

The things we take for granted! Anyway, I think the best course of action would be to drive a different route and maybe the memory will fade in time. 

 

NASA

In September 2022, NASA crashed a spacecraft into an asteroid at 14,000 mph! It won’t be very long before the little green non-binary people living on the asteroid will be getting calls asking…

“Have you had an accident that wasn’t your fault?” 

“Gheti! Y sgjkr! 

(Google Translate: Yeah! I did!)

“What happened?”

“Y sdgt ghty dfgtteyy hgax bjoytrc g ghtyii jgagu bqwer gad g bvzsery, yrti tdfe skighy vcapoiy dfgwer hgdser mlpouy fdlksde ghi nt vhrawty voob.” 

(“I was just sitting there having a cup of tea and a biscuit, when this bloody great metal thing smashed right into my front room.”)

“Okay. Any damage?”

“Fghyrt hgde dfa, uio mlfifgty ghrito! Si tye sdfpoh fgawerti gheltyifis nio bal dift!” 

(“Course there was, you bloody idiot! It was doing fourteen thousand miles an hour!”)

I won’t even try to guess how the NASA insurance guys will try to get out of paying that one! 

Public Transport

Having been reduced to using public transport lately (my car is having repairs done) I have noticed some strange things about the local bus system. For a start the drivers don't waste words. This morning, not knowing the local routes too well, I asked if the bus went to the station, as I had missed the one I had taken on previous days. The driver replied, "Yup." For clarification I asked if that was the train station, since his glazed look may have suggested he thought I meant the bus station or even the police station. He replied "yup" again. I dismissed the thought that perhaps he thought he was a dog, and sat down. 

Then, once it reached the centre of town, the bus did what every bus has done that I've been on in the last week. It stopped for five minutes, and just as every single driver has also done this week, the driver got out and began breathing in some smoke from a hand held vaping thing. Odd that EVERY driver does this at the same location. I have concluded that, just as the bus needs diesel, the drivers also need some sort of re-fuelling in order to be able to say "yup" regularly. Closer examination may prove that the drivers are not actually real people but very life-like AI robots that run on smoke. I shall check on my way home by poking one in the eye and seeing what reaction occurs.

What's in a Name

"Your name Sir?"
"My name?"
"Yes, we need it for the record."
"What record?"
"As a witness."
"Is that necessary?"
He looked up from the computer screen and adjusted his spectacles.
"Yes...you reported a robbery and -"
"Oh, Okay. It's Charles Herhiozyknmertgylson."
"Uh...can you spell it."
"Yes I can."
He took a deep breath and frowned.
"I mean...it's an unusual name and -"
"Not that unusual. His Royal Highness, the King, has the same name."
"No... the... look, please spell it for me so I can complete the formalities."
"Okay. C-H-A-R-L-E-S."

Turning the Tables

A friend of mine told me that she'd recently bought a new coffee table.

I didn't know how to respond. I mean, what do you say? My brain went into 'freeze' mode for a moment. No bloke will ever know how to respond to that piece of information... ever.

I guess I could have said... "What’s a ‘coffee' table? Is that a table that you only put coffee on? Do furniture stores sell tables exclusively for other beverages? Can you purchase a hot chocolate table or a tea table? Maybe tea tables could be sub-divided into, for example, an Earl Grey table or a Lapsang Souchong table? Would that work? How about a beer table, a wine table or even a gin and tonic table? Can you buy any of those?" 

But I kept my thoughts to myself. Probably best. 

As for coffee tables, I don't have one. I use the only table I have in a multi-beverage sort of way with no startling or surprising outcomes. And anyway, even if there were beverage specific tables available, my home isn’t large enough to accommodate that many possibilities. 

I'm glad she hasn't bought a work table... yet.

Florist Scam

I drove past a van the other day that had signage that described the business as ‘freelance florist.’ Not sure what that is at all. Mind you, being a florist is an odd profession anyway. This is a job that mostly involves cutting down perfectly good flowers, removing them from their environment and then selling them in shops, knowing full well that the product you are asking people to pay for will be dead in a week or so and have to be thrown out! And florists get away with this still! Selling something that they know will not last... oh, and wrap it up in fancy paper with bows too, just to add to the deception! 

