It's been a while since I've had a rant. And now here's one on a topic I really wanted to avoid as much as possible- Brexit. Specifically, the topic of a second referendum.
The first referendum was akin to someone holding out two clenched hands and asking you to pick one. The left hand definitely contains a £10 note. The right one may contain a £50 note, a £5 note, a pebble, or nothing at all. Do you choose the left hand, knowing you'll definitely get a tenner out of it, or do you gamble on the lucky-dip that is the right hand, hoping to come out better off but risking ending up with nothing?
Or was it? As it currently stands it looks more like being asked which fruit you would prefer- apples or oranges- only for the apple-voting contingent to find out after winning the vote that there aren't in fact any apples on offer, but they can have a banana instead. A lot of people, myself included, don't like bananas; if the vote had been between bananas and oranges from the off, they might have chosen oranges instead.
One far-too-regular contributor to one of the UK's news programmes, a potato-faced muppet and poster-boy for gammon by the name of Brendan something-or-other, can regularly be seen getting very irate at any suggestion of a second referendum, huffing and puffing in red-faced fury that it would be undemocratic.
Sorry? Giving people a vote is undemocratic?
If the electorate were asked to vote on this matter every single week, while it could be called many things the one thing it wouldn't be is undemocratic.
This brings to mind the adage "if you've got nothing to hide....". Those who shout loudest that "the people have spoken!" are the same ones that protest the most about letting the people vote again. It seems strange to me that one could be so certain about the outcome of something yet so rejective of the chance to validate it. Personally I would relish the opportunity to prove my point once and for all and silence the naysayers, or "Remoaners" as they are affectionately referred to in this case.
Of course, while Mr Potato Head and others crow the default pro-Brexit response of "17.4 million people", the figure conveniently forgotten is the 13 million-or-so people who were too apathetic to vote at all, which somewhat dilutes "the people have spoken" stance. 17.4 out of a possible 46.5 million doesn't sound quite as convincing somehow.
Who knows what the outcome would have been if there'd been a 100% turnout? Who knows, two-and-a-half years down the line, how people's opinions might have changed, or how those now old enough to vote may cast their ballot?
We could ask the question, but apparently that would be undemocratic.
Thursday, 13 December 2018
Monday, 3 September 2018
Righteous indignation and the lost art of reading
Yesterday I got into an argument with an idiot on Facebook. I really try my hardest not to do this, but sometimes the person in question is so ignorant I just can't help myself.
This particular incident started with someone reacting to a letter in a newspaper, and so determined were they to be offended on someone else's behalf that they completely missed the point of said letter.
In my endeavors to correct this error of judgement and point out that the original letter wasn't anti-anyone (as it had been deemed to be by the idiot), and was really just a statement of common sense in regards to keeping political issues out of situations where they really have no place, I became embattled with the idiot who managed to construct several well-reasoned replies to things I had never actually said.
I could picture his hands in the air, red-faced with fury, blinded by rage, as he picked out the odd trigger-word here or there from my comments and used them to create his own version of my half of the "conversation", to which he could then take deep offence and reply with righteous indignation. He was, in effect, arguing with himself.
Fast forward to today. Someone shares a "ridiculous article!!!" from a news website, encouraging equally-enraged Facebookers to comment on it and shoot them down for this highly-inaccurate and p*ss-poor excuse for reporting.
The trouble is this was an article written by a well-known satirical news site, and if the headline alone wasn't enough to make one realise this was satire, certainly the article content itself was. Or, in fact, any other headline on their website. But in a rush to be outraged the simple art of reading was lost amidst a haze of red mist as the anger coursed through their veins, banging on their computer keyboards with clenched-fists to condemn the article for being "totally untrue and ridiculous!".
It seems to me if you can't be angry and read at the same time, wait until you've cooled off before taking to social media. Or, maybe just don't be offended by every little thing, particularly when it has absolutely no bearing on you or your life whatsoever.
This particular incident started with someone reacting to a letter in a newspaper, and so determined were they to be offended on someone else's behalf that they completely missed the point of said letter.
In my endeavors to correct this error of judgement and point out that the original letter wasn't anti-anyone (as it had been deemed to be by the idiot), and was really just a statement of common sense in regards to keeping political issues out of situations where they really have no place, I became embattled with the idiot who managed to construct several well-reasoned replies to things I had never actually said.
I could picture his hands in the air, red-faced with fury, blinded by rage, as he picked out the odd trigger-word here or there from my comments and used them to create his own version of my half of the "conversation", to which he could then take deep offence and reply with righteous indignation. He was, in effect, arguing with himself.
Fast forward to today. Someone shares a "ridiculous article!!!" from a news website, encouraging equally-enraged Facebookers to comment on it and shoot them down for this highly-inaccurate and p*ss-poor excuse for reporting.
The trouble is this was an article written by a well-known satirical news site, and if the headline alone wasn't enough to make one realise this was satire, certainly the article content itself was. Or, in fact, any other headline on their website. But in a rush to be outraged the simple art of reading was lost amidst a haze of red mist as the anger coursed through their veins, banging on their computer keyboards with clenched-fists to condemn the article for being "totally untrue and ridiculous!".
It seems to me if you can't be angry and read at the same time, wait until you've cooled off before taking to social media. Or, maybe just don't be offended by every little thing, particularly when it has absolutely no bearing on you or your life whatsoever.
Sunday, 26 August 2018
A Different Breed
The UK has recently announced plans to license dog breeders; the typical soft-touch approach to dealing with something that should, if anything, be criminalised.
I'm sure there's more than enough dogs in rescue centres and pounds to satisfy the demand, but these so-called "dog lovers" turn a blind eye to these poor creatures in favour of some bred-to-order thoroughbred or the latest in-fashion designer mongrel.
If someone took a woman and relentlessly forced her to have sex with strangers for the sole purpose of getting her pregnant so that her babies could be immediately removed from her care and sold for profit, there would be- rightly so- a national outcry. "How can this happen in this day and age?!" they would say. But when people do that with a dog it's OK, because it's just a dog.
So dog breeders, why don't you consider whoring out your wife or daughter to make a few quid instead of exploiting poor defenseless animals who can't turn round and tell you what an immoral, profiteering c*nt you actually are?
I'm sure there's more than enough dogs in rescue centres and pounds to satisfy the demand, but these so-called "dog lovers" turn a blind eye to these poor creatures in favour of some bred-to-order thoroughbred or the latest in-fashion designer mongrel.
If someone took a woman and relentlessly forced her to have sex with strangers for the sole purpose of getting her pregnant so that her babies could be immediately removed from her care and sold for profit, there would be- rightly so- a national outcry. "How can this happen in this day and age?!" they would say. But when people do that with a dog it's OK, because it's just a dog.
So dog breeders, why don't you consider whoring out your wife or daughter to make a few quid instead of exploiting poor defenseless animals who can't turn round and tell you what an immoral, profiteering c*nt you actually are?
Friday, 20 July 2018
Words fail me......and them
It's been a long time since I've been sufficiently riled up enough to have a good rant, but today is one of those days, and as usual it is over something petty that does not affect my life in any way, yet still manages to get my blood pressure up.
Posting on a local Spain-based Facebook forum, someone presents the following:
"Hi !
Is there a English speaking opticians in Baza!"
Posting on a local Spain-based Facebook forum, someone presents the following:
"Hi !
Is there a English speaking opticians in Baza!"
One wonders how on earth it is possible to cram so many mistakes into such a short sentence. I should think the cat hammering on the keyboard in the famous meme would produce something more closely resembling English.
I can't decide whether it's ironic or just downright audacious to expect someone of a different language to have learnt yours when you haven't bothered to yourself, and it's debatable whether the poor optician- if one is found- will be able to understand the creator of this random assembly of letters and punctuation marks.
I suppose it could always be put down to poor eyesight........
Saturday, 24 February 2018
Desperate Times
I've seen some sh*t for sale on the local Facebook buy-and-sell groups, but usually sh*t in the figurative sense rather than the literal- stuff that any normal person would throw in the bin, or at least give away to the charity shop. But tonight this popped up for sale:
Owner retains copyright
This is someone selling a bed. Needless to say on last check there were no takers. Perhaps his asking price is putting people off- €51. You'd have thought he'd have been happy with a straight €50, but no, not this guy. Unless, of course, he's priced it at €51 expecting to be haggled down.
I can imagine the look of pleasure on the buyer's face when they manage to beat him down a whole €1 and grab this bargain- the work that must have gone into filthing and sh*tting-up a mattress to this degree, coupled with the complete lack of shame in actually trying to sell it rather than burn it is surely worth €50 of anyone's money- the bed frame is just a bonus.
Friday, 23 February 2018
Wall Walker
Some bloke advertised a load of non-slip tiles for sale on a local Facebook group.
A potential buyer asked "Are these wall or floor tiles?"
I suppose you need all the traction you can get when you're walking up your bathroom wall.
A potential buyer asked "Are these wall or floor tiles?"
I suppose you need all the traction you can get when you're walking up your bathroom wall.
Tuesday, 13 February 2018
Underqualified
It would be a vary rare and extreme case in the private sector if someone walked into a high-ranking position with no experience of the role or industry whatsoever, and one which no doubt would deservedly cause uproar from existing employees if it did.
Indeed, it's a difficult path to the top even for someone with a wealth of experience at the lower levels, despite those candidates often having more knowledge than those at the top in regards to the day-to-day operations.
Even when you are at the top, relevant experience generally limits movement from job-to-job; it's unlikely the current head of the NHS would walk into the position of CEO at a national chain of builders merchants, or that the current CEO of a supermarket chain would find himself Editor-in-chief at a national newspaper.
All this makes sense of course- why would you give such an important role to someone with no experience, particularly given that for any given job vacancy there will be a raft of candidates who do have relevant experience and proven track-records?
