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".
Wednesday, 31 January 2018
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.
Evolution of Man
So the wife and I are sat in the local pub-come-restaurant having tea and getting ready to do the pub quiz.
There's a table of six next to us- mum, dad plus two lads and two girls in their early twenties (presumably sons/daughters/boyfriends/girlfriends).
One lad says "what I want to know is, how come you can breath under water when you're born, but can't when you're older?
Mum replies "well, you get used to breathing air"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)