I guess it's a bit like the Christmas tree trade. You know, cut down perfectly healthy trees that would look much better remaining on a hillside with their own natural decoration - snow, morning dew, dripping rain drops - and sell them to people to stick in their front rooms, cover them in glitzy baubles and then watch them shrivel over a two week period before chucking them in the trash! And people complain about what we do to the environment!

As for flowers, I blame the mugs that buy the product and do it time and again! How many times do you deliberately buy a non-essential product that you know will be useless in a week? No, never! 

And to add to the stupidity, people give flowers as gifts! “I bought you these,” they say but fail to add, “they’ll be useless this time next week and you’ll have to chuck ‘em out.” What sort of gift is that? Beats me!

Driving Stress

I thought obstacle courses were for school sports days or army training, but over the years a new one has evolved in our lives. It's called the public highway... in other words, the roads we drive on. 

It consists of:

• Road humps, speed cameras, width restrictors, bus lanes, cycle lanes, low emission zones, congestion zones, parking cams, parking restrictions, potholes, average speed zones, 20mph zones (complete with speed bumps too);
  
  
• Roundabouts with traffic lights (aren't both designed to filter traffic? So why do we need two controls both doing the same thing?); 
  
  
• People sticking prams into the back of cars with the roadside door wide open, protestors walking really slowly in the road and not being moved on despite breaking the law; 
  
  
• Yellow box junctions, tailgaters, ditherers in hybrid vehicles saving the planet, pedestrians who do that funny, half-hearted run into the road and then walk the bit right in front of your vehicle; 
  
  
• Vehicles passing you on the inside on motorways, drivers who think the indicator is the new steering mechanism so when used, it entitles them to switch lanes without looking first, vehicles that only drive in middle lanes (why do people hog the middle lane so doggedly, even when it's not busy; this effectively turns a three-lane motorway into a two-lane one - most drivers realise you have to overtake on the right and go around the middle-lane hogger - hence the traffic jams that develop; 
  
  
• Drivers who think that a motorway slip road is something you accelerate on and then just drive out onto the carriageway at whatever speed they fancy, irrespective of how busy it is or how fast the traffic is moving, and with zero regard for who is already on it; 
  
  
• Joggers who think it's okay to run on the road, cyclists with their holier than thou ‘I’m a better person than you,' green, moral high ground attitude (it’s still a vehicle nobhead, get insured, stop riding on the pavement, stop riding across pedestrian crossings and stop taking your vehicle on trains);
  
  
• Jaywalkers, yellow lines, red lines, people pressing the pedestrian crossing light when there are no vehicles about except yours, pedestrian lights, busses getting priority everywhere and sheep (err... if you live in the country.) 

And it's called Driving In the United Kingdom. 

Roll on driverless cars! 

Wait a minute! Don't we already have those? Yeah, of course. We've had them for years. They're the ones that pootle along in the centre lane of the friggin' motorway, totally oblivious to anything else going on around them!

Hinges

The other day I passed a company van on the motorway that had a display on its side advertising ‘High Performance’ ironmongery. To illustrate this, it had a giant picture of a hinge. It made me think. What level of ‘performance’ do you need from a hinge? I would have thought it would be pretty basic. Using a door (a lid would work just as well) to illustrate, I would suggest it needs to perform two functions:

1. Along with its partner (that is something working in co-operation as opposed to being in some sort of civil relationship) it needs to secure the door or lid to the door frame
2. It needs to create rotation on a fixed axis so that the door or lid opens and closes

Other than those two functions I cannot see what else it needs to do. Therefore, I would suggest that its performance should not be measured in degrees of accomplishment. 

Nobody opens a door and says, “Wow, these hinges are right on their game today. Did you see the way they manoeuvred that door. Quality! Big improvement on last week, if you ask me.”

No pundits appear on television to give their assessment of hinge performance.
“Well, Clive, I think if these hinges continue to put in the sort of performances we have seen over the past few weeks, you gotta say they are approaching world class.”

So, in writing this, I don't mean to be critical of a company for trying to promote its ironmongery, but I think ‘high performance’ might just be a step too far for a hinge.

