As more and more folk want to receive Ponderings updates, I've decided to add a subscription facility. Just add your name and email and you'll get a notification the minute a new Pondering is uploaded. If you already get the stuff, don't bother subscribing cos you're already on the list.
FAQ : What is Ponderings? It's random stuff from the mind of a madman, so unless you have loads of time to spare don't bother reading on.
Latest Pondering : 27 : Hitting back at the spammers
Thought for the month : It's all a load of toss. I still hate this country.
Ponderings update : Expect a McFlurry of Ponderings.
Top tip : Roll over images for more insight.
Warning / Disclaimer : This site uses some pretty bad language, so if you are easily offended **** right off. Taking this site's content seriously or literally may result in failure of internal organs and certain other painful medical conditions.
Forthcoming Ponderings:
Better than a pigeon : If you have anything to say about this nonsense, please email pigeonshit@ponderings.co.uk No doubt we'll chew it over then spit it back at you.
1: Infinite universe (cat. Science? Technology? Space?)
2: The UK elections 2005 (10th March 2005) (cat. Politics, The Human condition, Current Affairs?)
3: Inventions conceived and lost. (cat. Innovation, Science)
5: The future people. (cat. Science, Conspiracy theories, The Human condition)
6: The Half-speed world (cat. Superiority complexes, Agriculture, Medicine)
7: Internet shrines (cat. Internet history, Religion, Freddy Mercury)
9: Paranoid about paranoia (cat. Psychology, the Human Condition)
10: Strictly Come Dancing : That's pathetic BBC (cat. Crap TV)
11: Being God-like through the use of hard-drive cyber-brains (cat. Interstellar thinking)
12: Supermarket vultures (cat. Consumer Behaviour, the Human Condition)
13: Quangoqueens / parties 'aka : networking events' (cat. Public Bodies)
14: Gherkins at McDonalds (cat. rubbish food, Americanisms)
15: The urban myth of L-plates on mopeds (cat. Twats on motorised bicycles)
16: Smoking ban? What smoking ban? (cat. Social Injustice)
17: What's the point? (cat. Philosophical claptrap, The Human Condition) a guest pondering from James Clark
19: Gas (cat. The Human Condition, Two-bit local journalism). Guest pondering from Nick Eggleton
20: Sports Day – Getting out of the Dad’s race. Another guest pondering from Nick Eggleton
21: The Walk of Shame - Guest pondering from Emma Reece
22: Future Perfect - yet another guest pondering from James Clark
23 : Reserved Pondering Number : Coming soon.
24: Time Travel - a beginner's guide
25 : 10 things I never mentioned about being a residential tourist in Italy
26 : Channel 4 stole the Ponderings concept...the swines!
27 : Spammers need to be loved too
Well
done! You are on the first step to burning this book. You'll need it for extra
warmth when the inevitable ice-age comes. Of course, this isn't a book, but
an Internet page, so this comment is wholly irrelevant in this context, so let's
just skip the issue altogether.
I have often considered that there was a book in me. With such a busy life it would be impossible to simply sit down and write a book with any kind of deadline or structure. Thus, I have decided that this book will be written over many years and will merely be a collection of my random thoughts, observations and un-scientific theories.
Once I have reached 250 pages, I will stop writing and shall arrange each ‘pondering’ into a sensible topic or category. Following this, I shall write the foreward, pass it on to my brother (he's an editor) and hope that he finds it sufficiently ‘not-crap’ to put his reputation on the line and edit it for me. Then it will be printed and bound in some strange fabric and will quickly sell more copies than the bible.
All the ponderings that don’t make it into the book, will be ready to roll out in the second edition “Ponderings Revisited”. I don’t know how many editions there will ultimately be, but I’m no JK Rowling so don’t expect me to milk it too much. I’m allergic to Microsoft Word, so this is a real blood, sweat and tears project.
I would like to thank my family now for the unimaginable amount of material they are likely to unwittingly provide me with through our regular bizarre, heated and absurd discussions. In particular I thank Michelle and my Dad who I predict will be of the most influence.
Most importantly, I would like to thank the millions of people who are going to buy the book and write in with their own ponderings (email myponderingsarebetterthanyours@ponderings.co.uk). Without them, all of this would still be possible, but completely pointless.
Here goes…
Many
scientists believe that the universe is finite in mass, space and time. For
many years I have considered this to be total nonsense.
If I were immortal and could travel on a single trajectory across the timeless bounds of space, surely I would never reach the end. What is out there? Is there a fuck-off big brick wall or an invisible energy vortex that would stop me in my tracks. Perhaps I would follow an unnoticeable curvature, ultimately leading me back to where I began; a bit like travelling round a large spherical structure.
Whenever I hear theories about the extent of the universe, I imagine myself flying in a cumbersome 21st Century space tank when, suddenly there is a resounding ‘clunk’ as I hit the edge. This is utter rubbish and scientists should begin to break free from the comforting theory that the universe is of a specific size and dimension. Yes, it makes it easier for the human mind to comprehend, but it leaves little to the imagination.
In my universe there is infinite space, time and mass without any boundaries or ‘edges’. I have been battling with this concept for many years, finally convincing myself of its truth. Once you have made this leap of faith, the opportunity to explore fascinating possibilities arise.
Along with the conviction to the ‘infinite universe theory’ comes the belief that all things must be possible. Aliens, time travel, and truthful politicians are all out there. In my universe, there are people who like taxes, talking plants and trains that arrive on time. There is every possibility imaginable and others that are totally unimaginable.
My faith in this theory goes so far that I believe that somewhere there is an individual called Michael Brown writing these exact words, having the same thoughts and living a life identical in every way. Similarly, there is another ‘infinity clone’ that has chosen a single word in their version that is different to that of my space twin and mine. Thus, I must declare very early that this work is not original, neither is it plagiarism.
There is only a single flaw in my argument….if you believe there is infinite possibility, then you must also accept that there is absolutely nothing out there (as this too is one of the possibilities). I’m still working on how to resolve this one, and will probably report back in the second edition (please note this commissioning editors).
To argue that the universe is finite is on a par with believing the world is flat, which I know it is not (because I’ve seen pictures).
This
pondering was written in response to a BBC online request from users to submit
their views on what will influence their vote in the UK elections…so obviously
its not very amusing. The pondering project isn’t always designed to make
you laugh or think deeply about things. It is just what it is.
Like increasing numbers of people in the UK, I will not be turning out to vote this year. Some may call this apathy and argue that everyone in the free world has a moral obligation to vote.
I believe that many people, like myself, have an avid interest in politics and current affairs, but choose not to vote because they feel uncomfortable voting for any of the three main parties. Why? I think its really quite simple.
Vote Labour : It is true that they have performed reasonably well with the economy, domestic social policy, education and health. However, the overbearing feeling is that they can’t be trusted. There have always been propaganda and lies in politics, but New Labour needs to realise that the nation is smarter and sees right through it. Pure and simple, they are too patronising.
Vote Tory : There is no clear definition of their policies which seem to change on a daily basis. Like Labour, they have lost their core beliefs by trying to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Generation-X has grown up, and would probably tend toward the Tories if it weren’t for the memory of the 80’s and 90’s where they just weren’t cool. People who vote Tory, do it discretely because in many circles it still has a stigma attached to it.
Vote Lib Dem : Bless them. Nice little party who everyone would probably vote for if it weren’t for the fact that they don’t have a chance of winning. The National Lottery has turned us into a nation of gamblers. People are far more likely to vote for someone who they think can win. This is a vicious cycle that the Lib Dem’s need to break. My advice….Think Lucky!
