The Angry Kettle

Chitchat

2007-08-12T11:56:00.001Z

[cross-post from my blog!]

Ok so I can be pretty talkative. When I'm around friends and family I can talk at a million miles an hour and I can rant like there's no tomorrow. But if there is one thing i Loathe, it's chitchat.

To differentiate from what I call chitchat and small talk. Small talk: light trivial conversation in necessary situations. Such as breaking the ice during introductions, filling the void of silence among people who don't know each other and keeping the conversation up. This kind of thing you have to have patience for, ease into conversation and such. By "chitchat", I mean rubbish talking with no particular purpose. Where you take turns say "uhuh... yeah... mmhmm" and aren't really listening anyway. Especially when the things being discussed [if you can call it a discussion] where the words have no meaning or value.
I don't like this conversation on the false pretence that we're best buddies. It's not natural!

But then, I'm always one for disliking people in general. It's funny, I like to think I'm diplomatic. I won't take someone on first impressions alone, even if they are quite bad. I'm prepared to talk, small talk if you like, to get to know someone, if they are prepared to get to know me too. But once I start to gauge a person, I often get peeved off quickly. From how they interact with me and others, I decide whether I want to continue hanging around them or if I'd be happy to never see them again. [And if I don't like someone, my friends will know very soon.]

I like to approach people and other aspects of life with very specific expectations, some of them I've shared with you. Lets meet on the assumption that we have nothing in common and we live on different planets. [I view most people like this!] Before leaving the house let's remind ourselves to beware of stupid people [they're everywhere!] Before making decisions, balance BOTH extremes, would I regret doing it [the consequences to bare] or not doing it [if I die tomorrow.]

One thing I do, whenever I'm out, is try to be aware of other people around me. It's surprising how many people are oblivious to the people lurking around them, my friends in dark noisy clubs. When I'm walking somewhere alone, I notice if there's someone walking behind me, if a car pulls up nearby, try to find a reflective surface to see how far they are away from me. When driving, I think more about the movements of other people and how safely they are driving as well as mine. Don't stay in someone else's blind spot for crying out loud! It seems like basic principle to me: don't assume others will do what you think they will.

I realised I might sound preachy, that's not the intention. It just surprises me that I don't think like others. A few others which always surprise me is when older people [usually at that annoying age of not actually being old 25-35] act painfully condescending. King Lear, thou shoudst not have been old before thou hadst been wise.

Currently on top of the most annoying list:
1. Guy at uni - talks about boring stories [he's already told us] and with no point. Expects us to sit through them. Is vulguar, reminds us how special he thinks he is Obsessed with his b-grade basketball team.
Guy at work - asks me questions about my hobbies and whether I have a boyfriend and tells me how easy I have life these days as a young-un [he's 29]
2. Girls I hung out with at the RSL last night - boring, talked about stuff they understood and their friends [which I don't know]. Spent lots of time texting and lounging when they had nothing to talk about. Couldn't make an effort to get to know me, try as I did, so we all gave up on conversation.
3. Lecturer who never gets to his point - makes paragraph long sentences with "big words" in order to convey a point which he's forgotten by the time he gets half way through. Tries to recover and continue, ends up trying to explain the same point again with different words.
4. People on my msn randoms list - only talk to me when i change profile picture, after "how are you" and "what are you up to these days" run out of things to say except crap-all i can't even be bother to reply to. I'll just pretend I'm away from the computer.

Zee Rant

2007-07-28T14:23:00.000Z

I HATE WINTER. WINTER MAKES ME SICK. Mum always tries to make me go for a flu injection, I refuse. I got a COLD anyway. Cold = NOT FLU. WHILE ON HOLIDAYS. Worked the rest of the time.

When I make a lot of noise Whinging, it means it's not a big deal. I still have other good things.

When I start emotionally DUMPING my woes on the internet, it's THE BAD SHIT. I've been doing that lately.

The INTERNET is STUPID. PEOPLE are STUPID. Duhh, wakey wakey.
I don't fucking want to be a SOCIAL person. Its won't make me less lonely. I'M AT HOME ON A SATURDAY NIGHT.

I know I haven't been blogging properly. Damn those people who remind me of this! Taking blogging seriousl is BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH.

I HATE THE WORD "BLOG." IT SOUNDS YUCKY. LIKE I'M GOING TO SPEW IT OUT.

CAPS LOCK is NOT cool. Think of this as "what not to do".

Ah, sibling love

2007-07-16T08:52:00.000Z

In my family, we normally have two types of arguments take place. One type is the general "Why are all the towels in the bathroom wet and/or in a pile on the floor?" kind of thing. The second, more common (and louder) one is arguments for the sake of arguing. The kind of conversation where you complain about whether you should get the butter out of the fridge as you are opening the door and reaching over to pick it up; continuing after you've actually handed the butter to the other participant and returned it to the fridge once they've finished making their toast. I have been known to have one of those arguments that has lasted a whole grocery shop, including the drive to and from the shops. However, this rant is unfortunately not about that.

