Archives for the month of: April, 2013

So today I am mostly going to stay well away from social media.
This is because I know I will just get annoyed and frustrated by people’s opinions of what is happening today in London; namely the funeral of MT.
I consider myself to be fairly apolitical, in much the same way as I am atheist.
The smug self satisfied self serving right wing will all be bleating on at any opportunity today about what a great lady MT was, forgetting the destruction she wrought over massive areas of the country.
They will claim she was strong willed and stood her ground unlike modern day politicians, that her policies saved a once great nation from economic ruin.
They will deliberately forget to mention, or more likely just not care about, the many people who lost jobs, homes and lives because of MT and her aggressive politics.
Meanwhile the left wing will be pouring out a disgraceful tirade if abuse at what amounts to a dead old lady being buried. Celebrating in the streets, drinking champagne and having a party because someone you didn’t like has died is pretty low behaviour.
I voiced this opinion recently and got asked if I believe that it was wrong for people who lived under Gadaffi to celebrate, or any of the other brutal dictator regimes for that matter. After a little bit of thought I came back with a yes.
You see MT was no dictator, she won three general elections. Many people liked her policies and her politics.
But mainly to celebrate the death of someone, another human being, well that doesn’t sit right with me I’m afraid. Sure, be happy that they have gone; if you have lived your life under a brutal dictator and then they are gone, well that must be fantastic. Celebrate your freedom, not their death.
I am fortunate enough to not know what that feels like; oppression. So maybe I’m wrong
But one thing I do know; to avoid getting bloody annoyed at people fawning over the death of a politician (see previous post Death of a Celebrity) they didn’t know or celebrating the death of a sick old woman, I’m going to attempt some will power today.
See you all tomorrow social networkers.

Ps; I’m still in bed at the moment. It sounds wet outside. I may stay here.

I have just returned from my daily dog walk.  I can confirm that, currently, the fields of Hertfordshire are not too muddy and fairly pleasant for an hour or so strolling.

The last part of my daily “chore” is about a three quarter of a mile walk along a road back to chez Mavis.

There I was, dog lead in hand, swinging a bag of dog poo gently in the other, when a car pulled up next to me heading in the same direction.  I turned to look, expecting to see the usual parent-lost-on-way-to-childrens-sporting-endeavour four wheel drive that has stopped me countless times over the last five and a half years.

What I didn’t expect to see was a taxi.

“Hello mate, I’m trying to get to Dunstable”, said a bright, friendly, bearded face.

“Um. OK”. I said, shrugging.

“I need to get to Dunstable”. Less of a smile this time.

Me, smiling wonkily, “Right?”

“…Dunstable?” Hopeful.

At this point I’m thinking “but you’re a taxi driver”, or “where’s Jeremy Beadle?” (I know, I know).

“Well go on then”, I said.

“Is it close then?”

“No. It’s about ten or fifteen miles in that direction”, I said, gesturing roughly. “It’s miles away”, I confirmed helpfully, laughing a touch.

“So I just go down the road and go right, yeah?” More hope.

“Er, no.  You, it’s. No. You’re miles away”.

I wasn’t prepared to start going into ‘end of road, go left, bottom of hill go right…’ etc etc with him.  He was a fucking taxi driver.  A TAXI DRIVER. Surely he can find a town.  Struggling to find an out of the way country house, or a flat or abode in a daftly numbered estate or some such thing; fine. But a whole entire town? Really? Ludicrous.

“Just head towards Whipsnade Zoo”. I said, most helpfully.

“Okay!” He said.  He seemed happy again and drove off.

Am I being unreasonable? Is this idiotic? Why couldn’t he buy a map? Didn’t he have a satnav? Or a phone? What is going on?

This isn’t the most idiotic taxi-based story I know.  The other involves an Australian friend, a stag do in Scotland and a taxi home, but alas is not my story to tell.

Something sinister is afoot. Dark deeds are being perpetrated and unseen evil forces are moving amongst us.  Silently, on four soft ninja-like feet, they do the bidding of Satan.  Otherwordly. Deadly.

Pure evil in a fur covered fourlegged strolling about all cocky and SHITTING IN MY FRONT GARDEN form.

Cats.  That’s what we’re talking about here.

There is a cat that lives somewhere near me and the little bugger regularly digs up part of my front garden and does a little cat poo.  I don’t find it very pleasant.  In fact, if really fucking bugs me.

I don’t even really blame the cat, to be perfectly honest.  I know it isn’t sat at home right now plotting it’s next pooing mission, or moving little poo or cat figures around a map of my garden and laughing maniacally like a demented dictator.  It is just a cat.  He (or she) is more likely licking itself, or sleeping, or coughing up a furball or dropping dead animal remains on a bedroom floor to be trodden on bare foot.  Horrible little shit bag.

Oh, sorry.

As you may be able to tell (or if you have read previous posts, may already know) I am somewhat of a dog man.

I take my dog, a faithful waggy tailed soppy great Labrador, out for excerise once if not twice a day.  One of my jobs on these walks includes the fairly revolting task of inserting my hand into a small plastic bag and picking up the horrific smelling produce that comes out of the rear end of the beast.

I have to pick this up and carry it with me until I find a suitable place to dispose of it, which means that I am, for a short time, carrying a bag of shit with me.

I don’t mind this really, although I feel the need now to point out that I do not enjoy it.

What gets me is this; I have to pick up my dogs rather large and disgusting smelling poo whilst the unknown cat of doom can meander onto my front garden, dig a little bit and do its business then bugger off and I am left with cat poo on my front garden.  Plus, I have also had to pick up poo.  It just seems so unfair.

So I have a plan.  I am going to, ninja style, spy on my front garden so I can identify the feline villain, then follow it home.

When I know the location of the evil feline base I am going to deposit bags of Stanley poo on the front door step.  Tonnes of the bloody stuff.  Bags and bags of pure Labrador poop.

Then sit back, steeple my fingers and laugh.

Unless anyone has got any good suggestions as to how to discourage this feline behaviour that does not involve harming the poor little fucker.