Have
you ever had a killer idea for a product, machine, system, work of art, or anything
you thought to be totally original, only to find that some bastard got there
first?
Nine times out of ten, they have probably started work on it before you, and you were totally oblivious to it. All you can take from the experience is the knowledge that your idea was probably a good one, particularly if someone has actually followed it through and made a success of it.
I’ve come up with loads of inventions over the years, some of them would have been worth millions. Here are a few examples:
Bluetooth technology – I didn’t call it Bluetooth, but I had this idea for short-distance wireless transfer of data (particularly music files) from home > car > portable device > office and back again. This happened about a year before I heard of Bluetooth technology. Damn Scandinavians!
Self-cooling chip pans – Chip pans are one of the most common causes of household fires in the UK. I do find it unbelievable that in this day and age people still cook their chips in this way, but they do, and they die as a result (if not from fire, from excess). The solution I came up with was to simply have a thermometer in the pan hooked up to the hob, so when it gets too hot, it shuts off the heat. This could be applied to all sorts of cooking fluids including water and milk by simply setting the boiling point on the system. I thought of patenting this one, but I have seen a similar system that has been manufactured. I now realise that it won’t take off because the average family cooking chips in a pan probably couldn’t afford this high-end culinary technology.
Song containing the words ‘time takes time’ – When I was about 12, I was riding my bike when an idea for a song popped into my head. It went “time takes time…something, something, something” About a year later I heard the song, exactly as I had conceived it playing on the radio. Either there was some kind of symbiosis with the artist or they happened to be on one of the many cycle tracks in the York area at the time. I don’t recall whom the song was by, but if anyone can tell me, please email suethethiefwhonickedmysong@ponderings.co.uk
The Ponderings Project – I read recently that a young British lad decided to log every single thought that he had for a whole week. My system is more selective than that, but this book is a similar idea. (Update : the book 'Is it me or is everything shit?' that my brother bought me for Christmas is also extremely similar to Ponderings | Update number 2: So it Russell Brand's Ponderland see Pondering # 26).
The smash hit sit-com “The Office” – I began writing a stageplay of a very similar nature, then canned it when the TV series launched.
It is often said that very few ideas are completely original. I contest that my ideas are totally original, but are being stolen by some kind of telepathy (see Pondering entitled Mind-Readers and Mass Hypnosis). Also see the one about Future People.
I
get about 10-20 unsolicited phone calls per week. These are some of the funniest
so far.
Phone rings. Caller ID shows “International”. I think…here we go again!
Example 1:
American voice….“Hello Sir, AZM Consulting is an expanding company with high growth potential for investors in our bulk stock bond allocations…..”
English voice interjects “Excuse me. Who the devil are you”
American voice….“We are offering you this exclusive opportunity as a high-value customer, a real once in a life…..”
English voice interjects again “Customer of whom exactly, I’ve never heard of, what was the company again?”
American voice “Penny stocks in this high growth firm…”
English voice interjects again “We British don’t have the same investment culture as you lot over the pond. I’m not interested.”
American voice “So, you see the potential is huge. To register now, visit 3 double y’s higrowthbusinesspotential doooooooot COM.”
English voice “Are you a robot?. Don’t call again.Goodbye”
There is only one solution to this…ban trans-Atlantic phone calls! Just cut the fibre optics. Fisherman, north Atlantic, harpoon…..problem solved.
Example 2:
American voice, “Mr Brown, congratulations, you’ve won a trip to
Hawaii”
English voice, “No I haven’t, have I?”
American voice, “Yes, for the reduced price of $2,000 dollars”
English voice, “$2000 dollars sounds like an expensive prize”
American voice, “No, Mr Brown, it’s real…you’re going
to Hawaii”
English voice, “No I’m not. Goodbye”
Example 3:
Indian voice, “Hello Mr Brown, how are you this morning, err evening please? Eastenders last night was brilliant wasn’t it, that Dirty Den and Angie split up. Big bust up. Anyway, I’m calling from BT about your account”
English voice, “What do you think the B in BT stands for? I can tell you it ain’t Bombay. Please ask BT to get someone who is up to date on Eastenders to call me back later. Goodbye.”
Indian voice, “Yes thank you please, for your time this afternoon”
I
have no real understanding of the science behind time travel. It’s something
to do with Einstein, bikes and freaking people out by changing your age overnight
(something that we all do to a lesser or greater extent).
The ability of humans (or goats) to travel at the speed of light is meant to be the nirvana of time-travel. It is predicted that we will be able to do this soon, and that it will open up all sorts of opportunities.
For instance, you will be able to go back and correct problems you have encountered, influence the future, and be able to back the winning horse every time.
Some say that people from a future time have already come back and influenced world events in order to protect their own existence. The Cuban missile crisis is an example that is often used.
So, does this mean that there are future people walking amongst us every day? If you were temporarily living in 2005, but actually came from 2150, you would feel pretty smug. You would possess an infinitely superior knowledge to the people around you. 145 years of human evolution and technological advances would really give you the edge.
If time-travel is to be achieved in the future, then it stands to reason that we are surrounded by ‘future people’ and they are changing and influencing things all the time. I will stick my neck on the line here and state that the British Prime Minister in 2005 is one of them. He is the most smug, arrogant, self-opinionated person in the World (apart from George Bush, but he can’t be a future person because nobody could dumb-down that much).
This is a big subject with lots of consequences, and my pal James Clark wants to play online pool, so I’ll come back to it.....in the style of Michael J Fox in Back to the Future.
Two months on, and James Clark has beaten me over 100 times at virtual pool. To conclude, I think he may be their leader.
Do
you sometimes feel that things just aren't happening as quickly as you would
like? Then, you are a victim of the half-speed world.
Have you ever been driving down a major road only to find that some idiot farmer has decided to take his tractor on a 5-mile pleasure ride thus slowing the pursuing traffic to a spirit-crushing 10 miles per hour?
In the UK we only have relatively small farms, so why on earth do farmers need to drive such long distances? It’s a mystery.
I call on the government to ban tractors from all roads except dirt tracks and minor 'B' roads.
The super-slow farmer is just one example of a much wider problem. I’m convinced that some people’s sole mission in life is to delay those of us that would just rather get on with things. In some circumstances it comes down to ineptitude (some people’s brains just work slower than everyone else), but there are also those who deliberately hold things up. Take till operators in Supermarkets….they don’t need to chat with every customer for several minutes after the transaction has completed….just get on with it…I’m waiting!
Another example is people whose business life consists entirely of meetings and networking events. If you’re stuck in meetings talking about doing things, you’ll never have any time to actually do anything. I have been sucked into more than one meeting where all that is talked about is what happened at the last meeting, and when we should schedule the next meeting. I once said “Bugger the meetings, let’s just do something useful instead”.
The latest medical phenomenon conjured up by the quacks is ‘Irritable Male Syndrome’. There are all sorts of theories about why men get so wound up for no apparent reason. The answer is simple….those of us who suffer from the syndrome have full-time brains that work twice as fast as the average person’s. Thus, when things get in the way of what we’re doing we lash out.
I’m thinking of selling t-shirts printed with the words, “Just get out of my way and I won’t hit you”. I think they’ll sell like hot cakes (would you actually eat a hot cake?).
Ask yourself one question “Do I add any value whatsoever to the economy?” If the answer is no, then you are probably a QuangoQueen who should just go on the dole and let the rest of us get on with it.