How is it then, that the only prerequisite for some of the most important positions in the country- education secretary, health secretary, defense secretary, home secretary, etc, etc- is to be an MP? How can someone with exactly zero experience in the sector or industry be put in charge of it, and moreover transition from one position to another as easily as changing their clothes?
It's no wonder that everyone- employees in the relevant sectors and laymen alike- complains about the running of things, because when you think about it it's sheer madness, and something that could only happen in government- no other organisation would be stupid enough to operate in such a way.
Indeed, it's a difficult path to the top even for someone with a wealth of experience at the lower levels, despite those candidates often having more knowledge than those at the top in regards to the day-to-day operations.
Even when you are at the top, relevant experience generally limits movement from job-to-job; it's unlikely the current head of the NHS would walk into the position of CEO at a national chain of builders merchants, or that the current CEO of a supermarket chain would find himself Editor-in-chief at a national newspaper.
All this makes sense of course- why would you give such an important role to someone with no experience, particularly given that for any given job vacancy there will be a raft of candidates who do have relevant experience and proven track-records?
How is it then, that the only prerequisite for some of the most important positions in the country- education secretary, health secretary, defense secretary, home secretary, etc, etc- is to be an MP? How can someone with exactly zero experience in the sector or industry be put in charge of it, and moreover transition from one position to another as easily as changing their clothes?
It's no wonder that everyone- employees in the relevant sectors and laymen alike- complains about the running of things, because when you think about it it's sheer madness, and something that could only happen in government- no other organisation would be stupid enough to operate in such a way.
Saturday, 10 February 2018
Greed
I hate greed- it's such an unnecessary condition yet one that manifests itself everywhere:
The person who piles his/her plate sky-high at the Chinese buffet or Sunday carvery then ends up leaving half of it.
The person who gets all exited for the Euro Millions rollover and buys extra tickets, as though the regular lottery jackpot (of which the odds of winning are far far greater) isn't quite enough.
The person who frequents Hot UK Deals to see if there are any pricing errors on 2-litre bottles of pop so he/she can go and clean out the supermarket's entire stock holding.
I once saw a bloke (who could regularly be found hovering around the supermarket reduced aisle and who would often intercept the poor store assistant before she could even get the product on the shelves) buy THREE birthday cakes just because they were on clearance. It went a long way to explaining his size.
Then you've got corporate greed, which I hate even more:
Companies prepared to destroy their hard-earned reputations by cheaping on products to squeeze a few more quid profit out of an item, or by trying to buy into the cheap-end of the market to milk every last revenue stream rather than focusing on the quality products upon which they built the name they now trade off.
Companies who issue profit warnings and see their share-prices plummet because they're only going to make £1.4 BILLION this year.
Companies who'll cut every corner and dodge every responsibility in the name of profit, and the short-sighted approach of screwing a customer for their money once being preferable to gaining a customer for life.
Probably the worst example I've ever seen was when I worked for a company about thirteen years ago- and who thankfully have long since gone bust, ironically largely because of their greed and short-termist business models.
At some point this company decided to put charity pin-badges on the counter. You'll have seen these before in other shops and petrol stations, accompanied by a donation box. But this company didn't use the box- all the donations went in the till. Was this in the name of security, ensuring that some light-fingered Larry couldn't grab the box from the counter and make off with it? No- it was because the company was creaming off 50% of the donation money; money that the customer quite rightly assumed was going to the charity. Despicable.
Why is enough never enough?
The person who piles his/her plate sky-high at the Chinese buffet or Sunday carvery then ends up leaving half of it.
The person who gets all exited for the Euro Millions rollover and buys extra tickets, as though the regular lottery jackpot (of which the odds of winning are far far greater) isn't quite enough.
The person who frequents Hot UK Deals to see if there are any pricing errors on 2-litre bottles of pop so he/she can go and clean out the supermarket's entire stock holding.
I once saw a bloke (who could regularly be found hovering around the supermarket reduced aisle and who would often intercept the poor store assistant before she could even get the product on the shelves) buy THREE birthday cakes just because they were on clearance. It went a long way to explaining his size.
Then you've got corporate greed, which I hate even more:
Companies prepared to destroy their hard-earned reputations by cheaping on products to squeeze a few more quid profit out of an item, or by trying to buy into the cheap-end of the market to milk every last revenue stream rather than focusing on the quality products upon which they built the name they now trade off.
Companies who issue profit warnings and see their share-prices plummet because they're only going to make £1.4 BILLION this year.
Companies who'll cut every corner and dodge every responsibility in the name of profit, and the short-sighted approach of screwing a customer for their money once being preferable to gaining a customer for life.
Probably the worst example I've ever seen was when I worked for a company about thirteen years ago- and who thankfully have long since gone bust, ironically largely because of their greed and short-termist business models.
At some point this company decided to put charity pin-badges on the counter. You'll have seen these before in other shops and petrol stations, accompanied by a donation box. But this company didn't use the box- all the donations went in the till. Was this in the name of security, ensuring that some light-fingered Larry couldn't grab the box from the counter and make off with it? No- it was because the company was creaming off 50% of the donation money; money that the customer quite rightly assumed was going to the charity. Despicable.
Why is enough never enough?
Friday, 9 February 2018
The cost of a bargain
Many of you will have come across a website called Hot UK Deals before. If you haven't, it's a site for posting offers, voucher codes, "deals" and other such bargains from retailers.
While it certainly has some decent members among its ranks, it is also full of loathsome individuals who will buy anything just because it is cheap; will take advantage of glitches or pricing-errors to bulk-buy 240 2-litre bottles of pop and cost a man (or woman) his job for their mistake; will exploit any loophole to their advantage even if it isn't to their advantage because it's not something they wanted or needed in the first place.
This place is full of examples of the worst traits of mankind, but for this rant I'll focus on one in particular- a £9.99 drill.
The HUKD community has been going wild for this drill, who's price includes postage. Yes- a drill that is £9.99 delivered.
The drill is shipped via Royal Mail 2nd Class, though no weight is given. From experience it will weigh at least a kilo, so based on Royal Mail's price for a small package, the postage will be at least £2.90. Take the VAT off the remainder, and that leaves you at £5.65. Then you've got the seller's profit to factor in- say £2 at a pure guess? So that leaves £3.65. And it's not made in the UK, so then you've got shipping costs. And then you've got the manufacturer's profit, and packaging costs, and material costs.
So how much does the poor b*stard who's making this drill actually get paid? It's probably measured in grains of rice rather than bowls.
But apart from the moral dilemma of a drill that costs £9.99 posted, how good does the buyer expect it to be? The Royal Mail postage is more than the cost of the materials used to make it. Personally I wouldn't even dare plug it in, for fear that it would burst into flames. A product of this nature at that price can not be safe- there simply isn't enough money put into it to ensure that the material quality, workmanship or quality control are at the levels they need to be.
And yet the scroungers go wild for it. If they're lucky, their house won't burn down from using it, the chuck won't shatter and throw shards of metal into their eyes and face, and the worst case scenario is that somewhere in an far away land some child is being exploited so they can buy a piece-of-sh*t drill for £9.99.
But apart from the moral dilemma of a drill that costs £9.99 posted, how good does the buyer expect it to be? The Royal Mail postage is more than the cost of the materials used to make it. Personally I wouldn't even dare plug it in, for fear that it would burst into flames. A product of this nature at that price can not be safe- there simply isn't enough money put into it to ensure that the material quality, workmanship or quality control are at the levels they need to be.
And yet the scroungers go wild for it. If they're lucky, their house won't burn down from using it, the chuck won't shatter and throw shards of metal into their eyes and face, and the worst case scenario is that somewhere in an far away land some child is being exploited so they can buy a piece-of-sh*t drill for £9.99.
But you know, out of sight, out of mind.
Wednesday, 7 February 2018
Ignorance is bliss
I've always wanted a Corvette (the car, not the battleship).
While out shopping the other year I noticed a Chevrolet showroom, so thought I would pop in for a look. This was around the time that Chevy were doing a lot of TV advertising in the UK, showing their fleet of cars driving up a runway headed by the Corvette, then the Camaro.
I had a quick look around, and failing to see the sleek lines of the most beautiful car ever designed, the flagship model in Chevy's portfolio, asked the salesman.....
"Excuse me, do you have any Corvettes?"
He looked up at me blankly, and replied "car mats?"
While out shopping the other year I noticed a Chevrolet showroom, so thought I would pop in for a look. This was around the time that Chevy were doing a lot of TV advertising in the UK, showing their fleet of cars driving up a runway headed by the Corvette, then the Camaro.
I had a quick look around, and failing to see the sleek lines of the most beautiful car ever designed, the flagship model in Chevy's portfolio, asked the salesman.....
"Excuse me, do you have any Corvettes?"
He looked up at me blankly, and replied "car mats?"
Tuesday, 6 February 2018
Is nowhere safe from junk?
I think I've seen it all now- a car launched into space. For what? What's it going to do up there?
Mankind have a lot to answer for. We fill the ground with sh*t. We fill the sea with sh*t. Now on the same news channel that's been campaigning against all the crap in the sea, I find them reporting with gusto that we're throwing crap into space now.
I know this isn't the first instance of pointless rubbish being launched up there, but it's the first time I've seen it celebrated. And I can't fathom the rational from a man who's main selling point is that his cars are eco-friendly.
With any luck the car will hit the satellite broadcasting this rubbish and we can go back to living in ignorance. But I doubt it.
Mankind have a lot to answer for. We fill the ground with sh*t. We fill the sea with sh*t. Now on the same news channel that's been campaigning against all the crap in the sea, I find them reporting with gusto that we're throwing crap into space now.
I know this isn't the first instance of pointless rubbish being launched up there, but it's the first time I've seen it celebrated. And I can't fathom the rational from a man who's main selling point is that his cars are eco-friendly.