My brother, I believe, lives to make the rest of us irritated. Over the 23 years he has been alive it seems that he has gotten quite good at it, too. One could say he has perfected it, as it seems that every day when I wander around the house he has done something to annoy the living shit out of me. Actually, I would hope that my shit isn't living, as that would be quite disturbing. I bet it would get as pissed off as the rest of us if it was alive. Anyway, back to my Brother's unusual skill.

He likes to think of himself as fairly capable in the kitchen, so when Mum decided last night that she needed to take slice to work, he was the first to raise his hand and take over, implying that he would do a much better job. (I beg to differ. When he baked me a birthday cake one year, it overflowed the cake tin and didn't set at all. This year I made my own cake.) At the end of the night, a slice was made and the dishes in the sink "soaking". This was fair enough, as it had caramel involved and had hardened fairly quickly.

The next morning, when I dragged myself out of my bed at nearly 11 o'clock and stumbled into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea so I could wake myself up enough to possibly do something constructive with my time, I happened to look at the sink. The dishes were still there. He was engaged in a deeply important activity which obviously could not be disturbed, so when I went and mentioned that he should probably clean up before going to work he (as usual) sighed, rolled his eyes and grunted non-commitally, focussing on the television as if it would answer all his important questions and leaving me to wander off to go about my business.

Why was I not surprised when half an hour later he shuffled into my room looking sheepish. "Uh, I kind of ran out of time. Would you be able to do the dishes for me, just this once? Thanks, I owe you one!" was his side of the conversation, while I just looked at him in disbelief. When he left and I figured I may as well get it over and done with I found out he had left pans from two days ago when he cooked breakfast, not to mention his plates he used to cut up his chocolate bars on when he ate them. The whole business took about 5 minutes to do, which pissed me off even more, as he could have done it last night instead of watching stupid shows he's already seen.

And yet he says that I'm the lazy one because I stay up late talking to people online? I was able to wash those damn dishes, clean the kitchen, feed the rabbit, get dressed and walk to work early enough to go get change from the bank before my shift started. Not to mention still being able to talk to people online and tidying my room. Oh sure, I can see the logic in that.

Wait a minute; that logic's faulty!

Sickness (mark II)

2007-07-02T15:22:00.000Z

If you could, utilising a little imagination here and there, cast your mind back to your early school days for me. You are eight years old or thereabouts, and you are happy because it is summer and that means ice creams and holidays and sunshine and going for a wee outside in the garden without your bits falling off from the cold. It is the last day of school and everyone is laughing, shouting, bleating and chirruping like a petting zoo in an earthquake. Everyone, that is, except the Sickly Kid.

You know who the Sickly Kid is. There's one of them in every school everywhere, ever. They're the one with pallid corpse-pale skin, or large bruise-coloured rings around their eyes, caused more by chronic insomnia than any actual impact. They creep close to walls to be safe from the great outdoors, and are allergic to things you take for granted. You know, like fresh air. They are depressing to look at, and the parents in the school car park comment on their obvious neglect and poor eating. All the students avoid them, they are contagious and obviously not fun to be around. They have no friends to play with, and they couldn't play anyway because, you know, playing Catch is no fun when one of the party's eyes are blocked with viscous rheum. They are like a one-man plague - a metaphorical leper, exempt from the rest of the pre-pubescent tribe. It is summer, and you are happy, and everyone in the school is happy, and the Sickly Kid is Sick.

Yes, his eyes are streaming and his nose is gushing and his head is sore and angry. His feet have swollen up, his brain is pouring out of his ears. Or if it is a female Sickly Kid, she's on her period five years too early and her hormones are giving her kidneys grief.

Right.

It is Summer.

Now.

I was the Sickly Kid.

This is why I tell people I prefer winter. Even when it is chilly even inside your combi boiler, and bollock-freezingly cold every other place - even when your testicles, if you have them, have become testicicles - then I am still happier and less ill.

I mean, of course I'm less sickly than I was when I was eight years old or thereabouts. Of course I love the idea of summer. The idea of summer is a very important thing. It gives people who don't like winter at all a kind of hope. The idea of summer is filled with those ice creams and holidays and sunshine postcard moments I mentioned earlier. It doesn't matter that the reality is sweat and summer colds and hayfever and the trip to the seaside being stuffier than being inside the space between a fat man's waist measurement and his belt buckle, and when you finally get to the seaside you are greeted with rocks and mud and seagull-shite, and the inability to find a parking space. Anywhere.

The point is, everyone needs a little hope. My hope is for the winter, which to other people I am sure means shivering inside a house that is probably being warmed only by your own body heat which you are trying in vain to keep inside you, wearing five more woolly jumpers with every consecutive degree (celsius) downward. My winter is an open fire and the ability to breathe without seven new allergy-inducing microparticles diving down my oesophagus. Sometimes everyone is different. Sometimes some Sickly Kids are Sickly for different reasons.

...

Now someone pass me the ice-cream. It is summer, after all.

Sickness

2007-07-02T07:23:00.000Z

I always tell people that I prefer Winter to Summer, as it means I can warm up by turning a heater on or putting more clothes on, but in summer, even if you take as many clothes off as you can while still being decent, you still can't cool down enough. Well today I was reminded that I hate Winter. I hate it with a passion.