Problem is that on life’s superhighway, there is no fast lane, no bypass, no national speed limit. So my message to the half-speeders of this world is…..Get out of my way slow people! I’ve got stuff to do!
Humans
are naturally self-interested, it's a fact. Thatcherism taught us that this
principle wasn't all bad. It's ok to look after number, take care of yourself
and your family above all else. Whilst social consideration and the 'common
good' has come back into fashion, we are fundamentally all selfish bar stewards.
My belief is that this self-gratification doesn't stop when we die....oh no mr, it only just begins. If you could leave a permanent mark, an ever-lasting collection of all your thoughts, pictures, beliefs, and theories on the web, wouldn't you jump at the chance?
I reckon folk would pay good money to be guaranteed that this virtual 'place of mourning' would last as long as human civilisation. I know I would! Just imagine it; an image of your ugly mug permanently etched into the fabric of society...now that's worth paying a lot of money for. Cheaper than a mere 400-year shelf-life tombstone.
The technology isn't a problem, any web provider could easily deliver the publishing service. The problem is, who is going to pay the hosting fees after you die? Is there a player in the web market that is big enough for customers to be 100% certain that they will never go out of business? Some might say Microsoft, Google, Amazon....they're all bound to be around in a zillion years time. Well, actually no they probably won't. Miooglezon Corp is our only hope.
I have no doubt that this problem has been encountered by other web publishers (it won't be an original idea- see Pondering 3 Inventions conceived and lost).
If anyone had achieved the impossible dream there would inevitably be a Google Adwords sponsored link on the search term "Internet shrine"....but there's nothing there....nothing (except our ad now). There is clearly a whole new web immortality market waiting to be milked.
Just think, what's the alternative? Placing the would-be web content in a lead box and burying 200 feet below an ancient statue on Easter Island?
If you have any idea of how this concept can ever come to fruition, please email me (before I kick the bucket preferably) by emailing nobodywilleverdie@ponderings.co.uk.
P.S. If anyone finds this text after the year 2094, please ensure that it is made available somewhere on the Internet (if the Internet doesn't exist anymore please buy a ticket to Easter Island. If Easter Island doesn't exist anymore, then the human race is probably extinct and you must be a Future Person and I rest my case (See Pondering 5 - The future people) ).
(isn't seven a lovely number? - I look forward to Pondering number 42)
Here
is another example of Ponderings trying to make something serious out of nothing
at all. If you are from a small country and are offended by this, tough shit....it's
only a bit of fun, isn't it?
I have been an avid fan of the Eurovision Song Contest for many years, but right now in 2005, it makes me sick to the stomach.
The break up of the USSR has meant a flurry of smaller countries have joined the annual musical extravaganza. Let's be fair, they do supply some of the more dire 'songs' that give the contest its real charm, but Eurovision isn't about music, it's all about politics.
Tactical voting for one's neighbours has always been a fundamental element of the pre-rigged outcome, but now with smaller countries coming on board it's really getting silly. The competition results are being distorted by these insignificant little blobs on the map (some of which aren't even in Europe).
What if Luxembourg was to enter? With a population of just 468,571 it would have equal influence on the result as the UK with a population of 60 million. Is this fair? No! I call on the organisers to change the rules so that the winner is the song with the most votes across the whole of Europe.
If Eurovision is meant to be reflective of how Europe works in general, then it has got it spot on....Britain contributes a shed load of cash and gets toss all out of it. As the main sponsor of the event I say that we should call the shots and be allowed an entry from England, Wales, Scotland, Northern Island, Isle of Man, Jersey, and Guernsey. That'll show the Froggy Foreigners.
And that's another thing....why does everything have to be in English and French when only one country in Europe speaks French whereas everyone speaks English?
Just a quick thought on Israel too. I think that 50 years in the contest is enough bridge-building, so please just keep out of it from now on.
No matter how much I object to the increasingly undemocratic nature of the contest, I'll still be watching next year, hoping against all hope that the UK gets in the top 10.
Eurovision - the best reason for Britain to get out of Europe altogether.
I
wrote 3 or 4 paragraphs on this subject (whilst quite drunk). I realised that
people may read too much between the lines and so gave up.
It's not that I don't think it's an important subject (although it's not). But I just couldn't muster the emotional budget to deal with it. Some less depressing ponderings will no doubt make up for this lack of information on this subject.
Suffice it to say that I'm paranoid (everyone is to one degree or another), but that I'm no longer going to worry about others thinking I might be being paranoid. This 'double paranoia' is no good for anyone.
So, will you all stop looking at me like you think I'm paranoid?
The
BBC's gone mad. Is this the progressive, dynamic and modern broadcasting corporation
we were promised? No, it's not.
Ballroom dancing can't be made fun, sexy or popular. It's an outdated 1950's pasttime that should be reserved for bored 60+ singletons who want to get a bit fruity an old timer called Doris. Strictly Come Dancing may be a fine alternative to a night at the bingo, but it's not top-notch prime time TV.
BBC coverage of the show, on their own news and entertainment programmes keeps barking on about how popular it is and how the whole country's hooked. I must apologise to the exception here... Chris Moyles, on Radio 1 has slagged off the show as much as he can without losing his job. Right on you fat git.
I don't believe that it's winning, or even in the running, of the ratings clash with ITV's X-factor. Latest figures suggest that the BBC show got 9.1 million viewers compared to ITV's 8.9 million. Frankly, that must be bullshit.
Watching minor celebrities strut around in over-the-top clothing, doing the Charleston, Foxtrot or some other mindless form of public embarrasment is not my idea of fun. The one thing the show has going for it is Mr Forsyth. The nation's number one variety show frontman, with his sexist puns, clown-like antics and overtly gay demenour is a legend.
So, BBC stop giving us this 'lowest common denominator TV and start putting on a decent show for a change. Strictly Come Dancing is niche viewing that should be relegated to 3am on BBC2 at best.
So, that's 10 ponderings down...240 to go.
As
a teenager, the classic film, 'The man with two brains' was my favourite comedy
of all time. Despite being packed with terrible one-liners and awful puns, it
gave an important insight into the future of man.
Since the most early forms of writing, man has strived for new ways to record his thoughts, aspirations and knowledge. The next logical leap is to unlock the secret of transferring brain-stored information onto a computer hard-drive. If Steve Martin can do it, so can I!
The power of this facility would be awesome. Not only would you be able to 'backup' everything you knew, but you would be able to 're-import' it or pass it onto someone else. Forget Pod-casting, what about Thought-casting?
In the event that the US military opens up there research into the public domain (I assume they've been able to transfer stuff from brains to computers and back again for years), it will revolutionise mankind on an unprecendented scale.
By visiting GoogleBrain (note Googlebrain.com is already registered) and sticking a simple USB probe in your ear, you'll be able to download any useless bit of trivia directly to your noddle. Consequently, everyone would be all-knowing, multi-talented and at 'full-speed' (see Pondering 6: The Half-speed world). This would mean the end of inequality, war and injustice in the world. More significantly, we could do away with all forms of competition as nobody could ever be better than anyone else. On the down-side, we'd lose football, but as a plus, we'd no longer need The Eurovision Song Contest or Strictly Come Dancing.
So, what's the first bit of information you'd import from GoogleBrain? Personally, I'd learn how to be a plumber.
No doubt you will have noticed the reduced section in your local supermarket. You know the area of the store where they put all the stuff they can't sell or that is about to go out of date. You've probably picked up a bargain or two from this special place yourself.
It's
the one area of the store where the shopper can feel that they've got one over
the mighty supermarkets (who generally over-price everything to sap extortionate
profits from us). Getting a bargain is fine, that's your right as a consumer.