With any luck the car will hit the satellite broadcasting this rubbish and we can go back to living in ignorance. But I doubt it.
Spanish Driving
The Spanish are great people- friendly, welcoming, trusting, decent, and despite the rumours, hard-working. They also cannot drive.
Rather than view the white line as a separator between lanes, they seem to see it as something to try and keep to the middle of, like the power line on a Scalextric track.
Entry slip-roads should be used in their entirety- if the opportunity to pull onto the motorway presents itself with a hundred yards of slip-road to spare, this should be avoided in favour of carrying on to the very end of the slip, even if this then means having to come to a dead stop because there is now traffic on the motorway.
They will brake at corners- EVERY corner, no matter how broad-sweeping and no matter how slow they are already going on the approach. It's as if they were taught to slow down for corners without any real explanation as to why, so they do so unwaveringly. I had some joker right up my a*se yesterday for a good mile on a straight road; two corners later I've regained half a mile on him. I don't think accelerating through a corner is even on the radar.
Then we have roundabouts. I was told very early on that the Spanish don't know how to use roundabouts, and it absolutely true. The outside lane does for everything, the inside lane is purely decorative. The transport authority had to issue guidance lately to explain how to use roundabouts- and even then buckled to convention rather than try and re-educate a nation of drivers.
Roundabouts also make great parking spots should you need to stop and make a phone call.
A couple of days ago we saw a line of cars pulling into the outside lane of the motorway, as if to overtake some invisible vehicle. The reason for which, it turned out as we got closer, was that there was a traffic cone- on the hard shoulder.
At first this bizarre avoidance of a non-existent obstacle seemed to do nothing but reaffirm our opinions of Spanish driving- then it occurred to us; in a country where you can drive for miles without seeing another car, where three cars in front of you constitutes a traffic jam, where any road works are started and completed within a day at most, and where the roads are laid properly in the first place so don't require constant patching-up, most Spanish drivers have probably never seen a traffic cone- so seeing one on the hard shoulder was probably as strange and unnerving to them as seeing a pig dressed as a clown pushing a wheelbarrow.
Rather than view the white line as a separator between lanes, they seem to see it as something to try and keep to the middle of, like the power line on a Scalextric track.
Entry slip-roads should be used in their entirety- if the opportunity to pull onto the motorway presents itself with a hundred yards of slip-road to spare, this should be avoided in favour of carrying on to the very end of the slip, even if this then means having to come to a dead stop because there is now traffic on the motorway.
They will brake at corners- EVERY corner, no matter how broad-sweeping and no matter how slow they are already going on the approach. It's as if they were taught to slow down for corners without any real explanation as to why, so they do so unwaveringly. I had some joker right up my a*se yesterday for a good mile on a straight road; two corners later I've regained half a mile on him. I don't think accelerating through a corner is even on the radar.
Then we have roundabouts. I was told very early on that the Spanish don't know how to use roundabouts, and it absolutely true. The outside lane does for everything, the inside lane is purely decorative. The transport authority had to issue guidance lately to explain how to use roundabouts- and even then buckled to convention rather than try and re-educate a nation of drivers.
Roundabouts also make great parking spots should you need to stop and make a phone call.
A couple of days ago we saw a line of cars pulling into the outside lane of the motorway, as if to overtake some invisible vehicle. The reason for which, it turned out as we got closer, was that there was a traffic cone- on the hard shoulder.
At first this bizarre avoidance of a non-existent obstacle seemed to do nothing but reaffirm our opinions of Spanish driving- then it occurred to us; in a country where you can drive for miles without seeing another car, where three cars in front of you constitutes a traffic jam, where any road works are started and completed within a day at most, and where the roads are laid properly in the first place so don't require constant patching-up, most Spanish drivers have probably never seen a traffic cone- so seeing one on the hard shoulder was probably as strange and unnerving to them as seeing a pig dressed as a clown pushing a wheelbarrow.
Monday, 5 February 2018
The right tool for the job
I've always been an advocator and new-adopter of technology, but one thing that drives me wild is mobile phone addiction, and specifically for this rant, the jack-of-all trades that modern mobile phones have come to be.
And that really is what they are, in the original meaning of the phrase. They are "master of none". Much like the Swiss Army Knife; while it's a handy item to carry as an all-in-one solution, you wouldn't choose to use any of its tools in preference to the dedicated version; that is to say, assuming you own a knife, saw, pair of scissors, screwdriver, toothpick or some tweezers, and they were to hand, you wouldn't sideline them in favour of using the scaled-down version on your Swiss Army Knife.
The same then goes for phones. They make a passable attempt at offering an all-in-one solution for taking photos, listening to music, navigation, web-browsing- even office functions- but they fall far short of the dedicated products they attempt to pass themselves off as. They're not even that good at being phones, compared to their non-smart predecessors. People of my generation will remember when mobile phone battery life was measured in weeks, not hours.
While out driving the other day, I decided to check the route of the in-car sat-nav against that on my phone, just to make sure it was sending us the same way. I couldn't get a satellite lock, and not for the first time. Fortunately I wasn't depending on it, but in times past I have been and the one thing you can rely on is when you really need to use it, it won't work. You can't beat a TomTom.
The mind boggles when it comes to people watching TV and films on their phone. I have a TV for that, a nice big 50" one. Why, when I have that, would I chose to watch a piddling little phone screen instead? "Ah, but what about when you're not at home Rob?" I hear you ask. Why the f*ck would I want to watch TV or a film or any other video when I'm out?!
If I'm out it's because I'm doing something- shopping, dining, sight-seeing. Not watching TV.
Or how about using a phone as your main sound-system? For a fraction of the price of one of these fancy bluetooth speakers you can buy a proper hi-fi that actually sounds good. In a world where everything visual has to be HD, or even 4k, it beggars belief that people are still choosing to listen to music on something that provides poorer sound quality than an old cassette player and less bass than a good fart.
The one that really tips me over the edge is using phones as a camera. Again, useful in some circumstances- getting a quick snap of something for reference later, or if you find yourself in an accident- but not as a replacement for a camera. Even the most basic of compact cameras is streets ahead of a phone camera. And worse still is the bell-end who uses an iPad as a camera. Just grow up.
Maybe I'm just old-school. Maybe it's because if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. But you can keep your £800 iPhone thank you very much. I'll spend £40 on a phone and the change can go on a TV, a hi-fi, a sat-nav, a laptop, an MP3 player and a camera, all of which will do their designated jobs infinitely better than any phone can.
And, for the record, people were using proper cameras- cameras that used film, no less- to take photos of themselves long before someone ever decided to stick a camera in a phone and some muppet coined the phrase "selfie".
And that really is what they are, in the original meaning of the phrase. They are "master of none". Much like the Swiss Army Knife; while it's a handy item to carry as an all-in-one solution, you wouldn't choose to use any of its tools in preference to the dedicated version; that is to say, assuming you own a knife, saw, pair of scissors, screwdriver, toothpick or some tweezers, and they were to hand, you wouldn't sideline them in favour of using the scaled-down version on your Swiss Army Knife.
The same then goes for phones. They make a passable attempt at offering an all-in-one solution for taking photos, listening to music, navigation, web-browsing- even office functions- but they fall far short of the dedicated products they attempt to pass themselves off as. They're not even that good at being phones, compared to their non-smart predecessors. People of my generation will remember when mobile phone battery life was measured in weeks, not hours.
While out driving the other day, I decided to check the route of the in-car sat-nav against that on my phone, just to make sure it was sending us the same way. I couldn't get a satellite lock, and not for the first time. Fortunately I wasn't depending on it, but in times past I have been and the one thing you can rely on is when you really need to use it, it won't work. You can't beat a TomTom.
The mind boggles when it comes to people watching TV and films on their phone. I have a TV for that, a nice big 50" one. Why, when I have that, would I chose to watch a piddling little phone screen instead? "Ah, but what about when you're not at home Rob?" I hear you ask. Why the f*ck would I want to watch TV or a film or any other video when I'm out?!
If I'm out it's because I'm doing something- shopping, dining, sight-seeing. Not watching TV.
Or how about using a phone as your main sound-system? For a fraction of the price of one of these fancy bluetooth speakers you can buy a proper hi-fi that actually sounds good. In a world where everything visual has to be HD, or even 4k, it beggars belief that people are still choosing to listen to music on something that provides poorer sound quality than an old cassette player and less bass than a good fart.
The one that really tips me over the edge is using phones as a camera. Again, useful in some circumstances- getting a quick snap of something for reference later, or if you find yourself in an accident- but not as a replacement for a camera. Even the most basic of compact cameras is streets ahead of a phone camera. And worse still is the bell-end who uses an iPad as a camera. Just grow up.
Maybe I'm just old-school. Maybe it's because if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. But you can keep your £800 iPhone thank you very much. I'll spend £40 on a phone and the change can go on a TV, a hi-fi, a sat-nav, a laptop, an MP3 player and a camera, all of which will do their designated jobs infinitely better than any phone can.
And, for the record, people were using proper cameras- cameras that used film, no less- to take photos of themselves long before someone ever decided to stick a camera in a phone and some muppet coined the phrase "selfie".
Missing the Punchline
The advent of social media has provoked a surge in the circulation of scenario-based jokes. You know the type, the supposedly true story where something whimsical happened, often told in the first person.
The trouble with many of these is that the authors almost always have zero understanding of the concept and construct of a joke, or, more specifically, a punchline, so they always tag a little bit on the end that is completely unnecessary and shifts the focus beyond the punchline to a cringe-worthy finish.
For example:
An ugly woman asked me for my number in the bar the other night.
"Do you have a pen?", I ask.
"I sure do" she replies.
"Well" I said, "you'd better get back in it before the farmer notices you're missing"
My dental surgery is on Monday.
