Tenth rant




I think of all the sportsmen out there, footballers piss me off the most. First off there’s the selfishness involved with goal scoring. Trainers and managers have spent countless hours looking at strategy and drawing curves on whiteboards and the team itself has put in just as much time jogging sideways between traffic cones, all in aid of that win on the pitch, and what does a guy do when he scores? Shake hands with everyone involved? No, he runs around like a kid playing aeroplanes with the face of a porn star during the money shot, like he can’t believe what he’s just done. And dodges all his team mates who are coming at him for a hug – so now he’s a kid playing zombie escape. Darts around the pitch as he tries to work out which fans are on his side, then slides on his knees in front of the chosen ones through the sweat- and spit-caked grass. I’m sure someone’s told these guys beforehand that aliens hold the world to ransom and humanity’s survival depends winning. They’re stupid enough to believe it.

If the goal scorer seems lost on the pitch, the substitute is downright confused. This guy gets his nod and starts running back and forth alongside the pitch, as if he’s looking for a big arrow and a sign telling him where to get on. He only works it out when the guy being substituted comes close.

Then – aw, sod this. I’m sick of thinking about footballers. End of rant.



Ninth rant


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Airport customs.

On a recent trip I was at the airport, where a skinny runt with a comical “border force” badge found a pop can, unopened, in my bag, and made me chuck it away. Five minutes later I was through customs and declared safe and in WHSmith, where I bought the same pop can. Safety my arse. They just want me to spend money. Want more proof of that? Go read about the health and safety rules that say the airline doesn’t want its handlers carrying too much weight, then ask why these guys’ backs are suddenly at less risk if you past the excess baggage fee. And i’m not sure two extra kilos was gonna do much harm to the bunch of guys I saw lobbing bags ten feet onto the conveyor belt.


Anyway, border force runt was the final stage of the scrutiny, of course. Where they check your belt and shoes and hats because although you’ve passed signs telling you what to dispose of and have followed these instructions accordingly, there had been no box marked “hidden explosives”, and we might not have thought to dispose of them. Put that on the signs, you airports, it might just work!


So I’d gotten all the way to the final stage and by thus point had fatigued arms. That was from all the shrugging my backpack off and on my shoulder at various points along the mile long switchback queue accordioned into sixty square feet. At the first dumping station there should have been a big bin marked with all the items I was forbidden to carry into the area where I could buy them all anyway. But that would have been a recycling headache for the airport staff. So they get us to do the recycling like some little game to enjoy as we walk. First flight for me, so I didn’t realise what was coming. It seemed like every ten steps there was another sign telling me what kind of item to discard next. I felt like a blackmail victim who’d paid up but was being asked for more. The airport had only asked for my liquids at first, but it had seen how easily I caved in, so now it was asking for my metal items. I counted another eight blackmail signs along the switchback queue, and was quite certain I was going to eventually step off the plane in Malaga naked and toothless.


Even magnets! Forbidden! But virtually  everything electronic has a magnet these days. But I didn’t worry about that because the magnet pictured was one of those big horseshoe affairs with the red painted ends.


Obviously, Wile E. Coyote was the one they were worried about.

Eighth rant


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Motorway lorries.

Even though big trucks are slow, sometimes even these rumbling behemoths come up against a vehicle blocking their way. Tesco needs its baked beans delivered, but there’s an old guy in an ancient car in the way, a guy who doesn’t realise he has more than one gear. Or worse, it’s another truck. But whatever the obstacle,the truck is about to leave the slow lane and enter the middle one. Right in your path. You’re in the middle lane because you don’t have a big BMW, and only big beemers are allowed there.


If the truck is passing a car, the wait isnt that bad. The truck will inch past and slip left. You might not even have time to get angry.


If it’s passing another truck, get the packed lunch out. Thus is gonna be like watching North and South America race each other towards Britain. And you’re stuck behind them because the fast lane is a deathtrap as beemers carrying reps fly past like cannonballs.


I have a solution, and it’s very simple. The lamp posts in the central reservation. Rip them out and replace them with big iron ones ten feet tall and extending right across the fast and middle lanes. No headroom for a truck. Force them to abandon their snail races and play the Congo game instead.


Seventh rant

MacDonald’s #1


I like the food there, but I hate the customer experience. I hate all the little tricks and rules applied by staff forced into it by suits. Mostly, the “anything else” rule. Staff are ordered to ask the customer if they want anything else with their order, probably because someone in a necktie figured out that one in ten asked this question will either remember something they forgot to order or decide on something to add. And sod the other nine who are being forced to speak extra words for no reason.


I got so annoyed with the “anything else” lark that I tried my damnedest to avoid hearing it. It started with my placing an order then saying, “that’s everything, mate.”


Okay…anything else?


Bastard.  I got my burger and tore out of there. Next time, I had prepared an improvement on that tactic. “That’s all I need, that’ll do me just fine, thanks. Just the old burger.”


Okay, sir…anything else?


Battle lost, but not the war. I was back the next day, resolute, certain victory would be mine. “burger. I’ve only got 99p, mate, so I’ve come to treat myself. My last 99p in the world, so I’ll just have one of your burgers. And that’s me skint, mate.”