But there is a small band of 'supermarket vultures' who just hang around this area waiting for the unsuspecting shop assistance to come along with a trolley load of goodies. It's these people that make me sick to the stomach. Look at them there, hanging over the poor shop staff waiting to jump on their every shot of the discount gun. 'Ooooh I wonder how much they'll discount that slab of mushroom pate to?', 'I hope she does that deli counter slice of quiche next'. Just let them do their job and wait until it's on the shelf! Give everyone a chance to get a bargain you crazed peasants!
The supermarkets should put a limit on the number of reduced items one person can buy. There's nothing more annoying than getting to the counter of the supermarket and putting a fully priced cabbage on the conveyor belt to find that some vulture in front of you has 15 perfectly good cabbages for only 30p. The only reason they got them is that they know that at precisely 17:12pm the shop assistant comes out and starts gunning the vegetable section. It's like some kind of military style operation. I bet these people have detailed notes on supermarket discounting schedules.
The worst thing is when you have a whole crowd of them gathered round one poor innocent shop assistant. They hover, waiting to go in for the kill, quite prepared to give someone a black eye for the sake of saving 20p off a packet of lard.
So, if you've every filled an entire trolley of totally useless rubbish for under £2 then shame on you, you greedy, inconsiderate fuck.
If you're a supermarket boss, please destroy all your neon yellow dispensing pricing guns. If you don't someone's going to get trampled to death!
If you're just a regular shopper, the next time you see a group of these parasites, head toward the middle of the throng and say firmly, but politely "Fucking vultures"
For those that don't know what a Quangoqueen is, perhaps we should define one before continuing to slag them off....
The dictionary definition of a Quangoqueen is : a person (male or female) who
spends their entire working life finding creative ways of wasting public money.
They usually have a job title and role with no real meaning, such as, Head of
Regional Business Development for the Wider Local Cluster Group). They contribute
diddly squat to the economy and spend a great deal of time drinking wine, eating
cheese and chatting with their quango friends at 'networking events'.
One such Quango (who shall remain nameless - you know who you are), state on their web site that they aim to 'Provide a range of support services to assist in the creation and growth of technology-based businesses, entrepreneurs and skills development opportunities.'
Mmmmm, seemingly very commendable objectives, but what do they actually do? Well, it seems that the only time you see these people crawl out of the woodwork is when they've organised a 'free' booze and canapes gathering. These events usually take place in the evening, leading me to believe that during the normal working day, they sit around twiddling their thumbs, shuffling paper, and saying to the pointless job titlee next to them 'so where's the free booze at tonight?'. In most cases, these organisations are funded by other large 'Super-Quangos' like Yorkshire Forward, the regional funding agency.
Yorkshire Forward has an annual budget of around £300 trillion. Most of their budget comes from a mysterious source known by QuangoQueens as the 'European Money Goldmine'. So, what is this European money and why is it ok to spend it so friviously? Put in the simplest of terms, this European money is British taxpayers money that gets paid into a big gold pot in Brussels.
Very kindly, those nice bigwigs in Brussels then give us back around 40% of it to spend on parties. At one such 'party' (known in quango-speak as a 'networking event') I was gluggling back a free glass of red plonk (appropriately from a French speaking European country) when a rather attractive lady in a maid's outfit (also from a French speaking European country) bounded over and thrust a silver tray in my face....."Would you like a savoury sausage with kumquat marmalade", to which I replied "Yes please, and send my regards to the poor bastard that had to peel them".
P.S. Apologies to anyone who works for quangos within the film industry (in the UK only). They are the exception to the rule.
For many years I boycotted McDonalds 'restaurants' because I was led to believe that they burnt down rainforests, electrocuted rabbits and put dog turds in their burgers. After 15 years I finally succumbed to the allure of their homogenised, mass-produced donkey burgers. OK, I admit it, I'm a lazy bastard who can't be arsed to cook every once in a while.
These
days, I'm prepared to put up with the poor quality meat-substitutes, the 'hospitality
assistants' with the intellect of a dried apricot, and the need to hire an industrial
suction pump to consume one of their milkshakes. For the sheer convenience of
drive-in, I'm prepared to deal with all these compromises in food service.
But, there is one thing about McDonalds that never fails to astonish, upset and disgust me. Gherkins in burgers! Gherkins are just not right. They have no place in British society and should be wiped off the face of the earth. As if eating a McDonalds burger isn't bad enough, they go and stick a bit of foul-smelling hot pickled cucumber in the bun to make it extra, ultra, super-shitty.
After purchasing one of these culinary feasts I always flip open the sugary bread, remove the offending vegetable matter and leave it on the counter for some McDonalds drone to clear up. But alas, the damage has already been done. The filthy, bitter tasting and pointless supplement has penetrated it's way through the entire sandwich (why do they call them sandwiches, they're not really sandwiches are they?).
I imagine that back in the 1950's some guy called Old McDonald had a farm producing cows and gherkins. One night he had his eureka moment and thought.....'cows, gherkins, gherkins cows....I've got it....cow and gherkin burgers'. Because Americans are stupid enough to consume anything that's makes them fat, he enjoyed a roaring trade and the company grew to become one of the largests brands in the world.
It's amazing that within an organisation that employs 50,000,000,000 people, someone didn't stand up and say 'Hang on, this cow, gherkin, gherkin cow thing, errrrr, it's shit.'. Then again, they're all flipping burgers at McDonalds because they have no brains (probably from over-dosing on fucking gherkins).
Sure, supersize me, but if you put a fucking gherkin in my food again I'll climb over that fucking counter and ram the vile vegetable up your sorry arse (that's ass to you US half-wits).
This pondering was kindly sponsored by our friends at www.ihategherkins.com
About 10 years ago some government big-wig realised that letting unqualified 16 year old ding-chavs loose on the roads of Britain with a motorised bicycle wasn't really such a good idea.
So, they made a law (don't quote me on this) that says something like this: You can only ride a moped with L-plates on if a) you are on a riding lesson with a qualified instructor or b) you have actually passed your test but can't be arsed to take the plates off.
Well,
10 years on and this law is being flouted by zillions of trackie wearing wankers
every day. It seems that so long as you have L-plates on, and are under 21,
you're fine to do what the fuck you like on a 'ped'. Everywhere I go I see these
little bastards weeving across the roads with their 50cc hairdryers, observing
nothing of the highway code and killing innocent children. Look at the little
fuckwits, revving up their shitty little 'engines' to look superhard infront
of their mates. You won't look so hard when I've finished with you lad. You'll
look like human lasagne.
What amazes me is that the Police don't seem at all interested in stopping these micro-racers.....
It's 2am officer, they're clearly not on a fucking driving lesson. It's two o'clock in the morning and they're clearly up to no good. They're up to no good robbing old people and breaking into people's homes. Breaking into people's homes to steal money to feed their crack habits. Wake up and smell the coffee Mr Policeman and do your fucking job. If I so much as drive 10 yards with a faulty headlamp I get arrested and banged up in a cell for 2 days! Flogged and beaten for a simple bulb misdemenour.
Fucking cunt wankers with your chuffin' L-plates. Cunting cunt, get off the feckin' road! I'm not even allowed to ride one of them contraptions and I've got a full driving licence. You're little tossers who deserve to be crushed under the wheels of a large articulated lorry or a bus, or my car, or a tank. Cunts. Boy, they make me mad.