The last line is pointless, totally superfluous. The line before it is the punchline, and thus the end of the joke. But somehow they seem to think the "dental surgery" addendum is the funny part, the line to end on.
The wife is always reading me these things out when they appear on her Facebook. You can spot the writing style a mile off, and just know it's going to end beyond where it should, so while she's laughing away I'm just cringing.
While we're on the subject, if you find the need to tag "joke" on to the end of what is meant to be a humourous comment, it's odds-on that the comment itself isn't actually funny. It's either funny or it isn't; if it is, it doesn't need "joke" adding to the end as clarification. If it isn't, sticking "joke" on the end won't make it so.
So, if you're going to bother writing and sharing a joke, take the time to understand what a joke is first, and crucially, where it should end.
The trouble with many of these is that the authors almost always have zero understanding of the concept and construct of a joke, or, more specifically, a punchline, so they always tag a little bit on the end that is completely unnecessary and shifts the focus beyond the punchline to a cringe-worthy finish.
For example:
An ugly woman asked me for my number in the bar the other night.
"Do you have a pen?", I ask.
"I sure do" she replies.
"Well" I said, "you'd better get back in it before the farmer notices you're missing"
My dental surgery is on Monday.
The last line is pointless, totally superfluous. The line before it is the punchline, and thus the end of the joke. But somehow they seem to think the "dental surgery" addendum is the funny part, the line to end on.
The wife is always reading me these things out when they appear on her Facebook. You can spot the writing style a mile off, and just know it's going to end beyond where it should, so while she's laughing away I'm just cringing.
While we're on the subject, if you find the need to tag "joke" on to the end of what is meant to be a humourous comment, it's odds-on that the comment itself isn't actually funny. It's either funny or it isn't; if it is, it doesn't need "joke" adding to the end as clarification. If it isn't, sticking "joke" on the end won't make it so.
So, if you're going to bother writing and sharing a joke, take the time to understand what a joke is first, and crucially, where it should end.
Sunday, 4 February 2018
Shopping
We went shopping today. Well really, we were just going to the builders merchants, but when we got there found it to be sited next to a shopping centre, so we quickly got distracted.
One thing I've noticed is that, unlike us Brits who having chosen our goods want to get them paid for and out the door as quickly as possible, the Spanish seem to relish their time at the till as much as their time spent browsing. It seems it's part of the whole shopping experience to them, and they'll think nothing of spending ten minutes f*cking about at the till, gabbing away, emptying their purse or bag out over the counter for no apparent reason- anything to drag out their time there for a bit longer.
I got stuck behind one such lady today in the Guess shop. I wonder if she really knew what shop she was in, as she didn't come across as Guess's target market. I was starting to wish I'd brought a packed lunch, and even after paying she managed to loiter at the till for several more minutes- not really doing anything, just savouring the moment. By the time she'd finally finished all the creases had fallen out of the T-shirt I was about to buy, so at least she saved me the job of ironing it.
Next we went to ToysRUs, whereupon I was immediately made to leave my Guess-branded carrier bag behind the till. Fair enough, I thought, before turning round and noting the first person I saw in front of me had been allowed to keep her massive handbag on her person. If you were a detective, who would you pick as the potential shoplifter- the woman with distractive kids and a massive handbag, or the bloke carrying visible evidence of having just spent money in the most expensive clothes shop in the centre? Oh well, no harm done.
On to the builders merchants- think Wickes or B&Q. I knew exactly what I was going for- some kitchen cabinets for the garage- and had thought ahead to take a print-out list from their website just in case I couldn't find them and the language barrier posed a problem. I couldn't find them.
The wife spotted a service desk in the middle of the kitchen area, so took up position behind the couple already being served. Ten minutes later when the member of staff manning the desk had managed to finally free himself of the couple, the wife approaches, asks where to find these particular cabinets, and is pointed straight to one of the two people at desks behind this bloke and who had been sat there all along doing f*ck-all and could have at any point offered assistance had they been so inclined.
So then, for no apparent reason, we have to supply full contact details- name, address, etc- before we can have access to these off-the-shelf cabinets. Then the guy takes my print-out and puts it all in his computer, double-checking and triple-checking it (it was only three cabinets). Then, he prints out a piece of paper- one that looks suspiciously like the piece of paper I handed him in the first place- and tells me to take it to the other end of the building and present it to another desk, and they will get my cabinets. I can't figure this guy out. He could have just sent me straight to the other desk in the first place. Maybe he was bored- but not so bored that he felt like asking the wife if she wanted assistance for the ten minutes she was stood at the previous desk waiting to speak to someone.
The whole process from the wife joining the queue to me having the cabinets on my trolley took about forty minutes. In the UK, people would just walk away before waiting that long. But then this is Spain, and we didn't come here to rush around like idiots- you've just got to go with the flow.
Friday, 2 February 2018
An Before H
This one gets my goat. More so than people who say "pacific" when they mean "specific". And I've just heard it yet again on the news, where is seems even Sky's coffers won't stretch far enough to pay for someone who can speak properly.
"A" precedes words beginning with a consonant.
"An" precedes words beginning with a vowel.
The trouble with the letter H is, of course, that sometimes it is silent. So, what on paper should be "a honour" is actually pronounced "an 'onour". But that's easy enough to get your head round- if the H is silent, precede it with "an"; an hour, an honest person, an honourable act, an heir to the throne. If the H is pronounced, precede it with "a"; a hotel, a hot potato, a hierarchy, a history lesson. Easy.
It's pretty straightforward really. Yet somehow people- particularly news readers- just can't get their heads round it. Particular favourites are "an hospital" and "an historical event". Now if the newsreader was from Yorkshire, and dropped the H on everything, thus pronouncing "hospital" as " 'ospital" or "historical" as " 'istorical", then preceding with "an" would make sense. But they aren't and they don't and they just sound stupid. You can't have it both ways- pick one or the other but not both.
Maybe I'm unfairly directing the blame at the wrong person, and it should be the auto-cue programmer who deserves a few whacks with the cane before being made to stand in the corner. Either way someone can't speak, and given that much of the native English-speaking population struggle with the language as-is, the last thing they need is someone in a position of authority teaching them more bad habits.
"A" precedes words beginning with a consonant.
"An" precedes words beginning with a vowel.
The trouble with the letter H is, of course, that sometimes it is silent. So, what on paper should be "a honour" is actually pronounced "an 'onour". But that's easy enough to get your head round- if the H is silent, precede it with "an"; an hour, an honest person, an honourable act, an heir to the throne. If the H is pronounced, precede it with "a"; a hotel, a hot potato, a hierarchy, a history lesson. Easy.
It's pretty straightforward really. Yet somehow people- particularly news readers- just can't get their heads round it. Particular favourites are "an hospital" and "an historical event". Now if the newsreader was from Yorkshire, and dropped the H on everything, thus pronouncing "hospital" as " 'ospital" or "historical" as " 'istorical", then preceding with "an" would make sense. But they aren't and they don't and they just sound stupid. You can't have it both ways- pick one or the other but not both.
Maybe I'm unfairly directing the blame at the wrong person, and it should be the auto-cue programmer who deserves a few whacks with the cane before being made to stand in the corner. Either way someone can't speak, and given that much of the native English-speaking population struggle with the language as-is, the last thing they need is someone in a position of authority teaching them more bad habits.
Thursday, 1 February 2018
Stupidity Rating
Amazon reviews- it's a simple concept: you buy a product, then if you so wish, leave a review on it for the benefit of potential future buyers.
What you'll often find though, especially when trawling the one-star reviews, is that even this most basic of concepts is lost on some people, whereupon the review ceases to be a product review and becomes a review of buyer competency.
You'll often see the one-star review citing "never arrived". This doesn't constitute a product review and it's not helpful- but it's not that entertaining either. You've got to dig deeper to find the real idiots.
Recent finds include the person who commented that a pneumatic nail gun was too expensive, and that he found a cordless screwdriver to be just as effective and cheaper. Now I'm quite handy, so forgive my knowledge on such matters. But this is the first time I have ever heard of someone trying to use a cordless screwdriver to knock in nails.
Call me crazy, but if you want a cheaper alternative to a pneumatic nail gun to put nails in something, wouldn't you automatically think "hammer"? But no, not this genius. He's bypassed that £3 product- one of the oldest tools known to man- in favour of using the fat end of his £20 cordless screwdriver to bray them in with.
Speaking of pneumatic nail guns, another customer decided to buy one before purchasing the compressor required to power it, then couldn't find a compressor within her budget, so instead of returning it she threw it in a drawer, unused, and took straight to Amazon to give it the obligatory one-star. Upon what basis I still can't fathom.
Another fellow bought a drill guide (a little jig to help you drill a straight hole), then complained that the holes in it were slightly larger than his drill bits, forgetting of course that if they had been the same size the drill bit would have got stuck in the hole rendering both parts useless- though in his defence if he needed a drill guide in the first place he probably should be getting someone else in to do the job, so perhaps we'll let him off.
It's fair to say then that in the main you can discount the one-star reviews. Sadly Amazon don't, so these moronic comments sit there dragging the overall product rating down, thereby you have to read through them to ascertain whether the product really is sh*t, or whether the cast of the muppet show have been allowed near a keyboard again.
I've saved my favourite until last; One lady gave the DVD of the classic fantasy film The Labyrinth one-star because she thought she was buying a book by an author called Kate Mosse, and that she didn't even like David Bowie....though apparantly her kids loved the film. Idiotic on so many levels.
What you'll often find though, especially when trawling the one-star reviews, is that even this most basic of concepts is lost on some people, whereupon the review ceases to be a product review and becomes a review of buyer competency.
You'll often see the one-star review citing "never arrived". This doesn't constitute a product review and it's not helpful- but it's not that entertaining either. You've got to dig deeper to find the real idiots.