BBQs

Does anyone else get irritated by people using the silly abbreviation ‘BBQ’ - abbreviated in recent years by those whose vocabulary never surfaces above 'txtspk' to BBQ (and even then it still looks like a far east television station) - when referring to having a barbecue? I mean, there’s no 'Q' in the proper English spelling of the word. And, the actual word is not pronounced ‘bee bee cue’. 

“Fancy coming over on Sunday for a bee bee cue?”
“Sorry? A what!”
“A bee bee cue.”
“Uh... not sure... is that some sort of code?”
“Code? No, just... you know, err, a process for burning perfectly good food in my garden 'cos it gives me that sense of being 'back to nature' and makes me feel in control of something, like a tribal leader after a hunt. 

Mate. Calm down You got the sausages in Waitrose. You didn't hunt down some wildebeest and make burgers out of it. And, what's more, take a look around your territory. Yeah, you've got a perfectly good kitchen just ten metres away full of the modern appliances that can prepare food to a high standard with limited effort from the chef. And another thing, if you're going to 'get back to nature' shouldn't you be cooking over a pile of logs and not on some fancy contraption with dials all over the front that you plug in to the electrical supply?

And why do we plan barbecues in the UK anyway? We live in the northern hemisphere. It 'pleuts' down with rain even in the height of summer. There's no point in inviting all your friends around for such an event weeks ahead of it - well, not unless you live in the Outback of Australia where you are guaranteed barbecue weather. In this country you are more than likely to be holding the barbecue skewer in one hand and an umbrella in the other, prodding the slowly incinerating sausages around the grill, a steely determined and optimistic look on your face as the rain dribbles down the back of your Hawaiian shirt into your baggy shorts and your toes freeze in your flip flops. Your guests will also need an umbrella, a good set of waterproofs and a lifeboat crew on speed dial. But, no, the hardy English, irrespective of the weather, will show up in shorts and tee shirts, crack a beer pulled from a makeshift ice bucket that is not required because the temperature would make a hardened skier consider another layer, and ignore the looming cumulonimbus as they queue for an incinerated sausage.

So if you must drag out the barbecue, do it on an off-the-cuff basis. Meanwhile, I will continue to cook my sausages in the oven.*

*Having said that, see 'SAUSAGES' published in July 22 in this blog.

Flying Irks

Is travelling by aeroplane (is it ‘airplane’ these days?) getting more difficult instead of better? I am due on a flight in the morning and for the past few days I’ve been bombarded with tosh saying, ‘You need to do this, you need to do that, you need to fill in this form, your bag size must not exceed this, we need your Advanced Passenger Information, you need to check in before you get to the terminal or else… you must download your boarding pass (I would if you send the flippin’ things), you can choose your seat for an extra £794.’ Why would I want to choose my seat? It’s a two hour flight to Turin so unless there’s an option to sit between two porn stars who will ply me with Champagne throughout the flight, I’ll take my chances, and if I end up sitting next to the village idiot on his or her (equality needs to be fair across all categories) first trip abroad, too bad. 

I got offered ‘priority boarding’ too. I said, “NO!” Priority boarding might work if you were the only passenger to get it, otherwise you join the scrum to get on with fifty other ‘priority’ boarders who get on just before the backup scrum of the ‘no priority whatsoever’ bunch who don’t give a toss ’cos they’re getting on the same flight as the you and it ain’t leaving without them!

To top it all, just as I was leaving to drive to Stansted, I get a text that has some bollocks that says you need to check in THREE hours before your flight for ‘security’ reasons! Three hours! What security reasons? Specify, please, if you want me to dump my luggage and then sit for the next two and a half hours twiddling my thumbs. I mean, would you pitch up at a bus stop three hours before the bus is due?

It’s all nonsense to control the population, bit like religion! 

I'm just going to pitch up and say, “Look, I’ve done all that stuff you asked for, I’ve paid for my flippin’ flight, I’m the customer, I don’t work for your airline, but you do; so now do some of the work yourself. Oh, and stop looking at my bag as if you’re thinking, ‘Nineteen point seven kilos! What’s he need all that stuff for?’  

Let’s see how I get on!

Eating Out

I think restaurants are taking the customer service thing too far!

I popped into town for a walk (I’m a man of leisure these days... writing only) and decide to have an early evening supper (saves me cooking or bothering the servants on their day off). I found a nice place where I can sit with a glass of red and make some notes (for the chapter I’m working on.) I check the menu and order the Chef’s Special Burger.