I hereby call on all those legally entitled to drive on Britain's roads to reclaim the streets forthwith. I say execute the little buggers - mow them charlatans down! Don't worry about the whole 'causing death by dangerous driving' thing. The defence is quite simple....
Not guilty yer'onor. The little shit was in my way m'lord and I mowed him down quite deliberately. I contest that this was perfectly lawful on the grounds that the cunt shouldn't have been on the road in the first place your big wigship. Oh yes, and by the way, he was stealing money from disabled grannies to wholesale buy hard drugs to supply to little kids, errrrr including your grandchildren. What I've done is a great service to you and our beautiful country. Yes, a great service that deserves a big shiny medal. Big shiny medal for me, la la la la. Land of hope and glory....! Where do I collect my reward?
Note : If I do happen to have a road traffic accident involving a moped, all of the above was without prejudice. I honestly wasn't going to go out of my way to kill a mopedalist. Mind you, it's tempting isn't it?
P.S. : Since writing this Pondering, I have been reliably informed that you can actually ride a 50cc moped with nothing but L plates. You only need to pass a test on 125cc and above. However, I still think we should take the fuckers out!
On 1st July 2007, smoking in enclosed public places in England will be banned. This ban includes public houses, nightclubs, work places, taxis, and even your own bed (if you're a prostitute).
As
a 20-a-day smoker for the past 16 years, I find this hard to stomach. It's yet
another reason to get the hell out of this godforsaken shithole of a country.
This legislation is being introduced in the name of public health and the civil liberties of the non-smoker. OK, so I recognise that there may be health benefits for those who have suffered from second-hand smoke in pubs and clubs etc. But what about the health of the smoker?
As a smoker, you will now be herded into special 'smoking zones' in outdoor areas such as beer gardens and bus shelter style erections outside office blocks. This is fine in the summer, but with increasing extremes in weather conditions, the winter is going to be a very tough time for us smokers.If you don't get pneumonia then watch out for irritable polar bears and angry nicotine deficient penguins.
Has anyone in government thought about the increased potential of heart failure in smokers who are forced to run up and down 50 flights of stairs in office skyscrapers? Has anyone thought to supply oxygen masks for high-altitude office staff?
Smokers should fight back against this breach of our civil liberties. Here's a few suggestions about how you can bend the rules:
1. Pretend to be an 'actor' - According to the legislation, you can smoke in a confined public space if it's part of a performance and it's integral and essential to the part you're playing. OK, so I'm sitting at work with a web cam hooked up to my PC. If anyone comes in and says 'you're not allowed to smoke in here anymore', I'll simply tell them that I'm 'performing' to my worldwide audience via my webcam. I'm playing the part of a heavy smoker who spends his life trying to find ways to beat the smoking ban. It's the world's first living play, running 24/7 until the day I die. So fuck off 'lovie darling' and leave me to my lovely cancer stick.
2. Buy a space suit. - For around $230,000 you can buy a spacesuit like they use on the International Space Station. For an extra $40,000 you can have a special smoke condenser fitted. This way you can smoke up to 112 cigarettes in a completely sealed vacuum thus removing the risk of killing your friends and family by passive smoking. All you have to do is empty the resulting cancerous sludge into a nearby river every so often. If you're an environmentalist type, you can always recycle the sludge...it's lovely on toast.
3. Open a 'smoke-free' bar - What you do here is buy a funky wine bar and provide an outdoor smoking area. The clever bit is that you then fit the smoking area with a high powered air-conditioning unit that sucks all the residual smoke straight back into the enclosed bar area. This way, you and your customers can 'smoke (for) free' without the risk of prosecution. You could even integrate this system with option number 2 and have a direct feed from your beer garden to a series of convenient smoking helmets.
4. Just break the law and pay the fine - Smokers already pay a huge amount of tax and duty on cigarettes. The odd on the spot fine is just another stealth tax on the smoker. If you're too rich or stupid to care, just smoke away and take the fines on the chin.
These are just a few handy tips on beating the smoking ban. I'm sure you can come up with your own ideas. If you have some smart ways of beating the ban email smokingismint@ponderings.co.uk
Fight the ban...fight for the right to die in peace.
Guest pondering from Mr James Clark (not the gay British ambassador to Luxembourg):
In 1942, the French writer and Nobel winner Albert Camus published ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’, a quasi philosophical text which starts with a very simple premise – why don’t we all just kill ourselves? He compares the Sisyphus myth - where a man is condemned to push a heavy rock up a mountain, only to find it rolls back down to the bottom, ready to be pushed again – to the struggle in life to find any meaning against a backdrop of absurdity and the frustration of life’s unknowables.
I
find this the single most pressing question to answer in all eternity. It’s
not to say I’m depressed, far from it, but for me this is the ground zero,
the root base of all questions you’ll ever need to ask. If you can find
a half decent answer to this question, you can set yourself up for life, even
if your answer is in itself absurd. In fact, the more absurd the better, as
what could be more perfect than an absurd response to an absurd question? The
wonderful writer Kurt Vonnegut, himself a sufferer of depression, found that
his answer was to mirror the absurd in his books, allowing the reader full and
humorous access to a life spent thinking in the abstract.
The societal ‘antidotes’ to apathy and depression, such as consumerism, drug use (alcohol being one of the most pernicious) or sexual oblivion are all but short term fixes if you don’t have an idea of why you are still consciously alive. It’s a perfect place to scale back from, and a smart context from which to build a perspective on life.
So when Mike asked me to write a pondering, some eight months or so ago, I accepted, but did nothing about it. Perhaps in the back of my mind I was subconsciously thinking ‘what’s the point?’ In one very real sense, all I would be doing would be spewing up some idiocy to fill a web page that twinkles dimly in a universe of a billion pages. But in another sense, I reasoned today, I would be scratching out a response to Sisyphus’ myth, in a small yet personal way. So I got out of the bath, put the toaster down, and started tapping at the keyboard. After all, it only means something if you want it to mean something.
Sometimes it can be only the slightest alteration in ones consciousness and interpretation that can unlock some of life’s subtle and nuanced lovelies, and give you an answer to an intriguing and eternal question.
Another guest pondering from Mr James Clark (not the gay British ambassador to Luxembourg):
Sometimes when I am in sainsburys, stocking up on quails eggs, vintage Bordeaux and foie gras, I enjoy an amusing moment which might, for all I know, be lost on most people. It is a moment that is never guaranteed to happen, indeed it is the very spontaneity of the event that adds to its delicious enigma. I can go for weeks without experiencing it, or I can magically have it occur twice in one week. It can be like playing Russian roulette with your groceries.
What
I am talking about here is an announcement that rings out over the tannoy, often
spoken by different people, that simply says: “Will the holder of the
back door key please come to the back door”. Whenever I hear it, I think
to myself ‘well, where the fuck else are they going to go? What other
use could the holder have than to be present, there at the back door, with the
key?’
I think ‘Who is the holder of the back door key, and why is it always changing hands?’ I wonder ‘where is the back door, apart from the obvious, and why doesn’t a big retail chain like Sainsburys think to have the back door key stationed somewhere near the back door, perhaps on a useful hook?’
And then I think ‘What if the back door is simply some kind of euphemism, possibly sexual, that we, as humble consumers, know nothing about?’ What if the entire ‘back office’ of Sainsburys is merely a façade for some kind of shocking bacchanalian orgy?
Why is the back door key being allowed to roam freely in-store, clutched by the clammy hands of some anonymous staff member, whilst Management clearly haven’t got the faintest idea where it is at any given time?