I am sick. This happens every year, so you would think I would be used to it, but I am not. Every damn Winter I get a cold or the 'flu, and instead of it kicking me around for a few weeks and leaving me to go on its merry way to make other people feel like rubbish it decides that my lungs are a nice place. Cosy. Spacious. Good views. Close to the shops. So it settles in for the long haul, which means I get a chest infection and feel like death on two legs for as long as it takes. This means if I try and, I don't know, stay awake for more than two hours then I end up working on the most basic of levels. Monosyllabic words and shuffling walk. Zombies at least get to eat brains; all I get is maybe chicken soup (if I'm lucky). If I'm unlucky, then instead of just a chest infection, I get pneumonia. I got pneumonia for the second time in three years last winter, and my doctor had the audacity to tell me I should have come to see him earlier. If I saw him earlier he would have given me antibiotics (which wouldn't have worked), then I would have to spend more money going and seeing him again when I continued to cough up my lungs, where he would give me stronger antibiotics and the whole cycle continues, leaving me broke and STILL sick. I'm better off taking cold and 'flu tablets and hoping for the best.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make a cup of tea and try and clear my nose enough so I can breath at least seemingly normally. I'll see you in six months when I feel like complaining about the heat.

Hot Fuzz

2007-04-07T06:21:00.000Z

Ok so I watched Hot Fuzz at the cinema with a friend on Friday night and now everyone thinks I’m a conspiracy theorist. Which I’m not, but here is why.

Having no idea what this movie was even about, I was told it was a comedy about cops and by the guy who directed Shaun of the Dead, which I haven’t seen. What I found was a lot of black humour, satire and double meanings. On the drive home, all I could think about was the state of current affairs, the actions of Western governments of late, modern propaganda and brainwashing, fascism and the “threat of terrorism”. Why? Do you ask? Because I’m completely insane, or because Hot Fuzz triggered much more than a light-hearted comedy should.

Warning: Spoiler alert. I’m also likely to ruin your opinion of Hot Fuzz is you insist on seeing it as merely a comedy.

When Angel is told he’s going to move to the country, all his superiors, all the way to the top come in to tell him the same story. There is a sinister omen in their seemingly comical knowledge of his affairs, their silent jeering at the chance to get rid of him, and the blatant way the superintendent reveals the selfish reasons for disposing of Angel. The fact is, Angel shows up the Establishment and other police officers, so they’re going to bury him. Just as any establishment may bury those who make them look bad.

This concept is carried throughout the film in Sandford Neighbourhood Watch’s insistence of burying anyone who might blemish their record.

The overacted “friendly” characters in the play are all ones leading double lives. The “realistic” emotions come from those characters, Angel, Danny, and not many others. One of the first, most obvious analogies is the ‘wild goose chase’, or rather, tame Swan one. Not only is it one of Angel’s first problems, he is sent around to chase it and it is used to distract him from the actual happenings of Sandford. I hope the plastic swan statue in the hallway of Angel’s hotel rooms was noticed, signalling that the mystery was right underneath his nose. Moreover, the swan always turned up at opportune times when Angel was close to cracking a clue, and was finally caught as the lies were “broken wide open”, going so far as to be the one delivering the last blow to Inspector Butterman. A perfect ending, the lies come back to bite the mastermind.

The “greater good” is a major theme that first crops up when Angel asks why the barkeepers let young kids have a pint. It perpetrates the entire conspiracy – the Sandford Oligarchy – the neighbourhood watch, turn out to be convinced that nothing should stand in the way of their goals and their idea of ‘the greater good’. In fact, it is the absurd, trivial reasons (the best village competition) for murder are the biggest thought-provoker. Angel’s first thoughts may be “Yeah right, that is unbelievable” and even Benny thinks it’s ridiculous. It’s not till the very end that Benny, representing the brainwashed public realised, this is actually the most non-ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.

While Angel plays the classic hero, Danny’s role is more important as he represents the public. Having lived all his life under his father, he never questioned what he was told. When you realise that the Sandford represents the UK, the Neighbourhood watch represents those in power, all the other analogies fall in place. The walkie-talkie systems and video watch replicate the surveillance cameras – apparently there is one CCTV camera for every 14 people. The murdered individuals are ones which appear shady, as each is killed it appears comical because of the gruesome nature of them. Two decapitated heads lying on the ground and it’s claimed to be an “accident”. The Andies, two pretentious, shallow, fake people, appear to be obstructing justice, yet turn out to simply be pawns, employed to ensure there is no progress made. There black cloaks and chase scenes, leather gloves are very clichéd props and the neighbourhood watch reminds you of the film The Village.

A interesting point is the reference of Sandford’s perfect no-murder record, yet its extremely high ‘accident’ record. There is a ‘Stepford Wives’ conspiracy to this ‘model town’ and that rings true as a representation of how Western countries like the UK depict their clean records. The idea that governments are committing great grievances for the ‘greater good’ is a reoccurring theme and moreso the ability for people to live through it and not know or care.

A final touch, likes in the stark irony of Angel’s actions. Angel, representing those minorities who claim to see through the wool pulled over their eyes, is dubbed a loony, made a minority and a laughing stock, yet in order to prove he’s right, must break the law, take up firearms and cause havoc for his idea of the “greater good”.