Yep, you guessed it. He wondered if I’d like anything else. For free? I asked. No? Then no, mate. Just the burger.


Next time, I thought, let’s make this guy as sick of that question as I am. Watch this.


Next time I rolled up to the talking box, I was ready.


“Just a burger, mate. Plain with cheese.”


Anything else?


“A tea.”


Anything else?


“A hash brown.”


Anything else?


On it went. I backtracked to the burger, added barbecue sauce to it. The tea got sugar. I needed fruit for afterwards, ice cream for my sweet tooth, and then decided I had a friend who needed all that stuff as well. One item at a time. Soon, the intercom went quiet for a second or two after eachaddition to the order. I could imagine the guy moaning about me, and his colleagues closing in for a listen. I imagined him saying, Why doesn’t this guy just give me the whole order? Cos you never think the order is complete, I wanted to shout.


But soon it came. The moment. The glorious moment. After yet another “anything else,” I scanned the menu for something previously missed. Vegetarian roll of some kind. Ordered it. And then there came a pause. Protocol versus patience.


…”Window 3, please.”


I had done it. I felt like a guy atop Everest, a guy with his hands raised after fifteen rounds. I got sent to bay 2 for a modicum of revenge and the drivers behind me sneered as each went past, but I had beaten the system.


Well worth £174.45.


Sixth Rant

Display models. I don’t get this. In a shop the other day to buy a Tassimo coffee machine. Chose the one I wanted, asked some shop guy for it, and he said they were out of stock. No, I said, there’s one. And there it was, security padlocked to the shelf next to a single version of all the other coffee machines.

     But that’s the display model, the guy told me.

     So I can’t have it?

     No, it’s for display.

     Why do you need a display model? 

     To display the different coffee machines we have.

     So this display model is designed to get customers wanting one?


     It’s worked. I’ll have one.

     We’re out of stock.

     It could have gone on a while like this. I don’t think the guy would have ever clicked on that I was being sarcastic. But I let it go and left the shop. I went to another place and bought one. A place where they actually had the foresight to avoid advertising stuff they didn’t have.

     And I got it cheap because it was an ex-display model, ha ha.

Fifth Rant

Pet affection. Today. Approached girl at bus stop. Licked her face. Slapped and ridiculed.

Yesterday. Approached same girl, same bus stop. She bent to pat my dog and he licked her face. Stroked and fussed over.

Explain? Washed and deodorised man versus dog that was probably licking up his own crap a half hour before. Bad timing? Caught her off guard? Into bestiality? No romancing first?

Tomorrow. Approach girl at bus stop. Same girl. Chat her up dog-style by sniffing her ass. That don’t do it, nothing will.

Fourth Rant

Pregnancy pain. In any way downplay the gravity of the pain and suffering a woman endures during childbirth and you risk the wrath of the woman in question and any others of her ilk within earshot. One or more will immediately  try to explain what the pain is like with an example. You’ll be told to imagine what it would be like to have a basketball or other similar sized item yanked out of your arse.

Why? A woman’s internal mechanisms adapt and move and expand to allow childbirth. Arses don’t do that to eject basketballs.

Men don’t give birth, they say, so we can’t possibly know the suffering involved. Men couldnt handle such pain, they say. Well women don’t have balls hanging on the outside that can catch a kick.  They don’t know the horror. So lets ham it up for revenge’s sake. Tell them they can’t possibly imagine what it’s like. Beats childbirth. We will say, “Imagine having a wrecking ball on fire smash into your nose a million times in one second.” And to press the point, the next time the twins catch a glancing blow, scream in agony and roll around moaning for a whole day. And act sick for a week. Pretend you lost the ability to walk – forever. Live in a wheelchair, it’ll be worth it to score a point!

Third Rant

Hot Dogs.

They come in packets of eight round my way, but the rolls are in sixes. The theory is that you see two dogs in the fridge and no rolls in the bread basket and immediately rush out for more rolls. Then you end up with four rolls and no dogs and the panic hits again. The cycle repeats and before long the doctors are talking about bariatric surgery if you want to live another five years.

     Does this trick really work? I’ve heard obese people blame water retention or big bones. I’ve heard them say they can’t help but eat late at night and that their job makes them eat out a lot. No one’s ever said they’re busting the scales because they ran out of hotdog rolls.

     And if it does work, pay attention you dope dealers! With eat bag of ganja, give away eight cigarette papers but only six filters!  You guys selling knocked-off booze,  sell a twenty-shot mojito bottle and give away eighteen slices of lime. And watch the cash roll in

Second Rant

Tea. Millions of people drink it, and we claim to love it – but do we? Maybe nobody actually likes tea, because I’ve never ever seen anyone drink pure tea. They always add sugar or milk. That’s not liking tea, is it? Can I claim to like Oldfield’s Tublar Bells if I can only listen to it with a synthpunk backing track? Can I claim to fancy my girfriend if I have to put a Katy Perry wig on her before we can have sex?

Tea. Booh. Loved by millions. You sham!