All I know is that if ever I was to work at Sainsburys, that would be the job I’d want. There seems to be a cavalier, charming, almost Ian Fleming Bond recklessness about the procedure, the unwitting Achilles heel in an otherwise impenetrable and well oiled retail empire. I believe sincerely that it is from this employment position, this modern day Don Quixote of a job spec, that the true world revolution will spring, like an oak from the acorn, and governments will tumble.
And then I have a little rummage around in frozen and I’m off.
Guest pondering from High Chief Sir Nicholas of Eggleton (possibly the world's grumpiest tosser).
Moaning, I have recently learnt, comes in a number of different forms, the ‘token protest ritual’ (it can’t be my turn to walk the dog, you never walk the dog…), ‘denial’ (I’m not moaning, but…) and self-aggrandisement (god doesn’t he moan a lot...) and I’ve taken to analysing my moans.
I
hate people who moan when in fact I’ve always got something to moan about.
I’m only happy when I make others miserable with my complaints, bitching,
gripes, opinions, and ponderings…
Everyday I see, hear, or smell something worth moaning about, on the telly, in the street, in the local paper, on the radio, in an email.
I keep promising myself that I’ll write a letter to the local rag. Put my moan in ink.
But I never do. Why? Laziness? Shame? Guilt? No… actually is because people who read letters in local papers are just nosey bastards and the people who write in every bloody week are only moaning to make themselves famous. I’d call it ‘impotent rage’ if that wasn’t too strong a term. More like ‘mild moaning’.
And to top it all off it makes no fucking difference at all.
So what am I saying? “Don’t moan!”. Nope. I’m saying, ‘’Keep it to yourself’’, or write a fucking useless online pondering that no-one will read unless they’re a fucking moron like you.
Guest pondering from High Chief Sir Nicholas of Eggleton (possibly the world's second most unfit dad).
It’s that time of the year again when Dad’s all over the country are sweating. Not from any physical activity, but from the fear of ‘the dad’s race’.
At
the first child’s sport’s day you turn up oblivious to the tradition,
to the horror of child pressure and to the abject panic when the mum’s
look at you as if to say ‘you’re not really a man if you deny your
child…’
“Please, please, please daddy…”. How can you say no?
So you reluctantly, slowly, cowering, slouch towards the start line. It’s going to be ok there’s a couple of fatter blokes in the line up, even some older ones, you tell yourself. There’s one who’s old enough to be your dad and carrying 3 stones on you. It’s going to be fine. How hard can it be?
Then you notice. You look down and see their footwear. They are all wearing trainers. Even the old fat one is wearing the latest Nike, anti slip, go fast, shiny new, spiked, running shoes for wet grass. You glance down. It’s an important day in the child’s diary, you want to look good (in case there are MILF’s about), so you put on your best Loake’s Chelsea boots. Leather upper and sole. Elasticated sides for comfort and easy slip on and off. They complement, the nice light wool summer suit you’re casually wearing.
Time move’s slowly… The Headmaster say’s ‘’ready’’... you look across the line. It’s going to be harder than you thought… ‘’steady’’.. you look at your kids cheering you on… you take a deep breath, ‘’go’’ you push off and like wily coyote your legs spin and you go nowhere very quickly. The trousers are tight at the knee, the suit is tight across the shoulders and your arms don’t swing… You’re hardly moving forward.
The old fat (ex army PI instructor – you later find out) to your right is already 10 yards in front. You can’t catch him. You start blowing hard. Everyone else is 10 yards in front of him!
You lose. Last. By a long way. Your kids look disappointed. “Sally’s Granddad beat you!”…
The shame, humiliation and torture are too much. The first of several excuses leave your lips in seconds. “I had the wrong shoes on…My suit is too well fitted… I hadn’t warmed up properly… I have a groin strain from the Marathon I ran at the weekend…”.
It’s the next year. No problem. You make some excuse. Something came up at work. Life or Death (as if that can really happen in marketing?).
It’s the year after. You have to go. But you limp on to the field. “Oh it’s nothing, I slipped off a ladder putting some (manly) shelves up. The kids don’t remember that, but they ‘let you off this time’.
It’s the next year, shit! Err. ‘’Pulled a muscle in my back playing Squash’’.
The year after. “Sprained ankle trying to get a stranded cat that got stuck in a tree.”
And on it goes on and every year since then. And when I hear the words ‘sports day’ I perspire like a horse.
What the hell am I going to come up with this year…
The truth? “I’m old, unfit, can’t be arsed, don’t want to be embarrassed again by a 60 year old.”
Oh the horror….. the horror….
Guest pondering from Lady Miss Emma Reece (a dirty stop-out).
For my first pondering, I’d like to address the wonderful and iconic Walk Of Shame. It’s not such a problem for guys, they just walk home looking tired. No one notices. If you’re female, however, you’re destined for the whole of that journey to have comments of “Had a good night, love?” yelled by chavs out of cars, old women tutting under their breath at you (“Can you believe she’s been out all night?! It’s disgraceful!”) and desperately attempting to walk in the heels you were wearing the night before, whilst your feet hurt because you were dancing on them for a fair few hours.
We’ve
all seen it, that moment in the morning, where a girl in her heels and rather
fewer clothes than is generally deemed as acceptable to wear at that time of
the day, walking along… you just *know* she’s been out, and that’s
she *must* be a dirty hussy, because she *blatantly* stayed at guy’s house
last night… probably was someone she met that night too… she’s
definitely easy, then… the type who has one-night stands… and in
all likelihood, she drinks too much… and so on and so forth…
People make far too many generalisations. She could have been out with friends, and crashed at her best mate’s house, she could have been coming back from taking a friend to the hospital after having their drink spiked, anything… but no, you assume that they went out, got drunk and got laid, and are now walking home in the clothes they wore last night with a hangover.
Well, you know what? I enjoy the Walk Of Shame. I strut home, happy, tired, knowing I had an awesome night. And boy, you should see me when I got laid the night before! The strutting goes into overdrive!
I see people have a tut, and see what’s going through their heads, but let me tell you, I am far from ashamed.
“Yes. It’s exactly what you think. I did go out last night, yes. I got very drunk, and in fact I’m very proud that I managed to shot some over-proof rum. Yes, I look tired, but that’s because *I* met an incredibly hot guy last night, danced a little dirty with him, flirted, and he took me back to his, where we proceeded to have sex all night. In fact, you know what? I haven’t even been to sleep yet. Yes, I am truly rock and roll. Truly. Yes, I got laid. I got sex last night, and the only reason you are tutting at me is because you are not young enough to be able to be reckless and spontaneous, and because even though I’ve been out all night, and I’m wearing the clothes I wore last night, I *still* look better than you do. It’s called life. It’s called youth. It’s called fun. Forgotten how to do that, huh? Oh well…. And it’s exactly what you think, yes. I got laid!”
So, when you feel the need to tut at me, or look at me in a derogatory manner when I’m next wandering home after a heavy night, don’t. Remember being young and free.
And smile.
Guest Pondering from His Right Honourable Forward-Thinkingness, Mr James Clark.
I
thought I’d make a novel and mindbending contribution to these ponderous
proceedings by writing a pondering from the future. No, really. March 23, 2011
to be precise. One of the perils of being a future person is that there are
strict guidelines determining what you can and can’t influence when you
go back in time, so as not to jeopardise the future. These guidelines can be
a real pain, and can often severely limit one’s use of the benefits of
time travel. Lotteries and gambling are out, for example, thanks to the landmark
2032 global parliament ruling on time travel use, initially designed to combat
inflation.