Recent finds include the person who commented that a pneumatic nail gun was too expensive, and that he found a cordless screwdriver to be just as effective and cheaper. Now I'm quite handy, so forgive my knowledge on such matters. But this is the first time I have ever heard of someone trying to use a cordless screwdriver to knock in nails.
Call me crazy, but if you want a cheaper alternative to a pneumatic nail gun to put nails in something, wouldn't you automatically think "hammer"? But no, not this genius. He's bypassed that £3 product- one of the oldest tools known to man- in favour of using the fat end of his £20 cordless screwdriver to bray them in with.
Speaking of pneumatic nail guns, another customer decided to buy one before purchasing the compressor required to power it, then couldn't find a compressor within her budget, so instead of returning it she threw it in a drawer, unused, and took straight to Amazon to give it the obligatory one-star. Upon what basis I still can't fathom.
Another fellow bought a drill guide (a little jig to help you drill a straight hole), then complained that the holes in it were slightly larger than his drill bits, forgetting of course that if they had been the same size the drill bit would have got stuck in the hole rendering both parts useless- though in his defence if he needed a drill guide in the first place he probably should be getting someone else in to do the job, so perhaps we'll let him off.
It's fair to say then that in the main you can discount the one-star reviews. Sadly Amazon don't, so these moronic comments sit there dragging the overall product rating down, thereby you have to read through them to ascertain whether the product really is sh*t, or whether the cast of the muppet show have been allowed near a keyboard again.
I've saved my favourite until last; One lady gave the DVD of the classic fantasy film The Labyrinth one-star because she thought she was buying a book by an author called Kate Mosse, and that she didn't even like David Bowie....though apparantly her kids loved the film. Idiotic on so many levels.
Just tell the truth!
We seem to live in a society where lying is so prevalent that it's just become accepted- considered the norm almost. Politicians and the media, as two good examples, have gone way beyond the manipulation of facts to outright falsifying of information. We know this happens, but we accept it- why?
Not a day goes by when I don't read or watch some "news" story that contains blatantly false information designed purely to influence the audience and sway them in a direction they otherwise may not have gone. And I'm not talking about the so-called "fake news", I'm talking the mainstream supposedly non-partisan media.
Lately a fellow on my shooting forum held a vote on how the competition he ran was to be scored. The first option was to keep the status quo, the second to switch to a system that made the competition more accessible by omitting the lowest-scoring rounds. Without boring you to death, the latter basically meant those who had missed the start of the competition, or those that missed a round for whatever reason, wouldn't be penalised. It's a system with pro's but no con's. Anyway, for whatever reason, this guy had decided before the start that he didn't want the new scoring system to win the vote (possibly because of some misguided belief that it would create more work for him when it came to collating the scores).
So he made up this whole story about how the new system was exploitable by cheats; that in fact once upon a time it had been scored this way and that certain individuals had used it to manipulate their scores.
It was all pure fabrication, the system CANNOT be cheated. When challenged on this, he didn't respond. He kept his head down until the vote was over, by which time he had hood-winked enough people to swing the vote the way he wanted it to go, and when the truth of the matter eventually sunk in it was too late.
The whole affair drew parallels with the Brexit campaign, where again facts weren't just distorted, they were fabricated in entirety. Now I'd be lying if I didn't say I'd have preferred the result to have gone the other way, though it has little affect on me really- I've left the UK and I'm not coming back. But a vote is a vote, and you have to respect the result- as long as the vote is fair. Garnering votes based on lies is nothing more than rigging. If any other competition was found to be rigged (as has been the case in recent years) there would be outcry- people may recall not too long ago when the BBC had to stop running competitions when they were exposed for rigging them. Yet even in something as crucial as the Brexit referendum, because it was run by politicians who we know and accept cheat and lie, we likewise accept the result.
The only people arguing against a second referendum are the ones that won the first. They dismiss any suggestion for one as sour grapes on the remainers part. I say have one. Not because I want to see the outcome change particularly, but because now much of the truth of the matter has emerged, the vote will at least be a fair one. If the Leave camp were confident that the result would go the same way, it would only serve to bolster their own argument- but of course they aren't, and this is the crux of the whole matter;
If you have a good idea, with sound argument and reasoning backing it, you don't have to lie to people to convince them it's a good idea. It's only when you know your idea is flawed, or won't appeal to the masses, that you have to start fabricating "facts" to make it more appealing, or to make the alternative option seem worse than it is.
Surely then, at the point you realise you can't win the vote without lying and cheating, that would be the point to stop and question whether your good idea really is such a good idea after all?
Not a day goes by when I don't read or watch some "news" story that contains blatantly false information designed purely to influence the audience and sway them in a direction they otherwise may not have gone. And I'm not talking about the so-called "fake news", I'm talking the mainstream supposedly non-partisan media.
Lately a fellow on my shooting forum held a vote on how the competition he ran was to be scored. The first option was to keep the status quo, the second to switch to a system that made the competition more accessible by omitting the lowest-scoring rounds. Without boring you to death, the latter basically meant those who had missed the start of the competition, or those that missed a round for whatever reason, wouldn't be penalised. It's a system with pro's but no con's. Anyway, for whatever reason, this guy had decided before the start that he didn't want the new scoring system to win the vote (possibly because of some misguided belief that it would create more work for him when it came to collating the scores).
So he made up this whole story about how the new system was exploitable by cheats; that in fact once upon a time it had been scored this way and that certain individuals had used it to manipulate their scores.
It was all pure fabrication, the system CANNOT be cheated. When challenged on this, he didn't respond. He kept his head down until the vote was over, by which time he had hood-winked enough people to swing the vote the way he wanted it to go, and when the truth of the matter eventually sunk in it was too late.
The whole affair drew parallels with the Brexit campaign, where again facts weren't just distorted, they were fabricated in entirety. Now I'd be lying if I didn't say I'd have preferred the result to have gone the other way, though it has little affect on me really- I've left the UK and I'm not coming back. But a vote is a vote, and you have to respect the result- as long as the vote is fair. Garnering votes based on lies is nothing more than rigging. If any other competition was found to be rigged (as has been the case in recent years) there would be outcry- people may recall not too long ago when the BBC had to stop running competitions when they were exposed for rigging them. Yet even in something as crucial as the Brexit referendum, because it was run by politicians who we know and accept cheat and lie, we likewise accept the result.
The only people arguing against a second referendum are the ones that won the first. They dismiss any suggestion for one as sour grapes on the remainers part. I say have one. Not because I want to see the outcome change particularly, but because now much of the truth of the matter has emerged, the vote will at least be a fair one. If the Leave camp were confident that the result would go the same way, it would only serve to bolster their own argument- but of course they aren't, and this is the crux of the whole matter;
If you have a good idea, with sound argument and reasoning backing it, you don't have to lie to people to convince them it's a good idea. It's only when you know your idea is flawed, or won't appeal to the masses, that you have to start fabricating "facts" to make it more appealing, or to make the alternative option seem worse than it is.
Surely then, at the point you realise you can't win the vote without lying and cheating, that would be the point to stop and question whether your good idea really is such a good idea after all?
Wednesday, 31 January 2018
Moving the goal posts
How come, no matter what wattage microwave you buy, the food packaging always gives the instructions for something different?
If you own a 600w, the packaging will say 700w. If you go out and buy a 700w, now the packaging says 750w. When we bought our current microwave we got the most powerful one in the shop- 800w. We get it home, find something in the freezer to test it with, look at the instructions- they're for a 1000w. Give me a break.
Are the microwave and ready-meal manufacturers in collusion, ensuring the two never match to push you towards buying another microwave, then another, then another, in a never-ending quest to make microwaving your dinner the simple task it was intended to be?
As it stands, the instructions are almost pointless- they may as well read "put it in for as long as you think, then if it's still not hot give it a bit longer".
If you own a 600w, the packaging will say 700w. If you go out and buy a 700w, now the packaging says 750w. When we bought our current microwave we got the most powerful one in the shop- 800w. We get it home, find something in the freezer to test it with, look at the instructions- they're for a 1000w. Give me a break.
Are the microwave and ready-meal manufacturers in collusion, ensuring the two never match to push you towards buying another microwave, then another, then another, in a never-ending quest to make microwaving your dinner the simple task it was intended to be?
As it stands, the instructions are almost pointless- they may as well read "put it in for as long as you think, then if it's still not hot give it a bit longer".
No rush.....
Why is it that nine times out of ten, the idiot-driver that pulls out on you is the same fool that drives as though they're leading a funeral procession? They're clearly in no rush to get where they're going, yet feel some burning need to lurch out in front of you rather than wait two seconds until you've passed. Seriously, what's up wi' folk?!
Litter
I hate litter. I mean really f*cking hate it- in fact it might be the one thing that winds me up beyond anything else. I just cannot comprehend what is going on in the pea-brains of the morons that do it that makes them think it acceptable to throw their shit on the floor.
I was once stood outside the back of my work having a fag when I heard the rattling of a drinks can, and turned to see one rolling across the car park. There was no wind, so I was wondering to myself what had prompted its movement when I saw another one come sailing through the air and land near to the first. I went to investigate.
Parked just round the corner, in front of the shop, was a car with two kids in it and the sunroof open. The only car in the car park. The obvious source. So I picked up the two cans and threw them back through the sunroof, before returning to my smoking corner. A few minutes later I hear the car door open, the engine start, and in dismay see the two cans flying back through the air to land back where they started. Unbelievable.
We would often shut-shop at the end of the day to find a car park full of rubbish, usually fast food wrappers and bags. We had two bloody-great industrial bins round the back, had anyone ever bothered to ask.