More things keep cropping up but I’m going to stop. Once again, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to see this.

Hypocrisy is a curse

2007-02-22T11:46:00.000Z

Last time I was at a dinner with a group of my friends, an interesting conversation took place further down the table. It was decided that a friend's (let us name her Tracey) boyfriend was creepy, because he a) looked like he could be her father, and b) he was 7 years older than her. The main idea was that if a 25-year-old is going out with an 18-year-old, he must be a creepy pervert.

It was then that I realised that another friend (who for argument's sake shall be named Lisa) was in the same situation. I mentioned this nugget of information, but was dismissed by the rest of the group by the words "Yeah, but he's nice. He also only looks about 20."

Am I the only one who finds this more than slightly disturbing? Are these people really saying that because he doesn't look his age that he obviously isn't a creep? Now, I've met Lisa's boyfriend, and he's genuinely a nice guy, but who's to say Tracey's boyfriend isn't nice too? When did people get so frustrating?

If people are so willing to write others off so quickly, they should be prepared to have assumptions made about each other. But of course, they get annoyed when that happens, but they have no problems in doing the exact same thing!

Bah, I'm talking myself in circles, which isn't the best way to begin my contributions to this rant-blog. Oh well!

This is what Gent really meant:

2007-02-22T11:28:00.000Z

"I'm sick of all these people and their whineyness!!"

They're all la-di-da look at my sliver spoon, but oh noes my daddy won't give me a BMW! This is no joke, someone posted this on a forum.

"I spend all my time working my crappy job [which is really easy] and spend it all on my clothing addiction. Now I don't have time for my friends and I am really tired. Should I quit my job? I'm basically supported by my parents who bought me my BMW, I didn't ask for it, Promise! What should I do help me plz"

[Spelling mistakes and grammar fixed. This is a COLLEGE student by the way.]

So all us HARD-WORKING, moderate living people, who DON'T complain [ok maybe a little... or a lot] feeling like taking our nice Ikea stainless steel spoons and shoving it up the rear ends.

Paying Out in Bitter Banknotes...

2007-02-22T10:53:00.000Z

Ok, Miss Fatty, I see how it ought be done.

Alas, I have never been particularly good at being angry with people. Well, of course, when people are bigoted, or self-righteous, or judgmental, or overly zealous, I do get a little riled. But there is a Problem.

The Problem is that I have had it rather too good. I wish I could get really fiery about poor housing! Trouble is, I’ve never actually lived in a particularly bad house. I was born with (if not silver) then at least a nice Ikea stainless steel spoon in my mouth. Strictly lower-middle-class, my parents never gave me much to be angry at. Schools, well, you have some good, you have some bad. I might as well have been angry at jelly for having different flavours…

Still. It remains that I have never had much bile, no great rages. My father is a moody bar-steward, yes, and a poor parent to boot, but even the fire and brimstone of that “massive issue” has steadily faded to a dim sizzle.

I feel I have been handed a poor lot. To not be able to get angry about things! Only having a sort of dim apathy about it all! It thoroughly pisses me off! There, I’ve said it. The one thing I am ever properly angry about is not being able to be angry, at least, not when it counts. I never get in the right fights. They are always trifling and petty and don’t deserve any real bitter flame… Sometimes I feel like hurling abuse at these characters but then I know I would be sorry and the guilt of all that would hang over my head like a turgid black stormcloud – raining more problems on my finely coifed hair. Yes, I can’t even moan about that! I have cleanly cut hair, I have fair skin, I am straight, and I am not particularly ugly, though even ugliness would be more interesting than my own perplexing blandity. I am not good-looking. I do not dazzle or enchant. I have charmed my way into a position held more often by people of ‘greater facial value’, if you see what I mean.

Well, I have had enough. That’s right, all of you ugly good-lookers with your class or charisma or contempt for others, I am pissed off! You may not be particularly nice, but you are not bored – and it is unfair. Why can’t you share some of it around? You are all disgusting. Your faces offend me, with their pristinity, or lack of it. You are far too much of anything for your own good.

It’s just not fair, I tell you! Not fair at all.

How did I do, Ms. Fatty? Marks out of ten? A nice average seven, no doubt.
… figures.

A lesson in "paying out" people.

2007-02-22T10:46:00.000Z

The act of making a person "pay" for their real, perceived or completely imaginary faults/mistakes/failings over and over again.

Eg:

A: OMG your hair is so dumb it's a /bowl/ cut!
B: wow it really is, you're such a douche-bag
C: guyssss stoppit!

Two months later...
A: [joke about a celebrities hair]
B: At least it's not as bad as C's
A: HAHAHAHA

Dear Gent, take this lesson, your turn!

I can have another you by tomorrow...

2007-01-24T11:53:00.000Z

So there is something wrong with the radio at work, it doesn’t receive a signal properly. It misses bits of the broadcast, every 20 seconds or so it is interrupted. This makes music listening quite hard actually. It makes good songs just tolerable and bad songs absolutely terrible. This mainstream channel plays good music, but a lot of annoying chick* music pop over and over. Working away to this faulty radio I can just hear:

I am... I am... I am... I’m a revolution...