Ten minutes later, I’ve got what seems like a perfectly cooked, tasty burger. I take one bite and the waiter comes along and says, “How’s everything? All okay, sir?”
I’ve got a mouthful of burger so I just mutter, “Yeah, all good, thanks.”
About ninety seconds later a waitress comes over and says, “Everything alright with your burger, sir?”
Again I’ve got a mouthful of food so I just mumble something and nod my head to indicate, ‘Fine,' although what I'm actually thinking is, 'Please just piss off and let me eat in peace. If there was something wrong with my bloody burger, I’d come and find you and tell you.’

Now I’m paranoid. Either they are trying to poison me, state execution style, because I’ve been a little bit negative about something the Government's done, or complained about Just Stop Oil protestors sticking themselves to the road, or some sarcastic remark I've made about the European Empire (maybe even the Eurovision Song Contest) or they’ve just employed a dodgy chef who made it here in a boat and the geezer’s never cooked a burger before!

I’ve left the burger, half eaten. Too risky. Now ordering another vino.

Car Stress

So, cars... anyone remember when most drivers could fix their cars on the street, when they went wrong? Even amateurs could have a go. A grease and oiled stained Haynes Manual was part of a driver’s toolkit.

Remember those jobs? Car won’t start... uh, yeah, better check the points. Nobody these days knows what the points were! Memory tells me they were a metal ‘thing’ with two ‘arms’ that had to be a thousandth of a millimetre apart or your car would not start or work properly. To measure this precise setting, you had to have a contraption that resembled a pacifist’s Swiss Army knife. It had a number of ‘blades’ ranging from a millimetre thick to minus four thousand light years thin, this latter one being so limp that you had to give it 1960’s viagra to make it work. To set the precise gauge setting of the points it was usually the middle ‘blade’ that did it. More luck than judgement. Once you’d set the points, you closed the bonnet and optimistically tried to start the car.

Then there was something called the distributor cap where you had to spray some kind of anti-moisture stuff into it to dry it out to increase the chances of the engine firing up. Then there was a thing called the choke. You pulled this out, especially on cold mornings, to give your engine a massive fuel fix, bit like an addict getting a first hit of the day, to get it going. Trouble was, you didn’t know whether to pull it out all the way and risk ‘flooding’ the engine so it packed up (hence the weird word ‘choke’, I guess and its strangulation connotations) or just halfway and hope for the best. The good old days, eh!

But modern cars! What a bloody nightmare. In ten years time today’s generation of cars will be seen to be the biggest cause of nervous breakdowns of this current era. You no longer ‘tell’ the car what to do, it tells you! If they are not bleeping with an array of warning sounds that make the Starship Enterprise sound obsolete, they are displaying an avalanche of information messages that set your teeth on edge and cause an involuntary, “what the f*cks wrong now?” curse as you try to make that simple trip to work. ‘Warning. Service required in 346 years’; ‘Diesel fluid additive low. Top up or your vehicle will disintegrate after 100 miles’; ‘Checking tyre pressures. Warning, near side rear tyre 0.00043 lbs per sq.in. less than recommended pressure.’ And then there’s the ‘lane departure’ bleeper with its accompanying screen image that shows a flashing orange warning. “I’m only going through my gates, for f*cks sake. I do this every night. I missed them by fifteen feet... again, like I did last bloody night! Calm down!”

I’m off down the scrap yard to find a Ford Cortina!

Impatience

I walked into a local bar that I’ve been to several times before. I made that eager face... you know, that face that says, ‘I’m next so serve me now before I pass out with thirst,’ at one of the girl’s behind the bar.

She approached me and said, “Sorry, I can’t serve you.”

My brain did a ‘what the feck’ blush type thing as it tried to recall what the hell I had done last time I was in that bar. I’m normally well behaved... well, for a Capricorn who has an alternative side. The bouncers weren’t moving towards me, so it had to be something else. But what? Often it’s an age thing. So, yeah, sometimes I get mistaken for being younger than I am, but the only reason they don’t serve people on the underage ticket is if they are under eighteen and I realise, even with the assistance of a top Hollywood specialist effects make-up artist, they’d struggle to get me within ten years of that.