The way I’ve got round the legislation is by invoking a little known rule called the ‘time capsule loophole’, or TCL. This little gem allows you to place artefacts or intellectual property in the past for future use, as long as there is demonstrably no chance of it affecting the future. It’s very popular for wealthy and inbred aristocratic families, who like to surprise and amuse each other with the inventive folly of their ‘plants’, particularly on birthdays.
My TCL justification and insurance qualification for writing this is that there is no chance that anyone will actually read this. It’s a mouthed whisper in a universe of online shouts. Believe me, if anyone knows about future web use, it’s a future person. So I can tell you in confidence about the humiliating disaster of 2012’s London Olympics, Luke Young’s wondergoal against Holland in the 2008 European Cup semis or even PM Cameron’s awkward admission in the spring of 2010, because you probably don’t even exist.
But if you are reading, here’s one tip from the future that you’ll be glad of. Watch out for the fireworks in the third week of December 2012 – it’s at that point that everything, and I do mean everything, changes, and is possibly the only reason I’m able to sit in the future and ponder from afar. Forget Nostradamus, this is the eye popping, paradigm annihilating, kick ass big one. Happy travelling.
Thanks for another fascinating pondering Mr Clark. Now please tell me when York City will be in the Premiership you ponce!
Pondering Number 23 has been reserved for a special reason which I can't be arsed to divulge. We will jump straight to number 24 next and come back to 23 when it's been cooked.
The last guest pondering from Mr Clark set me thinking about my absurd theory about him being a future person. I've concluded that he's just full of shit and doesn't have the first clue about how to time travel because he doesn't have Sky+.
That clever chap Einstein is said to have worked out that time travel was impossible because in order to achieve such a feat you would need to travel faster than the speed of light (which is very very fast - approx 299,792,458 meters/sec give or take an inch).
On announcing this to the world everyone just gave up and said 'Well bugger the whole trying to travel in time thing then.' Well, I say screw Einstein and his silly hair.
I've been researching this subject for many years and I'm proud to be the first 'scientist' in the world to publish a theoretical model for achieving time-travel. So here it is.....
Step 1 : Make yourself a video of an object moving across a screen. I've used a lightbulb here, but it could be anything : a hot cross bun for example.
Step 2 : Rig up a video camera in front of your telly and film your object moving across the screen.
Step 3: Take a copy of your freshly made film and stick it on your Sky+ box (or even a VHS recorder if you live in Norwich).
Step 4: Play back the film on fast-forward, recording the film on your camera again.
Step 5: Repeat this process a few times until the room around you begins to collapse in on itself as you create a supernova blackhole whotsit thingy.
You're probably thinking 'that'll never work...it's just bollocks', but wait a second (not that you'll have to wait a nano-second when you become Doctor Who).
If your object travels across a 42" plasma screen in two seconds, that's roughly 30 miles per hour (I don't know exactly because I couldn't be arsed to work it out). Speed that up 30x times on fast forward and you'll have the thing moving at 900 miles per hour. Repeat the process just 5 or 6 times and it's moving faster than the speed of light. Bingo!
All very good, but that image of a lightbulb isn't a physical object so what use it that? Just watch the bit in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory where he beams Mike TV across the factory. The answer is there.
Guest Pondering from Her Most Temporarily Absconded Miss Philippa D'netto
1. Everything but everything is shut on a Sunday. Even the local accident and emergency hospitals are closed. In stark irony to this austere Catholic regulation, the only person working are the priests. Most places are also closed on a Monday. When I had the flu I had to wait three days before I could buy a packet of paracetamols.
2. Crossing the road is a suicidal event, and should you be forced to undergo the death-defying experience then you should note the following:
Zebra crossings are not there for your benefit. They are there for Italian drivers to register their speed, and to develop their own ‘personal best’ crossing-to-crossing speed times.
The
green man does not mean ‘you are safe to cross’. If you look
close enough at the light you will see him visibly shaking. It’s merely
a suggestion that you could ‘cross at your own peril’. If it
were a sign, it would be written only in English, for they are the only
breed imprudent enough to believe they’re invincible.
Should you be foolish enough to claim ephemeral ownership of the horizontal lines ahead, do not then be brainless enough to presume that this means any vehicle will actually stop, accelerate maybe, but no, not stop (I believe there’s an underworld point system taking place: 10 for women and children, 8 for men and 6 for OAPs).
When forced to do aforementioned, highly unrecommended activity, it is a game of odds, which are stacked against you. Just clench vital organs tightly, adopt walking protective foetal position and leg it as quick as your little legs will go.
If successful in the event (or should you witness someone else’s good fortune), wipe the sweat from your brow, thank the upper powers of fate, but know that there will be a least one very pissed off Italian driver accelerating round corners in the hunt for his next naively unsuspecting tourist.
3. Be grateful of your corner shops. Such luxuries in Italy do not exist. When running out of milk for breakfast one day I asked where the nearest small shop was. I was informed it was the international Spar, which is a bus ride away. At the end of my road there is only one shop. It is on the corner. It displays its products in huge glass windows. It sells Ferraris.
4. Spending any period alone with the opposite sex, however brief, will automatically commit you to a minimum 12-month contract of ‘girlfriendship’. Having strolled 5 minutes down a lane with one, I have since received daily reams of Italian poetry declaring undying love and endless similes of me and the sun. God only knows what would happen should you be promiscuous enough to kiss your ‘amore’ goodbye. Clearly this would be proceeded by them dropping instantaneously to their knees citing fifty Hail Holy Queens in a purge of guilt.
5. The hospitals are covered in pictures of Mary and Jesus (clearly they are culturally diverse in their acceptance of all people not Italian). More erroneously, on one wall in a particularly dreary waiting room was the picture of the Sacred Heart. Made you think of an open-heart transplant rather than any pious preference.
6. Italians are outrightly disgusted that we do not use bidets. There is absolutely no rectification possible. We’re all dirty bastards. End of. (See footnote)
7. To belch in front of anyone is worse than shouting ‘testa di cazzo’ on the top of your voice while mooning. This I learnt the hard way. Not by a comparison of the two I hasten to add, but the reaction was enough. Oops. Mi dispiace.
8. Just because they are shouting it does not mean they’re angry. Italians only appear to have two volumes: muttering or a 100-decibel bellow. If in doubt, read their hands.
9. They employ their most inhospitable, unfriendly people in all posts of ‘customer service’. Should you be unfortunate enough to have to cross the frontline, then consider the following:
Do not insult them and primarily try and speak their language unless you are natively fluent. No points to be gained by trying.
On initial contact, open with the sentence about how sorry you are that you are too dim-witted to speak their very educated language.
Try then in Italian. Let them frown to the extreme: you may as well have spoken in hurdy-gurdy.
Let them not even attempt to converse in English, but actually adopt their ‘accelerated especially for tourists’ Italian dialect.
Do not at any stage attempt eye contact or humour.
Thank them profusely for all their help and leave. Quickly. Do not turn round to watch them laughing amongst their colleagues.
If they have purposely issued you with the wrong ticket, then change your plans, get a different train, whatever. Do not attempt to complain. I think that’s why the policemen carry guns.
10. The churches and cathedrals are exceptionally beautiful and tranquil. Maybe this aids their universal attraction, but one last observation I will share is that, when a group of Italian youths pronounce they are going to church, it’s not a euphemism for drug peddling, dogging or any other wild bohemian pastime. They really are going to church. ‘You don’t really believe in all that holey baloney do you’ would be the wrong response.