A few years later I'm sat in the car in a retail park, waiting for the wife to finish shopping. We'd had a heated debate about whether to get coloured or white Christmas tree lights, and having lost the battle I'd returned to the car to sulk. I watch as a couple in their mid-40's return to their car parked in front of mine- some unnecessary 4x4 affair. They get in, the engine starts, then just as they're about to pull away the passenger door opens, a hand reaches down and dumps a McDonalds bag on the floor. I wish I'd been a bit more on-the-ball and filmed the b*stards. Do these people not own bins?! Even in the unlikely event that they don't, they were in a retail park- the place was full of them!
In the latter months of my time in the UK we were struck by a plague of scumbag kids. Now if anyone knows how to litter, it's them. They'd loiter outside the local shop for hours-on-end, and the wrappers of everything they consumed went on the floor. Not in either of the two bins within yards of their congregation spot. Not in the bin bag hung from the shop railing that the staff had put there in some half-arsed attempt to mitigate the problem. On the floor. You'd come out in a morning and play spot-the-pavement.
There's a category of litterer even worse than this though. One where the action is so illogical that crediting them with having a pea-brain is probably being too generous. My mate Bob and I used to do a bit of hill-walking and wild camping, and it's there, when you get to the top of a mountain and find an empty pop bottle, or a crisp packet stuffed into the cracks of a dry-stone wall, that you really die a little inside.
What on earth possesses the person, who has spent their day enjoying the countryside, climbing a mountain, taking in the views, to sully it with a pop bottle that was no inconvenience to carry up there when it was full, but now it weighs next-to-nothing and can be crushed to a fraction of its former size becomes such an overwhelming burden that the only possible solution is to dispose of it on the floor of the place they have spent all day hiking up to appreciate?! And the crisp packet, famed for its cumbersome nature when empty, won't fold up neatly and stow discreetly in a pocket, so really the only option is to stick it in a wall. Absolutely f*cking brain-dead.
Thankfully in Spain, littering has yet to become the socially-accepted norm that it is in the UK, but you still come across it. It's almost worse in a way when you do- for some reason that single piece of litter on an otherwise spotless road stands out like a beacon, and is a sad and constant reminder that no matter where you go in the world, you're never far away from an idiot.
I was once stood outside the back of my work having a fag when I heard the rattling of a drinks can, and turned to see one rolling across the car park. There was no wind, so I was wondering to myself what had prompted its movement when I saw another one come sailing through the air and land near to the first. I went to investigate.
Parked just round the corner, in front of the shop, was a car with two kids in it and the sunroof open. The only car in the car park. The obvious source. So I picked up the two cans and threw them back through the sunroof, before returning to my smoking corner. A few minutes later I hear the car door open, the engine start, and in dismay see the two cans flying back through the air to land back where they started. Unbelievable.
We would often shut-shop at the end of the day to find a car park full of rubbish, usually fast food wrappers and bags. We had two bloody-great industrial bins round the back, had anyone ever bothered to ask.
A few years later I'm sat in the car in a retail park, waiting for the wife to finish shopping. We'd had a heated debate about whether to get coloured or white Christmas tree lights, and having lost the battle I'd returned to the car to sulk. I watch as a couple in their mid-40's return to their car parked in front of mine- some unnecessary 4x4 affair. They get in, the engine starts, then just as they're about to pull away the passenger door opens, a hand reaches down and dumps a McDonalds bag on the floor. I wish I'd been a bit more on-the-ball and filmed the b*stards. Do these people not own bins?! Even in the unlikely event that they don't, they were in a retail park- the place was full of them!
In the latter months of my time in the UK we were struck by a plague of scumbag kids. Now if anyone knows how to litter, it's them. They'd loiter outside the local shop for hours-on-end, and the wrappers of everything they consumed went on the floor. Not in either of the two bins within yards of their congregation spot. Not in the bin bag hung from the shop railing that the staff had put there in some half-arsed attempt to mitigate the problem. On the floor. You'd come out in a morning and play spot-the-pavement.
There's a category of litterer even worse than this though. One where the action is so illogical that crediting them with having a pea-brain is probably being too generous. My mate Bob and I used to do a bit of hill-walking and wild camping, and it's there, when you get to the top of a mountain and find an empty pop bottle, or a crisp packet stuffed into the cracks of a dry-stone wall, that you really die a little inside.
What on earth possesses the person, who has spent their day enjoying the countryside, climbing a mountain, taking in the views, to sully it with a pop bottle that was no inconvenience to carry up there when it was full, but now it weighs next-to-nothing and can be crushed to a fraction of its former size becomes such an overwhelming burden that the only possible solution is to dispose of it on the floor of the place they have spent all day hiking up to appreciate?! And the crisp packet, famed for its cumbersome nature when empty, won't fold up neatly and stow discreetly in a pocket, so really the only option is to stick it in a wall. Absolutely f*cking brain-dead.
Thankfully in Spain, littering has yet to become the socially-accepted norm that it is in the UK, but you still come across it. It's almost worse in a way when you do- for some reason that single piece of litter on an otherwise spotless road stands out like a beacon, and is a sad and constant reminder that no matter where you go in the world, you're never far away from an idiot.
Tuesday, 30 January 2018
Adult Babies
Someone commented on a friend's photo of their baby:
"Can't believe how he's grown"
I wasn't so surprised myself; if they stayed baby-sized for ever, there wouldn't be any adults.
TV Licensing
I've always begrudged paying for a TV license, as I'm sure many others do.
Maybe this attitude was born from being on the receiving end of a constant barrage of their bully-tactic threat-letters long before I was ever in a position to need a TV license, and for several years after I actually owned one- which only the threat of legal action for harassment seemed to abate.
Maybe it stems from the annoyance at the BBC's business model of extorting money from the public for opting to own a product capable of receiving their programming- whether they chose to or not- while every other TV channel seems capable of generating their own funding.
Or perhaps it's just because, in general, BBC programmes are shite. Even the news, which has become increasingly and more-obviously biased over the last decade-or-so, isn't worth bothering with anymore.
I find it quite staggering in this day-and-age that this archaic system still exists- not only that a company can forcibly extract money from someone for a service they don't use, but that the same company can also dictate one's right to use the services of its competitors. When you think of it like that, it's madness.
One wonders where the money actually gets spent- or wasted, as is a more fitting description. Probably a large portion disappears in paper, envelopes and postage for their threat-letters.
I've very recently joined the Netflix fold, and I'm already a huge fan. Had I still been in the UK, I would have cancelled my TV license with immediate effect, such is the quality of programming and cost-saving to be had with Netflix. Granted, I'm no telly-addict, but there's plenty of content on there for me to justify making it my only TV service provider, not forgetting that I can watch it as-and-when I choose, and all at half the price (or less) of a TV license.
It would be an interesting experiment if for one year TV licences were cancelled and the BBC had to raise its revenue by other means- either advertising or subscription-based services. I suspect they would have a hard-sell on their hands- people have already seen 90% of their programming a dozen times over- which is why the Beeb sh*t themselves every time the threat of a debate on the matter rears it's head.
I don't think it's beyond the realms of reality to see a future when conventional TV broadcasting as we know it ceases to exist; VOD has very quickly proved not just to be a viable option but in general a better option, and one that has become very popular very quickly. News channels such as Sky and Euro News have been doing live streaming for some time.
If all the content of all the channels that broadcast was simultaneously available on-demand, then there would be virtually no argument for the content to be broadcast at all. The streaming of live events can and may well replace the need for live broadcasting.
If and when that day comes, the BBC's years of complacency will ensure that they are f*cked, and the only indicator that many people will have that the BBC no longer exists will be the fact that they are £147 a year better off and that there are no new repeats of QI appearing on Dave.
Maybe this attitude was born from being on the receiving end of a constant barrage of their bully-tactic threat-letters long before I was ever in a position to need a TV license, and for several years after I actually owned one- which only the threat of legal action for harassment seemed to abate.
Maybe it stems from the annoyance at the BBC's business model of extorting money from the public for opting to own a product capable of receiving their programming- whether they chose to or not- while every other TV channel seems capable of generating their own funding.
Or perhaps it's just because, in general, BBC programmes are shite. Even the news, which has become increasingly and more-obviously biased over the last decade-or-so, isn't worth bothering with anymore.
I find it quite staggering in this day-and-age that this archaic system still exists- not only that a company can forcibly extract money from someone for a service they don't use, but that the same company can also dictate one's right to use the services of its competitors. When you think of it like that, it's madness.
One wonders where the money actually gets spent- or wasted, as is a more fitting description. Probably a large portion disappears in paper, envelopes and postage for their threat-letters.
I've very recently joined the Netflix fold, and I'm already a huge fan. Had I still been in the UK, I would have cancelled my TV license with immediate effect, such is the quality of programming and cost-saving to be had with Netflix. Granted, I'm no telly-addict, but there's plenty of content on there for me to justify making it my only TV service provider, not forgetting that I can watch it as-and-when I choose, and all at half the price (or less) of a TV license.
It would be an interesting experiment if for one year TV licences were cancelled and the BBC had to raise its revenue by other means- either advertising or subscription-based services. I suspect they would have a hard-sell on their hands- people have already seen 90% of their programming a dozen times over- which is why the Beeb sh*t themselves every time the threat of a debate on the matter rears it's head.
I don't think it's beyond the realms of reality to see a future when conventional TV broadcasting as we know it ceases to exist; VOD has very quickly proved not just to be a viable option but in general a better option, and one that has become very popular very quickly. News channels such as Sky and Euro News have been doing live streaming for some time.
If all the content of all the channels that broadcast was simultaneously available on-demand, then there would be virtually no argument for the content to be broadcast at all. The streaming of live events can and may well replace the need for live broadcasting.
If and when that day comes, the BBC's years of complacency will ensure that they are f*cked, and the only indicator that many people will have that the BBC no longer exists will be the fact that they are £147 a year better off and that there are no new repeats of QI appearing on Dave.