And a little bit later:

To the left ... to the left... everything you own in a box to your left... to the left to the left...

These songs seem to find a happy home in my head playing over and over and over and over and etc.

It occurred to me however, that these songs are not actually missing anything: they actually just repeat the chorus line which seems to be 2-3 words. Over and over and over again... *sigh* Must be tough being stupid. Actually, it would be great don’t you think?

Just in case you didn’t get it, the girl in the first song is a “revolution”, must mean something about spinning around or something. And the girl in the second song has left her boyfriend all his belongs in a box to his left No, your OTHER left!

The other song stuck in my head for an extended period today is that Beyoncé one I quoted in my title about being replaceable. Her boyfriend, not her of course...

*I say the word “chick” with much love, in case it’s unclear, I mean the girl’s singing about power and how independent and special they are. And how they don’t need their boyfriend to feel whole. They must be really proud about that one.

why do people keep giving me sensible answers?

2007-01-14T12:38:00.000Z

why is my mother telling me to go to bed?
why is my blogrolling account shitted?
why do i have 6 email addresses i don't check?
why are people not talking to me?
why is there so much bullshit to deal with?
why are people such arseholes?
why are there so many idiots in the world?
why do i need to go to bed?
why is it late when it's not even 12?
why does going to work mean i have to sleep earlier.

i hate sleeping before witching hour, it's all normal and shit.

Gentleman, my dear sir, please post.

Stairs

2006-12-21T15:31:00.000Z

yeh yeh two posts in a row - so shoot me, I'm on a roll here.

StairsReally Suck - especially if you live on a third floor of an apartment building with a broken down lift apparently. [Don’t ask me, it’s not my rant.] I declare war against stairs. Whoever thought of such a stupid invention after all? They are a hazard-filled obstacle-course determined to trip you, especially when laden with shopping bags, garbage bags, furniture, people etc. We live in the TWENTYFIRST CENTURY people! we have things like lifts, and escalators. [The inventor of the escalator deserves some sort of medal, which would be shiny.] It’s not that we’re lazy, we just don’t have the energy. After all I had to walk all the way to the car from the office and you’re asking me to walk up stairs? The car took a super-size Dr Pepper alone. [Just kidding, I’m not paying out Americans, really truly.]

Anyway, I have a problem with steps, they have a grudge against me. I’ll be waltzin along minding my own business, seeing the sights, when bam down I go another stupid half-step on the street or in and out of shops. My friend’s all turn around and are like ‘harr harr the steps again Ali” and I’m like ‘yeh whatever, why the hell is it here and why won’t it piss off already.” How hard is it to find a nice flat surface in asia? Build a ramp if you can’t build even steps, or you know, can’t afford an escalator. Is it too much to ask?

The other thing is; what is with stairs in houses? Does that mean you have to trek downstairs for food and upstairs again, with food in tow, just to eat? When I design that house of mine, it’s going to have a lift. If it has nothing else, it will have a lift.

Please stop.

2006-12-21T06:42:00.000Z

The walls of Will’s apartment are TOO THIN. This really sucks because he can sometimes hear the neighbours fucking. What the hell is with that. Could someone seriously find the frigging volume control, if nothing can be done about the walls? Can a formal complaint be made for the sake of his sanity, or would that just end in a messy puddle on the floor. Something Must Be Done. I can just imagine it now, the neighbours getting it on, the noise bothering Will, driving him crazy, sending him over the edge, and when he bites the bullet, I’ll have to be there managing affairs, testifying. “Judge, it was the neighbours, *points* I know for a fact that Will was driven crazy by them. *glares*.

I don’t want that to happen, dead bodies irk me. So whoever it is that lives next to Will in his apartment block in New Bethelehem, Pennsylvania, take your fucking elsewhere.

A Welcome Wake-up Call

2006-12-05T00:25:00.000Z

Attention class! We have a new and very very amazing member of staff. She is called Ali, and she is going to spruce this place up. Be on the look-out for updates and spangly shiny bits and bobs.
A big round of applause for Ali please!

- The Gent

Acrylicious... or not.

2006-11-07T00:20:00.000Z

I am sorry, really I am! It's all a bit... hectic, at the moment. I'll come back to you, dear dear readership! (christmas special, I promise)

I'm Going Gaul The Way (sorry for the inconvenience)

2006-08-15T21:16:00.000Z

I am such a poor person to you benign internet characters. I disappear for months at a time, with no notice of where I am or where I'm going. I am the archetypical naughty teenager.

The truth of the matter is that I have been having a holiday. It was terribly remiss of me, I know, in the circumstances. But as soon as I escaped the NHS' diabolical clutches, it was imperative that I partied as hard and as much and as often as possible before my father took the FSG, me, the two sisters, and FSG's son Mark (Mark, obtainer of the First, in Politics, at Belfast Uni - damned clever fellow) to the south of France.