I was momentarily lost for words, an odd occurrence, like being short of oxygen for a second, but the young lady then declared that she was simply a glass collector and at seventeen years of age, was not allowed to serve alcohol. I swallowed my paranoia, styled it out with a shrug and waited for an adult to take my order.

Party Poopers

I’m not the most sociable of people, I know that, but I do go out. So the other night I attended a sports club do,  just, you know, to mix in, that sort of thing. There was a band, a good one, doing covers, but they pitched the set at the ‘middle aged’ and, you know what that means. Yes, they’ll have a hard time pleasing all musical tastes and have to fall back on music that many considered shite when it first came out!

Anyway, after three tunes there was a lull when one of the staff at the venue came up to the lead singer/guitarist and whispered something. The guy then turned away and said into the mic, “We’ve been asked to turn down the volume as some people think it’s a tad loud.”

I couldn’t believe it so after the next tune, I asked the singer if that had actually happened. He said it had and it was a request by someone who was actually in the audience! Who goes to a ‘do’ which has a live band advertised and says it’s too loud? The band was made up of two guitarists, a bass guitar and, crucially, a drummer! You can’t play drums quietly to upbeat music.

Party pooper.

Despite that intervention the band pressed on with their ‘middle of the road, don’t rock the boat’ set, no doubt hoping that the people who don’t get out much could cope with the new volume level and the ‘middle-aged’ would be enamoured by the mainstream set list. After a while it seemed that this was the case. No doubt alcohol had helped ‘oil the wheels’ and the audience began to act a bit more upbeat. But that also means lots of people suddenly do ‘middle aged’ dancing. Look, I’m not knocking ‘middle-aged’ people per se – I happen to be in that category myself – but I’m sure you know what I mean.

So, I’m standing at the bar minding my own business, perhaps a tad aloof (like I said, I’m unsociable) when this guy starts doing that thing where you link arms with people and spin around. I’d seen him do it with other innocent bystanders, saw him approach and was ready. He tried to grab my arm in that arm link thing, but I batted him off and said, “No, mate.” But he wasn’t having it; he was on some sort of dance mission and came back for another grab. Apart from the fact I’m unsociable, I also thought I ain’t engaging with a geezer in a pink t-shirt with a stupid logo and dodgy decorator jeans when I’ve taken the trouble to dress up just because he’s a happy-clappy dick who thinks that as we’re at a social do we should all engage in chimpanzee-like behaviour.

I’d been keeping an eye on the Fury/Chisora fight so my mindset was on the offensive. As he came in for a second dance-grab, I thought of throwing a right cross and knocking the geezer out - he was six inches shorter than me and whilst I cannot claim to possess an Iron Mike shot, an Ali-like right cross, the sort that took Liston out and a few others, with its element of shock and surprise, would have stunned the nob, especially as he was on the front foot coming at me (like Sonny was in the aforementioned Ali/Liston fight) - but my sensible side knew I would have been banned (last time I threw a shot I ended up on my face on the pavement courtesy of some edgy club bouncers.) So, I pushed his grabbing hand away and emphasised ‘NO’ big time. He got the message, well with me anyway, and decided to impose his brand of ‘this is how you enjoy yourself’ upon some other hapless sucka.  

Party pooper.

Mammoth Task

No wonder the mammoth became extinct. They had so much to bloody do all the time. If you count the number of times people say, 'It's a mammoth task,' and the variety of activities that the statement covers, you quickly realise they had no real 'me' time in which to hunt, eat, chill and breed!

Freedom of Speech

Doctor meeting with young couple to discuss a 16 week pregnancy scan...

"Good afternoon. Mx and Mx Smith. Nice to see you. Please, sit down. How did you find that? Pretty straight forward I hope."

"Yes, absolutely fine. We're keen to hear the results," the pregnant woman replies.

"Of course. But before we begin, can I introduce Donnie McDonnell, the hospital's Diversity and Gender Equalities Officer. Donnie will simply be monitoring our conversation... just a routine process now in doctor patient care."

The couple nod a greeting as does Donnie.

The doctor continues. "I've  studied your scan and I'm pleased to say all is well. You have a very nice little person doing just fine."

The couple both smile and glance at each other. Then the woman says, "Thank you. Could I ask, is it a boy or a girl?"