Coming over here, taking our jobs 2
Close to where I used to live in the UK lays the derelict remnants of a large village. One would be forgiven for thinking, on casual viewing, that this was an area hit by the Blitz that they just forgot to rebuild. Neither of the two local towns really wants to lay claim to it.
For the record, this was a village hit badly by the pit closures, of which there were several in very close proximity- a fact that it's occupants will never let themselves or anyone they speak to ever forget. Many have gone on public record to say how Thatcher destroyed their town, left them a future with no hope, no potential for ever working again, destined to a life surviving on state handouts.
What they never tell you, and what you would possibly therefore never know yourself without a local knowledge, is that this area has been the subject of some of the most prolific coalfield regeneration over the last twenty years-or-so that the county- possibly even the country- has ever seen.
Huge businesses have sprung up in their droves, big brands being encouraged to relocate their warehousing or call centre operations thanks to incentivised rates and the area's proximity to major national motorways. House building has been rampant, to the point where a new village has been created in entirety. There is a nature reserve, a boating lake. Shops, restaurants, pubs, a hotel. All within a couple of miles at the most from the little inbred backwater at the centre of this story, some even within a few minutes walk.
So what they really mean, when the locals of this dystopian village cite their abandonment by the state to a life of destitution, is that they're too f*cking bone-idle to go and get a job. Far easier to blame one woman and events of thirty years ago as they stand in the Post Office queue waiting for their hand-outs than to actually get up and do a day's graft in one of the thousands of jobs that have been created literally on their doorstep.
So what they really mean, when the locals of this dystopian village cite their abandonment by the state to a life of destitution, is that they're too f*cking bone-idle to go and get a job. Far easier to blame one woman and events of thirty years ago as they stand in the Post Office queue waiting for their hand-outs than to actually get up and do a day's graft in one of the thousands of jobs that have been created literally on their doorstep.
During my time in this area I had several friends of different origins- Romanian, Polish, Lithuanian, Bulgarian- many of whom worked for some of these local businesses, and worked hard- but never complained about it, and seemed to have a cheer about them commensurate with the person who goes out and does an honest days work for a days pay. A look rarely to be found on the faces of the locals.
It's a stretch of the imagination to believe these people could travel from countries far-and-wide and discover jobs that somehow the locals didn't know existed right under their noses.
It's a stretch of the imagination to believe these people could travel from countries far-and-wide and discover jobs that somehow the locals didn't know existed right under their noses.
Moving away slightly, I know of a fruit farm in Scotland that depends on migrant workers to pick their fruit. This isn't a company exploiting cheap foreign labour, this is a company paying handsomely for a fairly low-skilled job that even so can't employ a local workforce because they're either too lazy or too proud to do it. I'm quite sure this particular farm isn't an isolated example.
So the often-cited "coming over here, taking our jobs", while evidently true to degrees, should perhaps be reworded to better reflect the reality of the situation:
"Coming over here, taking the jobs we're too lazy, proud or incompetent to do ourselves"
"Coming over here, taking the jobs we're too lazy, proud or incompetent to do ourselves"
Sunday, 28 January 2018
It happens to the best of us.....
In a blog dedicated to stupidity it would be hypocritical of me not to mention some of my own acts of idiocy (yes they do happen).
I mentioned in my post on public toilets about the toilet with no bog roll. I never fail to fall into this trap. Work colleagues would often pick up the phone to find me on the other end begging them to bring me a bog roll down to the staff toilet. In my defense, in my usually desperate attempt to find a public toilet fit for human use, somehow the provision of bog roll seems to be the last thing on my mind.
Probably the most embarrassing occasion was a number of years ago while on holiday in Benidorm. The ex-girlfriend and I had gone into a nice little restaurant near our hotel for a spot of lunch, after which the urge came on rather suddenly (I seem to recall I'd had dodgy guts for a few days), so off I trotted to the toilets- refreshingly they were spotless.
I did the business, turned round for the bog roll and, obviously, there was none there.
Panic didn't set in straight away- I reasonably assumed that after I hadn't emerged after 10 minutes or so, the ex would come and make sure I was alright. Now one thing you need to know is when I go on holiday, my phone lives in the hotel room safe. I'm on holiday, I don't want bothering all the time. So phoning my then-girlfriend wasn't an option, but I still had faith she would come to check on me eventually.
30 minutes later I'm still sat on my perch. Then I hear the door open. "Finally!", I'm thinking. But it wasn't the ex, it was a bloke come for a wee. "Excuse me"" I say meekly. No reply, but there is an audible increase in the speed of p*ssing. "Excuse me" I say again, this time a bit more forcefully. The wee-rate increases again, like someone putting their thumb over the end of a hose pipe. Then the b*stard's gone.
It was about this time I realised I was f*cked. The restaurant was virtually empty while we ate lunch, and the one other person in there had just abandoned me in my hour of need. The then-girlfriend obviously wasn't coming to my aid. It had occurred to me that maybe I could use my own boxer shorts to do the clean-up op, but then where would I put them? I could hardly flush them away.
So I just sat there. For ages and ages. I wondered what must be going through the ex's mind- what did she think I was doing in here all this time?! Then the door opens again! I couldn't let this opportunity get away, so this time I craned as far forwards as I could and, opening the cubicle door as little as possible in an attempt to retain what little dignity I had left, poked my head through the gap. There's a bloke stood at the urinal bang in front of me.
"Excuse me mate, you couldn't bring me some bog roll could you please?" I ask, trying not to sound too pathetic. "Yep" he replies, without turning his head or even flinching. I hear the door close and sit there with my fingers-crossed. A few minutes later the door goes again- "Here you go, it's outside the door". And he leaves the toilets, and I am saved!
That really should have been the end of it- I'd clearly suffered enough for one day. But apparently the story of the poor b*stard stuck in the toilet begging for bog roll was one too good not to tell to all and sundry, so in one final act of humiliation, as I returned into the now packed-out restaurant I received a round of rapturous applause and a standing ovation.
Not my finest hour.
I mentioned in my post on public toilets about the toilet with no bog roll. I never fail to fall into this trap. Work colleagues would often pick up the phone to find me on the other end begging them to bring me a bog roll down to the staff toilet. In my defense, in my usually desperate attempt to find a public toilet fit for human use, somehow the provision of bog roll seems to be the last thing on my mind.
Probably the most embarrassing occasion was a number of years ago while on holiday in Benidorm. The ex-girlfriend and I had gone into a nice little restaurant near our hotel for a spot of lunch, after which the urge came on rather suddenly (I seem to recall I'd had dodgy guts for a few days), so off I trotted to the toilets- refreshingly they were spotless.
I did the business, turned round for the bog roll and, obviously, there was none there.
Panic didn't set in straight away- I reasonably assumed that after I hadn't emerged after 10 minutes or so, the ex would come and make sure I was alright. Now one thing you need to know is when I go on holiday, my phone lives in the hotel room safe. I'm on holiday, I don't want bothering all the time. So phoning my then-girlfriend wasn't an option, but I still had faith she would come to check on me eventually.
30 minutes later I'm still sat on my perch. Then I hear the door open. "Finally!", I'm thinking. But it wasn't the ex, it was a bloke come for a wee. "Excuse me"" I say meekly. No reply, but there is an audible increase in the speed of p*ssing. "Excuse me" I say again, this time a bit more forcefully. The wee-rate increases again, like someone putting their thumb over the end of a hose pipe. Then the b*stard's gone.
It was about this time I realised I was f*cked. The restaurant was virtually empty while we ate lunch, and the one other person in there had just abandoned me in my hour of need. The then-girlfriend obviously wasn't coming to my aid. It had occurred to me that maybe I could use my own boxer shorts to do the clean-up op, but then where would I put them? I could hardly flush them away.
So I just sat there. For ages and ages. I wondered what must be going through the ex's mind- what did she think I was doing in here all this time?! Then the door opens again! I couldn't let this opportunity get away, so this time I craned as far forwards as I could and, opening the cubicle door as little as possible in an attempt to retain what little dignity I had left, poked my head through the gap. There's a bloke stood at the urinal bang in front of me.
"Excuse me mate, you couldn't bring me some bog roll could you please?" I ask, trying not to sound too pathetic. "Yep" he replies, without turning his head or even flinching. I hear the door close and sit there with my fingers-crossed. A few minutes later the door goes again- "Here you go, it's outside the door". And he leaves the toilets, and I am saved!
That really should have been the end of it- I'd clearly suffered enough for one day. But apparently the story of the poor b*stard stuck in the toilet begging for bog roll was one too good not to tell to all and sundry, so in one final act of humiliation, as I returned into the now packed-out restaurant I received a round of rapturous applause and a standing ovation.
Not my finest hour.
Saturday, 27 January 2018
Frustration Free?
Amazon are always boasting about their "frustration free" packaging. Not just "frustration free", in fact, but "certified frustration free". I don't know how much it pays to be a certifier of frustration levels in regards to packaging, but I want that job.
Maybe I should get that job. Because whoever is "certifying" Amazon's packaging, they certainly don't live in my world. I order a lot from Amazon. I'm famed for it. And if you can be certain of anything it is that I will get wound up when my daily Amazon order arrives.
Whether it's the little rip-tabs on DVD-sized packaging that manage to break off into individual little pieces in your fingers rather than pull off in a strip as intended; or the box the size of airplane carry-on baggage containing nothing but a Yankee Candle and a LOT of paper; or maybe the item in an Amazon-branded box packed into a slightly larger Amazon-branded box (with a bit more paper) like a set of Russian dolls or a really sh*t game of pass-the-parcel......one way or another I'm going to be annoyed when I come to open it.
So, frustration free? I think someone's pulling your leg Amazon- they've knocked up that certificate on MS Publisher in their bedroom.
So, frustration free? I think someone's pulling your leg Amazon- they've knocked up that certificate on MS Publisher in their bedroom.
Would you like some tomato with that sir?