And what a holiday it was... if you remember Rupert Satnav, and his plummy accent... let's just say, I overestimated the SATNAV completely, in all its totality. The man/machine simply did not know his way around France. The map was on the little screen, yes, but the poor bugger got increasingly confused - as did we - every time we reached a roundabout with three exits, of which we were told to take the (seemingly invisible) fourth. We were flummoxed, and it was only the last-minute appropriation of a handy road map that stopped us ending up at the bottom of the Channel. Yes, it seems Macon is located somewhere around the middle of the Channel Tunnel, if Volvo is to be believed. Something tells me that Volvo's research department hasn't exactly been working overtime. Yet, this is not a rant at Volvo, and we have already covered Satnavs... so back to the narrative:

After a day's hard driving, mostly lost for me in a handy Nintendo Game Thingy Machine, we finally reached Macon, and our hotel for the night. Conveniently situated in the Sex Shop Quarter of Macon. Well, I wasn't complaining... Mark and I popped out for a drink.

Macon, on the whole, is rather boring. No, really! We set off the next day towards Nice, and boy was it. Certainly, after Nice, and nearing St. Tropez, the population rapidly became increasingly younger and more naked. We reached the Villa in LaCroix Valmer - well, we nearly reached the villa. Our destination? Number 7, Super Valmer.

Amount of Number 7, Super Valmers in LaCroix Valmer? Four.

After numerous quarrels and plenty worry that we'd be stopping in at a seedy motel on the Autoroute Deux, we discovered Number 7 (or rather, the fourth Number 7) and collapsed into a vague gloomy paradise. The days that followed were gorgeous and plentiful, and I shan't trouble you too much with their details lest you get suddenly very jealous. And I would not blame you, I had fun, I swam in the pearly glittering Mediterranean, I saw dolphins, and Brigitte Bardot's house, and bumped into Rod Stewart's daughter (possibly the oddest thing to occur around me ever).

So, this post's rant is: coming back to England.

Sure, Rule Britannia, sure, inventive comedy and music scene, sure... whatever. England just doesn't cut it. My spiritual home and my actual home are very far apart every time I come back from off the continent. Please, I must know, is it wrong to hate home like this?

Could you love home like I can't?

The History of NHS (see appendix)

2006-07-18T14:32:00.000Z

I am sorry, fair readers. Those of you who peruse my blog will have seen I have been surprisingly absent after all my binding promises to be as regular as clockwork. Electric clockwork, even. I have indeed, been gone.

Gone off my head on mind-bending drugs, at least. On the Thursday of last week, I rose to a warm, bright, happy-looking day. It was one of the few mornings I have experienced that ever did this quite right. Bands of sunlight streaming and suchforth. Unfortunately, it was a very brief experience, for almost directly after the world showed me this beautiful vista, it presented the far more narrow-minded vista of quite what was wrong with my stomach. It growled and shook ominously.

The day progressed as they often do. Forward in time and that. The 'twinge' in my stomach gradually became far more an 'ache', then a 'pain', then a 'throb', and finally, by the time I had endured a bus journey of brobdingnagianally painful proportions, a full-on throaty Knot Of Horror deep behind my navel. I collapsed onto my bedroom floor full of prayer that it might end quickly, and perhaps a prayer also that if I were to die, perhaps good friend Mike the Critic might inherit my computer rather than either of the Sarky Sisters. The Mother was of no use. She rather coldly threw the yellow pages at my head and told me to sort it out myself. The lasagne was on now, and couldn't be left. Apparently.

I crawled to a phone. Curled under wave after wave of pain I dialled the number of the local Surgery. To no avail. If you're dead, find someone else. This phone line closes at 4 pm.

Apparently.

After a short interval, my despairing mother forewent her lasagne and drove me to the hospital. And now it's all over. The angry writhing appendix that had been wreaking havoc in my intestinal tract is in the toxic wastebin where it belongs. I lie in my bed, or rather not my bed, as my bed is too low down for me to be able to get up again without helpers, and write this to let you know that the NHS is pretty awful.

Not so bad... well, I can't complain too much, can I, they did sort me out (well, in the end... I was deemed a "non-active condition patient"... was not too happy with that.) That's it, really. Oh, and they didn't have any shaving equipment either.

What do you mean, it's a children's ward?

What self-respecting six-year-old CAN'T grow a beard?

On the bored~erline... and stumbling.

2006-07-08T13:38:00.000Z

The topic of this post is BOREDOM. As you can see, this isn't just regular old boredom, the kind you get when you have to wait for the margarine to melt on your crumpet. I mean the big, serif style font kind of boredom that afflicts many people with desk jobs the nation o'er.

It swoops on you suddenly. You're just updating that order list or checking that e-mail information when a wave of deep deep grey tugs you down to your desk top by your already sloped and aching shoulders. You feel groggy, dizzy even, and yet cannot find sleep in your work establishment lest you be dismissed immediately by your boss.

Actually, that's unfair to my boss (hereby known as Pedantic Stuart). The boredom has struck his tired spine as much as it has mine, and he leans back in his uncomfortable office chair as if in a moment he's going to loll back in a dead boredom-induced faint. We look at each other apologetically. We know that it's neither of our faults, but after this mornings flurry of excitement, we could really have gone home with no-one the wiser. It has been deader than several extinct exotic specieses of orchid, in the radiator showroom, since 1 o'clock. I feel another wave of dull dead gray enfeeble my already wavering mind. At this rate we two grown adult men might actually have to talk about something serious or world-affecting (god forbid!).