"Excuse me. We don't use the 'B' or 'G' words here," Donnie says. "I hope I don't need to remind you that since the recent introduction of the Diversity, Gender, Equalities and Official Speech Amendment Bill, reference to the gender of a person is considered a hate crime."

The couple glance at one another again but before they have time to respond Donnie turns to the doctor and says, "And Doctor, please moderate your language and refrain from using sizest expressions."

"Sizest? What did I say?"

Donnie flicks a strand of crimson hair from his eyes and gazes intently at the doctor. "You referred to the person as 'little.' You know that word is offensive in that context."

"Oh, yes sorry. It just slipped out. Old habits and all that. Anyway, where were we?"

The man responds. "Look Doctor my wife and I just wanted –”

"Let me stop you right there," Donnie says. "I'm afraid I have to warn you that I cannot accept such references."

"References?"

"Yes, the 'W' word."

The man scratches his head and looks puzzled. Then he leans forward. "Oh... wife?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Uh, what's wrong with 'wife? We're married."

"It's outlawed. A highly offensive word designed to subjugate one person in a partnership, lowering them to the level of a possession or chattel. Can we please continue without using these demeaning terms." Donnie turns away. "Doctor."

"Err... oh yes... erm, is there anything else you would like to ask?"

The pregnant woman shrugs and then says, "I'm sorry we've caused any offence, but we were just thinking about names for our baby and –”

Donnie's face turns purple, a similar shade to his lipstick. "Excuse me. No. No. Not acceptable."

"What, to name our baby?"

"No. Another 'B' word. Have you not studied the Party Language Directive for Acceptable Terminology in a Modern Inclusive State?"

"Err... no, not entirely," the man says.

"Well, it’s time you di then.” Donnie says. "If you had then you'd know that that particular word is demeaning as it implies that the unborn is not a fully formed person with rights like –”

"But it's not a fully formed person. It's a baby."

"Mx Smith. I shall have to terminate this consultation if you insist on using politically incorrect language."

"We're sorry," the pregnant woman says. "We just wanted to know what our ba... err, person will be... for a name, that's all."

"I can help you there. I can email you the Party's brochure on names that fit our current Gender Neutral programme. Kervilin and Anbozda are very popular at present but there are many more equally beautiful options out there."

The pregnant woman wipes away a tear. "I feel sick. Is there a toilet I can use Doctor? It's all been a bit much today."

"Which type of toilet?" Donnie asks. "We have fifty-two designated washroom areas."

"Fifty-two?"

"Yes, they reflect the incredible diversity of this country. We have options for our cross-dressing society, our religious cultures, some for the one legged community, the hard of hearing, the gender neutral, persons of indeterminate IQ, non-binary beings, rehabilitated prisoners, asylum seekers, the persecuted, the insane, communists, and former EU economists, amongst others.”

"Oh... uh, do you not just have a ladies toilet?"

Rhino Jive

I was talking with a rhinoceros the other day and it was quite revelatory!

At first he was reluctant to engage, but you know that thing when you look into the eyes? Yeah, I could tell. Wanted to get things off his chest. I just said, “What’s up?” and got the expected answer, “Nothing.” But I’m patient and can tell when something is bothering someone. With a bit of coaxing, things were revealed.

“Okay, yeah, I am a bit perturbed,” he said.

I took that therapist stance - you know, pretending not to be bothered but secretly thinking, ‘get it out, fukwit’ - and eventually my patience was rewarded. I can only explain by referring to my notes. He had a few issues for sure!

“I don’t think we’re taken seriously. You people worry about going shopping, getting to the pub, what’s on your tellies but you never consider us. For a start, you can’t even spell our name properly. Then you shorten it to the ‘R’ word... yeah... do I have to say it? Okay! Rhino. Think about it. You’re oh so flippin’ careful when it comes to talking about your own species... yeah, you know what I’m saying! No? Don’t play innocent with me! Imagine doing the same shortening thing with people from Argentina, Pakistan, Russia, China, Ireland... to name a few! Okay, forget that last one, you do that already… Paddies.”

I had to interrupt. “But they don’t mind. The Irish have a sense of humour.”