Editor notes : Wonderful to hear that Philippa's not been seduced by the Italian way of life. Whilst I don't particularly like any foreigners (especially the Welsh sheep shaggers), I must say that I'm quite partial to an Italian lady.
See http://www.poopreport.com/node/1485/print for more incite about Italians and their toilets.
I had decided to take a short break from writing any Ponderings as I have all manner of shite to deal with. However, last night I viewed something on my Freeview box guide that go my so rattled I decided to come out of semi-retirement and kick someone's ass.
On 16/08/2007 I wrote the following email to Channel 4:
Dear Ms Leddy,
I write some nonsense on my pseudo-blog at www.ponderings.co.uk
One of my regular readers told me that they thought it might make for a good TV series / sketch show. What do you think?
Personally, I think it's a load of toss, but each to their own.
Regards,
Mike Brown
Rather inevitably I got a standard courtesy reply telling me to go and find an independent production company who might want to run with the insane idea of bringing Ponderings to the small screen.
Then, last night, whilst channel hopping I stumbled upon a show called 'Russell Brand's Ponderland'. I duly flicked it on and quickly realised that the long-haired gobshite freak had stolen the Ponderings concept for his lanky unwashed self. Fucking cunt I thought!
So, today I sat down to write this long-winded rant about how I'm gonna take Channel 4 to the cleaners, and that Brand fuckwit to the back of the dole queue. Rather unusually, on this occassion I decided to do some background research and found a video recorded by someone in the audience of the show's pilot episode. The video had been posted up on YouTube one month before I emailed Channel 4.
Arse, bollocks, tit, wank, fanny, shit. Bang goes my quick £million law suit. Just goes to prove the point I made back in Pondering #3 (Inventions conceived and lost). Of course, it's not inconceivable, that Mr Brand or Channel 4 had stumbled upon the Ponderings web site some time in the past. If I ever find out that they did hijack the concept, I'm going to hunt him down, shave him bald as a coot (whatever the fuck a coot is) and insert 10,000 copies of his forthcoming Ponderings book up his bony ass.
I am slightly consoled by the fact that I'm not a greasy-haired, self-obsessed, sheep-shagging, cock-monkey like that Brand character, but it still hurts. The swine.
For anyone who gives a toss, here's some of Brand's inferior Ponderland bollocks (which I stole off the internet. Ha!):
Having a gizzilion email addresses and spending the last 15 years on the web, I get around 4,000 spam emails a day. Sometimes, just sometimes, I'm one of the idiots that hits the reply button. Here's some examples....more to follow no doubt!
Spam Number : 1,545,533 Received : 03 July 2008 From : Tracy Hooker.
Greeting from Unique Textiles Ltd,
About Us .
Unique Textiles Ltd was established in 1971 as a textiles supplier to the fashion
trade. Initially an integrated company with market stalls and supply connections
through out the North West, developing into a merchant and wholesaler to the
manufacturing trade. marketing,distribution Import and Export of Textiles.
You are receiving this email because We are currently recruiting payment officers in your Locality.
Your responsibility will be to :
a.Process payments and disburse to payment officers under you.
b.To maintain and update the payment website under which you are employed
c.To send weekly reports on status of payments of transactions. With 10% coming
in on each successful job round as commission ,we are willing to create the
right opportunity for you and possible job safety.If you already work and need
something else to bring more funds,this is the offer too !If you would like
this send an email to the address below stating your interest and possible qualifications
along with these information:
1. Your Name:
2. Mailing Address:
3: City
4. State:
5. Zip Code:
6. Phone Number:
7. Country:
8. Age:
9. E-mail address:
Thanks for your anticipated action and we hope to read from you soon.
Regards,
Warmest Regards
Gary Blazer
The reply:
Dear Gary,
I have a few questions in relation to this opportunity:
1. Would this 'work' require me to have a sex change? The reason I ask is that
whilst your email is signed Gary it appears to come from someone named Tracy.
2. Are the textiles offered by Unique Textiles completely unique or do similar
textiles exist? Please give an honest answer.
3. Do you reside in the continent of Africa by any chance?
4. No doubt you'll require my bank account details should I wish to proceed.
My bank account in based in Switzerland so would it be possible to be paid in
Nazi gold?
5. Will you kindly go fuck yourself?
In eager anticipation of your reply,
Shirley.
Spam Number : 1,549,327 Received : 10 July 2008 From : Stephen Webster
Dear Sir/Madam,
I am Mr. Stephen Webster Head of Operations, Bank of Scotland, New Uberior House,11 Earl Grey Street Edinburgh EH3 9BN. I am in search of an agent to assist us in the transfer of 15,000,000.00 GBP (Fifteen Million British pounds) and subsequent investment in properties in your country.
You will be required to:-
(1) Assist in the transfer of the said sum.
(2) Advise on lucrative areas for investment.
(3) Assist us in purchase of properties.
If you are willing to assist us in the transaction, your share of the sum will be 50% of the 15,000,000.00 GBP, 50% for us. I will be pleased as soon as you indicate your interest by including your confidential phone and fax numbers in your positive response, this will enable us furnish you with further information on the procedures and modalities on how funds will be transferred or made available to you.
I await your immediate response via my personal email stephenwebstter@aol.co.uk .
My Regards,
Mr. Stephen Webster
The Reply:
Dear Mr Webster,
I read your email with great interest. So, here's my side of the deal.....
1. I'll have no trouble transferring the money...believe me, it will be a pleasure.
2. I propose that we invest the money anywhere except Scotland.
3. Once I have £7,500,000 I'll gladly buy some properties with it.
Please could send my cheque to the address below:
Tony Johnson, 1 Bullshit Rd, Cloud Cookoo Land, UK. BA1 1S
Thanks.
Tony.
Spam Number : 1,579,887 Received : 5th August 2008 From : Jones Hills
Dear Friend,
I am Jones Hills the credit manager of SNS Bank License Office U.K with headquarters
located in the NETHERLANDS. I have a personal proposal to discuss about a late
family members Fixed account in the bank, Please contact me through email or
you can give me your personal phone number with your full names so that i can
give you a call, but if you are really interested to know more CALL ME ASAP.
Regards,
Jones Hills.
SNS Bank License Office
The Reply:
Dear don't know your name so I'll just call you friend,
I read your email with real interest. Has a member of my family died and left millions without my knowledge? Wow! How exciting. You must have an amazing job telling all those millions of people that it's their lucky day. You see, I did a search on Google for 'SNS Bank License Office' and found that you've sent this email to lots of people before. The conspiracy theorists are all claiming it's a scam, but I'm sure you're genuine. I mean, who would have made up such as ridiculous name such as 'Jones Hills'?
Anyway, please call me on 07770 774 914 to discuss the situation and we'll take it from there.
Yours kindly,
Wade Lemonslip.
Spam Number : 1,579,899 Received : 5th August 2008 From : ???
The Reply:
You fucking what?
Regards,
Arisial Bangatar.
Web design and marketing with some tasty fruit juice : www.trianglemultimedia.com
No more links as I don't think anyone would want any from this site.
The author accepts no responsibility for offence or damage caused to any person or entity mentioned herein. If you have been offended, it's your problem and you should seek counselling to deal with it. It's only a bit of fun. If you can't handle it then go buy a dummy you big baby.
© Copyright 2004-2007 and beyond. All rights reserved by Mr Mike Brown (the author) and named guest ponderers. Some of the pictures used are copyright to other people. If you have an issue with our use of any of your copyright pictures, please email us at copyright@ponderings.co.uk and we'll carefully consider removing your picture.