We sigh. We sit. At one point I feel like sobbing. Nothing continues to happen, much as it has been for - jesus christ - 2 and a half hours?!? That's even longer than it takes for me to get conscious in the mornings! I quickly reach for the computer keyboard. Blogging is my only salvation now... ALAS! ALACK! The internet connection has fallen out. A few minutes and some delicate under-desk shimmying later, I return to the workstation and type these words.

And now I am finished. There is a whole hour until I am able to trudge home wearily. Pedantic Stuart's 'best of Bryan Ferry' album could get through another 5 replays in that time. I may even go mad. Well, madder. Save me, internet! Comment!

Much thanks,
The Gent

Cleanliness is next to Ugliness, no?

2006-07-02T06:35:00.000Z

No-one has sent me ANY emails! So I have to complain of my own accord. Apologies for lateness, I did wait right until 3 in the morning for you ingrates and wretches. But to no avail. Hence:

Mess!!!

Following me like a big trail of empty bottles, strewn clothes and food cartons. Which is, actually, largely what it is. That, and messy. I have been having this feeling that mess is following me since friday. I think it may be the lack of shower facilities in the FSG's flat... I am rather starting to hum. Also my partying and raving and such has reached a dangerously high level. And by high, I really do mean high. This morning, the aftermath was more than a tad demanding.

I got up twice this morning and it was the worse for me the second time. A steady fuzz has been growing on my face, and an even steadier one has been growing inside my head. I feel like I have had the Serengeti yanked through my ears. And the mess! So much, so many... things.

I am in a strange house. But hey, it has the internets. I'm not complaining.

Also, I fear if I lie down again, I may not be able to breathe amongst my socks and bottles and glasses. And when I groaned severely from the sudden head pains and burning sensation behind my eyebrows, my new friend (female, thank god) commented: "You've got mental aids."

To which I replied, quick as a flash: "Don't be ridiculous. My aids is perfectly fine."

I'm not entirely sure who was the more confused, she or I. Probably I.

Does my spleen look big in this?

2006-06-24T15:04:00.000Z

Despite last post's promises, I actually received few complaints on our canine friends. Evidently, you all love dogs. Naturally, I'm just going to take these findings and submit them to the BBC to examine, before they produce that dispatches-style "Britain: Woof or Miaow?" documentary.

Today's topic is actually, as you may or may not have guessed from the admittedly weird title, unnecessary humour in horror films. Now before you think I'm going to tear films like Scary Movie to pieces, STOP! PAUSE! The criteria specifically detail unnecessary 'funny' bits.

Here I give you the examples of the bit in Along Came A Spider (good film) where the bad guy gets hit in the face (funny = bad). Also Final Destination, which could have been SO GOOD. But noooo... James Wong, in a moment of daftness, ruins the death scenes by making them FUNNY.

I must go, as I am actually very ill this weekend. But I did promise I'd be regular.

My raging stomach makes no such promises.

I'd be (fee-)lyin' if I said I liked 'em.

2006-06-17T10:22:00.000Z

I am both surprised and overjoyed. Yet that is not the point of this blog, and we ought, after all, to finish on the high note.

This post’s complaint is, as hidden in the very witty (I tried, really I did) title, Cats.

And I don’t even mean it with that oft-overused suffix “~: The Musical” here. I mean the whining, mewling, puking, cacking bundles of fluff that the Kitty God really ought to have not bothered about bringing into this world. Case study:

Father’s girlfriend (henceforth named Father's Southern Girlfriend, or the FSG for short) has a four-chocolate-point Siamese, tentatively named Flake, in the vain hope that she would be sweet like her chocolatey counterpart. Instead of just ranting and raving and calling to force every feline insult I know, I shall merely give a brief summary of Flake’s routine between 11 pm and 6 am last night.

(disbelief to be suspended for a few moments, if you please)

MYAM MYAM I am a kitty cat. MYAM MYAM.

11pm: I am hungry. I know my food is in my dish already, but I am sure I saw the big people eat CHICKENS. I like the CHICKENS. So I make lots and lots and lots of NOISE. (I probably better add that Flake has a broken purr-box. Think, less cat, more strangled infant child)

11:30pm: Oh, there is food in my dish. Silly me. Now I shall kick it all over the floor so it looks bigger. Pretty. MYAM MYAM.

12:00am: Yum yum. Now I am hungry again, because there is no food left and that means I am hungry, so I shall sing for food. NOISE NOISE NOISE.

1:00am: I am sick. On best carpet, where it is small and absorbed quickly. Now the big people will love me forEVER!!

2:00am: I poop in litter box. But litter box is full of funny NO POOP SMELL stuff. I better kick it all out onto the floor just in case.

3:00am: I am going to dig. There is no dig ground in second floor flat, so I must dig through litter box. NOISE NOISE DIG DIG.

4:00am: Digging complete. I shall be sick again to celebrate, now in bathroom because that is where big people will see it in morning.

5:00am: I am tired, so I shall sing, sing, sing, til I am sleepy. NOISE NOISE NOISE.

5:30am: Furball.

6:00am: Sleep.