“That’s as maybe but, ‘rhino’ ain’t okay! You think we’re thick skinned, don’t you? Yeah? Okay... okay, maybe we are, but I meant... you know, as in, not sensitive. But let me tell’ya, despite appearances, we’re very sensitive and get upset more than you think. No wonder we look angry all the time. And another thing! We’re pretty pissed off with them guys who shoot darts into us, send us to sleep and then, when we wake up, we’ve got some stupid collar stuck round our necks. I heard it’s for something you call tracking and conservation, but don’t gimme that bollocks! It’s for all them freakin’ documentary makers benefit, ain’t it? Just so they can follow us around, find out what we’re up to. Bloody liberty, invasion of privacy if you ask me. You know what, I was talking to them lions last week and they’re right pissed off too. One of them was saying that every time they go out for a meal, some nobhead in a freakin’ jeep is chasing after them. Right spoiling their night out. But you lot don’t care, do’ya?

“And, yeah, them tracking collars are not a good look on a date neither! I’m trying my best chat up moves and the minute some bird, and I don’t mean them oxpeckers that clean up ticks and things, I’m talking females… don’t look so high and mighty, us rhinoceroses ain’t like you lot, all that PC bollox. Anyway, some female sees them collars, it’s over, ain’t happening. I tried to make out they’re trendy, but you can’t fool a female rhinoceros. Oh, and yeah, we do have anger management issues. Wouldn’t you after the way you treat us? So when we charge your stupid jeep, don’t be that surprised. You can’t handle it anyway, can’ya? You bugger off the minute we come after’ya!”

I felt humbled. All I could do was ask if I could take a picture. He was reluctant at first but agreed after I said I wouldn’t post anything online and that our chat was confidential.

N.B. But in the interests of conservation and save the rhino... I mean, rhinoceros... I had to post this. But keep it between you and me.

Prayer

 

God must get really hacked off sometimes. I mean, the geezer has a difficult enough job as it is managing all the stuff he created (maybe the universe thing was a bit ambitious) without all these billions of people asking him for ‘stuff’, all the time. Of the world’s population (currently 7.8 BILLION!) over 80% adhere to some religious belief, the majority of those following one of the major religious groups. That’s over 6 billion people all asking God for stuff, quite often to do them some sort of favour or give them something. He must be pulling his hair out.

“Oi, Gabriel. You seen my bloody in-box? Full to the bleedin’ brim again! Thought I asked you to sort it? Get on it, geezer.”
“Doin’ me best, Mr G. Just that they keep coming. Day after day. I cleared a load yesterday but –“
“Cleared a load? What d’you mean?”
“Uh, well, I tried to deal with requests to help get new cars, new jobs, good weather for a barbecue... that last one was the UK, I think… and to help to win sport matches and – ”
“Win sports matches? What’s wrong wiv’ya? Told’ya ‘bout that, didn’t I. Remember, last week? Them two tennis players, both praying that I’d help 'em win. Nutters. How am I s’posed to pick one over the other? Ignore that stuff. In fact, tell’ya what. Ignore all of it. What’s the point of me giving people free will, freedom of choice, if they’re forever asking me to sort their shit out? Let ‘em ask their governments instead.”
“They already do that, Mr G.”
“What? You’re ’avin’ a laugh, ain’t ya? Bloody religious lot. Right, wipe that in-box. No more. Delete the lot.”
“But, Mr G, people are expecting you to answer their prayers. We can’t just – ”
“Yeah we can. We can do what we want. I’m God, ain’t I! Sick of people wanting stuff. Bloody prayers. I mean, what do people ever do for me. All I get is them bloody hymns every week, dirges with the same bleedin’ tune, or that chanting and wailing nonsense, or that bullshit about loving me and telling me I’m great. Change the bloody record. I don’t need it, do I?”

God scratches his beard, thoughtful, then stares at Gabriel. “Look, mate, sorry. Didn’t mean to rant. Not your fault. Listen, here’s what we’ll do. Anytime you get any more of them prayers, just send ’em one of them things they do down there that pushes it back... you know, like their bounce-back email thing.”
“Ah, yeah. I know. Okay. But what message, d’you want.”
“How about, “God’s out of office at present. Sort yer own shit out.”

(And for ‘the offended’, my God has a sense of humour... I’m sure yours does too.)