The wife and I were out shopping on a retail park-come-industrial estate, and we fancied some lunch. We spotted a place advertised as a cafe. We went in and asked for the menu. They said they didn't do food. Right then.
So we walked along to the next "cafe", and asked for the menu. They didn't have a menu, and they only sold toasties- a choice of cheese, ham, or- you've guessed it- cheese and ham. The wife asked about a cheese and tomato. No, cheese and tomato wasn't an option.
Five minutes later the guy brings out two cheese toasties to our table, and asks......
"Do you want some tomato with those?"
So we walked along to the next "cafe", and asked for the menu. They didn't have a menu, and they only sold toasties- a choice of cheese, ham, or- you've guessed it- cheese and ham. The wife asked about a cheese and tomato. No, cheese and tomato wasn't an option.
Five minutes later the guy brings out two cheese toasties to our table, and asks......
"Do you want some tomato with those?"
Friday, 26 January 2018
A + B = F
Why is it that whenever you ask someone "which is better, A or B?" or "which one should I buy, A or B?", the answer always comes back as D, E or F? Just answer the question......
Public Toilets
I despise public toilets. I'm not just talking about the sordid underground rape-haven's the local council provide, I mean ALL public toilets. Bars, shops, train stations, bus stations, airports. If the public have access to it, you can guarantee no matter how clean it started the day, by 9.30am it will be a disease-ridden cesspool, reminiscent of the room in The Shining but with p*ss and sh*t instead of blood.
What makes a bloke, upon entering a public toilet, lose all control and spray everywhere like a hosepipe no-one's holding on to? I'm told women's toilets are as bad if not worse. And when did it become too much trouble to flush a turd away? Was the culprit greeted by one himself and thought it was the done thing to leave it on show for the next person? Or is it some strange type of provocation for one-upmanship- here's mine, lets see if you can do better?
One can only hope their own toilets don't look like this.
Then you get the bog with no seat. That's a pretty fundamental part of the whole toilet set-up. If you're not prepared to provide one you may as well pull the whole thing out and stick a couple more urinals or a johnny machine in its place.
It's pure desperation that drives me to use a public toilet for a number two. It literally has to be hanging out of my a*se before I'll even consider it. But sometimes- just sometimes- you drop on that rarest of things, something that many of you will never have seen, maybe not even thought possible; the clean, unspoiled toilet.
The door locks, the seat's clean, it's not full of turds. You sit down, relax as best you can under the circumstances, and do your business. This is what public toilets should be like.
Then you turn round to find there's no f*cking bog roll.
What makes a bloke, upon entering a public toilet, lose all control and spray everywhere like a hosepipe no-one's holding on to? I'm told women's toilets are as bad if not worse. And when did it become too much trouble to flush a turd away? Was the culprit greeted by one himself and thought it was the done thing to leave it on show for the next person? Or is it some strange type of provocation for one-upmanship- here's mine, lets see if you can do better?
One can only hope their own toilets don't look like this.
Then you get the bog with no seat. That's a pretty fundamental part of the whole toilet set-up. If you're not prepared to provide one you may as well pull the whole thing out and stick a couple more urinals or a johnny machine in its place.
It's pure desperation that drives me to use a public toilet for a number two. It literally has to be hanging out of my a*se before I'll even consider it. But sometimes- just sometimes- you drop on that rarest of things, something that many of you will never have seen, maybe not even thought possible; the clean, unspoiled toilet.
The door locks, the seat's clean, it's not full of turds. You sit down, relax as best you can under the circumstances, and do your business. This is what public toilets should be like.
Then you turn round to find there's no f*cking bog roll.
Coming over here, taking our jobs.....
The wife and I did a car boot sale early last year. I hate doing car boot sales. Having to get up before you've even gone to bed so you can get there for the crack of dawn (who's idea was it to start them so early?), idiots who don't really want to buy what you are selling, they just want to see if they can get it for free. Idiots who can't wait for you to unpack what you're selling, climbing all over your car like some foreign-aid relief vehicle in the war-torn Middle East.
We decided that if we sold everything for £1, we had that much stuff to get rid of it would still be a decent morning's earnings. There was nothing there that was only worth £1.
A great case in point was an electric knife sharpener- brand new and unused, bought on a whim as these things often are. Some bloke eyes it up; "How much?" he grunts at me."£2" I say, thinking I'll start high. He turns it over in his hands a few times. "Alright" I say, thinking of the original plan, "£1". He looks it over for a few more minutes and walks off without another word. Now if you're in the market for an electric knife sharpener, how much is too much for one that was clearly like new? Would I have got him at 50p? 20p perhaps? The plug on the end was worth that much. Or was his sole intention just to leave grubby fingerprints on it?
Then we get a fellow tip his coffee all over a box of our gear. If that had been in a shop, he'd have been paying for them, but the ignorant f*cker didn't even offer up an apology.
But that's not really the point of this story, so lets get to that.
At some point a racist in his late 40's to mid 50's (it was hard to tell from all the muck on his face) rocks up at our stall, at the same time as we had an Indian lady and her children also viewing our wares. And he starts his tirade, not to her but to us, about her and her "kind". Now I was of the mind to ignore him in the expectation that without a willing audience he would soon move on. But the wife, sharing my views but not my tact, starts giving him some back.
The Indian lady buys something and moves on, the racist keeps up his tirade, telling us all about how how the country is falling apart because of "these people", and telling us how he's been out of work for x-amount of time, and it's because of "these people" that he can't get a job, before finally edging away from our table and as his parting comment, saying.....
"....just because I can't read or write"
OK. But it's the "foreigners" that are keeping you on the unemployment line you say?
We decided that if we sold everything for £1, we had that much stuff to get rid of it would still be a decent morning's earnings. There was nothing there that was only worth £1.
A great case in point was an electric knife sharpener- brand new and unused, bought on a whim as these things often are. Some bloke eyes it up; "How much?" he grunts at me."£2" I say, thinking I'll start high. He turns it over in his hands a few times. "Alright" I say, thinking of the original plan, "£1". He looks it over for a few more minutes and walks off without another word. Now if you're in the market for an electric knife sharpener, how much is too much for one that was clearly like new? Would I have got him at 50p? 20p perhaps? The plug on the end was worth that much. Or was his sole intention just to leave grubby fingerprints on it?
Then we get a fellow tip his coffee all over a box of our gear. If that had been in a shop, he'd have been paying for them, but the ignorant f*cker didn't even offer up an apology.
But that's not really the point of this story, so lets get to that.
At some point a racist in his late 40's to mid 50's (it was hard to tell from all the muck on his face) rocks up at our stall, at the same time as we had an Indian lady and her children also viewing our wares. And he starts his tirade, not to her but to us, about her and her "kind". Now I was of the mind to ignore him in the expectation that without a willing audience he would soon move on. But the wife, sharing my views but not my tact, starts giving him some back.
The Indian lady buys something and moves on, the racist keeps up his tirade, telling us all about how how the country is falling apart because of "these people", and telling us how he's been out of work for x-amount of time, and it's because of "these people" that he can't get a job, before finally edging away from our table and as his parting comment, saying.....
"....just because I can't read or write"
OK. But it's the "foreigners" that are keeping you on the unemployment line you say?
When is an inch not an inch?
....when you're buying jeans, that's when.
Now I can understand- to degrees- that clothes marked up in small, medium, large, etc may all vary somewhat. I mean what's small? And what's extra large? My small is probably bigger than your small. It's subjective, and I get that (so saying, I have T-shirts in my wardrobe ranging from medium to double-XL, and they're all about the same size).
But surely to god when you start to measure clothes in inches, they've got to be the same from one brand to the next? Nooooooooo........
I'm about a 32" waist at the moment (I know, slender little thing I am). I've tried on 34" jeans that I can't get the button within in 2" (proper inches) of closing, and 30" jeans that drop down my legs as I walk. How can 32 inches not be 32 inches?!
I've never been into a hardware store for a tape measure to be told that "this brand is a small sizing" or "this brand tends to be a bit on the big side". You can pretty much guarantee that if you take all the different-brand tape measures off the shelf and line them up, the 32 inch mark on one will be in the same place as on the rest of them.
So then, what are the great clothing manufacturers and fashion designers of the world using as a yard-stick? I mean it really isn't something that you can get wrong. It's either 32 inches or it isn't, it's that f*cking simple. What's the sense in mislabeling the item in the first place- if it's not the size it says it is, it isn't going to fit someone of that size, no matter how much you try and convince them otherwise.
You might as well save the time and ink and not bother to print a size on at all.
Now I can understand- to degrees- that clothes marked up in small, medium, large, etc may all vary somewhat. I mean what's small? And what's extra large? My small is probably bigger than your small. It's subjective, and I get that (so saying, I have T-shirts in my wardrobe ranging from medium to double-XL, and they're all about the same size).
But surely to god when you start to measure clothes in inches, they've got to be the same from one brand to the next? Nooooooooo........
I'm about a 32" waist at the moment (I know, slender little thing I am). I've tried on 34" jeans that I can't get the button within in 2" (proper inches) of closing, and 30" jeans that drop down my legs as I walk. How can 32 inches not be 32 inches?!
I've never been into a hardware store for a tape measure to be told that "this brand is a small sizing" or "this brand tends to be a bit on the big side". You can pretty much guarantee that if you take all the different-brand tape measures off the shelf and line them up, the 32 inch mark on one will be in the same place as on the rest of them.
So then, what are the great clothing manufacturers and fashion designers of the world using as a yard-stick? I mean it really isn't something that you can get wrong. It's either 32 inches or it isn't, it's that f*cking simple. What's the sense in mislabeling the item in the first place- if it's not the size it says it is, it isn't going to fit someone of that size, no matter how much you try and convince them otherwise.
You might as well save the time and ink and not bother to print a size on at all.
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