So, not very many of the human inhabitants of the FSG’s flat got any sleep. Hence, I am really beginning to hate cats. There is a black cat who lives slightly further down the street from us. The other day, in walking in front of a car, this cat managed to cause an accident, a traffic pile-up, and the dismantling of an original Georgian street railing. That’s not unlucky. That’s MORE THAN™ unlucky.

Join us next post for: ‘How much do we not like DOGS!’

--

And now for some good news: finally, I am receiving e-mails! Today’s post was in sympathy with the rants of several correspondents who kindly wrote to tell me of their feline difficulties. Keep ‘em coming in, folks.

Also, very exciting! The great and illustrious Jonny B, Norfolk’s very own godfather of blogging, has featured this, my flagship blog, on his own (very much awesome) site! I am very pleased. Thank you Jonny, and thanks to all the comments from migratory readers, I am very happy to be read indeed, and promise to make my posting a regular saturday occurrence from here on in.

Satellite Patronisation

2006-05-22T19:11:00.000Z

My midlife-crisis-afflicted father has bought a Volvo.
One of those really large, cumbersome, useless jeep ones.
It has Satnav.

Hence today's rant: how useless does Satnav want to be? Perpetually annoying, and if you decide to plump for one of those talking ones (which my father has) there's the choice of voice you have to deal with. The default male voice is like something from a Carry On film... "I say, if you turn right at the next public house, I do believe there's a hotel of sorts! Jolly good!"

We've christened him Rupert. International bounder, womanising rogue, and car navigator. Actually, the above quote is too cheerful, and not quite kinky enough. Rupert was only two "Next left, indeed!"s away from a "Ding Dong!" It reached a point where Rupert was trying to suggest good local bordellos... my father changed the voice settings to female rather hastily.

The situation didn't improve.

We were now being 'seen over' by HELGA VON SATNAV, the direction nazi with a deep, female-hormone-deprived voice. We severely pissed Helga off when we tried to exit the carpark, the Homebase we had parked in, from a different way out than the one Helga had PLACED UPON THE ITINERARY, JA! She was not best pleased. She tried to suggest three routes home at once, got terribly frustrated with us, and decided that the best way to get revenge was to set off all the seatbelt alarms at once as punishment. "YOU VILL BE TAKING ZE NEXT LEFT JA?!?"

We decided to take her way home, even though it meant going all the way into town where the traffic was awful. And what was most perpetually annoying was that she kept adding a "It vill be qvicker if you take zer next left" even though we could plainly see the traffic jam snaking charmingly around the corner. What was worse was that when we finally reached home, we saw the same rather annoying little Fiat that had been buzzing around outside Homebase earlier, now perfectly parked, having reached its home evidently an hour (at the very least) earlier than we had.

We switched back to Rupert... I'd take an hour in a bordello over an hour in a traffic queue any day.

Your thoughts? Anyone?

Hopes (dashed) and Dreams

2006-05-21T09:53:00.000Z

Right you lot, since you're so terribly dull and boring and, most importantly, haven't sent me any complaints, there can't be a podcast. However, luckily for you, I am still willing to complain at length on a subject of your disapproval in written form!
Please send me e-mails! (not in the least bit desperate)

Oh, plus, last night I had the oddest dream ever. It involved being given cigarettes by lots of people from my past, which turned into marijuana joints, at which point one of my best friends gave me a birthday present of: a pipe! We shared it, then I went off to sing in a rock and roll band... without informing my father of where I was going, so I had to rush back, at which point I woke up. Curious, very curious indeed.

Dial-Up Yours!

2005-12-22T04:02:00.000Z

Dial-up, folks, that's what the topic of the first episode is.
Not just because two of the... three... emails I got (Come on, people! A little help please!) were to do with the internet, but also because I'm having a very bad relationship with the lineone dial-up service right this minute. I just recorded a brief introductory on what started this hatred of dial-up internet, and it ain't pretty. I'm tired, it's 4am in Britain-land, and the new iTunes update was nearly finished doing 8 hours' worth of downloading, when - you guessed right, people - the damned connection conked out. The animal sounds of surprise, confusion and severe irritation that I made would have probably woken the house had I not lost my voice from coughing weakly in my swivel chair all night (illness etc).
So folks, any complaints you send on dial-up, downloads and t'internet in general may still get on the first podcast. As you can see, I'm having a minor problem with no-one actually complaining about anything. Now I know for certain that not everybody is happy with the way things are going, because there's me for one. Email me, now! I need attention! (more on my mild attention problems in later posts)

- the Gent, tired and haggard, 4am

Coming Soon - to a hard-drive near you?

2005-12-13T14:04:00.000Z

The Angry Kettle Podcast is soon to be in existence, but first I, obeying all rules of selling such things, must generate a little excitement and interest. Plus the fact that the podcast is entirely dependent on the Vented Bile of you people out there. Anything that generally gets you narked: please, write me an email detailing exactly why it riles you so badly.

eponymous.gentleman@gmail.com

Please leave your name (or pseudonym) with your just-vented, still-steaming bile. This really is the complaints department for life. What's more, the most emails I get on one subject get that subject onto the podcast.
Regards,
The Gentleman