What to do? It’s always a tough one….

As this is the first entry I should write something very profound and wise but seeing as it's Wednesday morning and I'm at work I have all the brain activity of Jade Goody so I own't even try. I'd probably only come out looking like a pretentious arse anyway.


I'm thinking of writing a book. I think i'd be ok at writing a book (or to be more accurate, at starting to write a book, my chances of finishing are a bit dicey as I have the attention span of a gerbil). I've even had a good idea for my book but the problem is this: it's based on my in laws. My inlaws are fascinating in a car crash, mentally unstable, you wouldn't believe it if I wrote about it sort of way. Have you ever seen a 62 year old woman throw a tantrum? I have. Have you ever seen 2 people take 45 minutes to prepare to go for a walk around their own garden? I have. Has anyone ever threatened to cut you out of the family and never speak to you  or darken your door again because of the name that you have given your new dog? I have been down that road. If I write about them and tell people I've written about them it's going to be blatantly obvious who I'm taking the piss out of but it would be such a good read, everyone says so (that is everyone who would not end up on the wrong side of a very angry bunch of nutters if this book was ever written). Maybe I'll write it and just never send it to  publisher, let my closest friends read it and no one else. Who knows. Or maybe Ill write my 'A-Z of Life's Little Irritations'. This was an idea a friend and I came up with when in a particularly stinking mood, if something has annoyed you, write it down. Strangely cathartic (and is also not tackling the earth shatteringly, brain-meltingly dull pile of work that is in my in tray) What can I say, my parents sent me to a girl's school, I was always going to come out with a world class ability to bitch. So for your reading pleasure here is little insight into the strange and bitchy place that is my world (special mention to go to Cass who who wrote the first paragraph):


C is for Cars


Cars are one of those things that are cunningly disguised as something that is a useful thing to have, something that once you have you could not possibly live without, when in fact most of the time they are the things causing the problem. “Pass your test! Pass your test! You won’t regret it! The independence!” they all crow. Well you pass your sodding test, at considerable expense and four weeks later the brakes on the car are making an alarming grinding noise. This is of course on the day you’re making your first foray into the terrifying vortex that is a city centre one way system in rush hour traffic, the week before the Labour Party conference. You don’t know where the hell you’re going, you’re in utterly the wrong lane and the car is complaining very loudly and attracting anxious looks from other motorists and passers by. So into the garage it goes. After much tutting, rubbing of chins and shaking of heads,  the mechanic announces that the brake pads are shagged, you need new disks and the suspension is bollocksed. Well that’s just great sunshine, how much then. Three hundred bastard quid, that’s how much. See also S for Skint.


The other thing about cars is the utterly ludicrous things that people do to them in the name of ‘customising’. ‘Customising’, it appears, involves taking a perfectly normal car, adding the wheels from a Massey Ferguson tractor, the speakers used at Live8 to reach the back of Hyde Park, some odd bits of plastic at the back, headlights like the searchlights of Auschwitz, blacked out windows and some sort of gadget that attaches to the exhaust and makes it sound like an elephant after 15 pints and an extra spicy vindaloo. Then all the identifying badges are removed, as if by adding all this expensive crap and taking away the badges people aren’t going to notice you’re driving a chavved up Vauxhall Corsa and will be fooled into thinking your car is a mini Suburu Impreza. Vroom Vroom…..tosser.


For hundreds of years kids have walked the mile or so to school and back or they have caught the bus but now it seems that this is no longer safe enough for mummy’s little soldier, no, now he requires driving the 450 yards in a quasi-assault vehicle designed to cross the Rocky Mountains without jolting the passenger. Yes folks, it’s the 4×4, this year’s must have for anyone with more money than taste. These are cars that can cross deserts, go through water up to the bonnet, drive through thigh deep mud and tow a fully loaded horsebox so why the bloody hell do you need one on the fully surfaced roads of Kensington? Why? Even if you ignore the fact that they use fuel faster than a Boeing 747, and unless you get the ‘Sports’ version (an even more pointless invention than the standard model) they have all the acceleration of a slug on Prozac, they are in the main driven by women with no spacial awareness whatsoever. Driving past a primary school at kicking out time is more dangerous than trying to climb Everest in carpet slippers and a thong, as 84 Range Rovers, Land Rovers and Lexus 4x4s jostle for position outside the gate and vainly attempt to squeeze into the space that’s reserved for the school bus. The argument is that they are safer for taking the kiddies to school and yes, I suppose Junior is safe in the 4×4, he’s certainly a damn sight safer than the other kids and the crossing lady as Mrs Jenkins in a Range Rover Vogue attempts a 3 point turn in the middle of the road while simultaneously removing toast from little Sammy’s front and finding his homework under the seat. They are Satan’s vehicles and legislation should be introduced to restrict ownership of these bastard space-takers to those who tow stuff, drive through stuff or carry a lot of stuff. Under no circumstances should they be given to women who had trouble parking the Fiesta, men with the attitude that they own the road or footballers. Ever. End of.




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2 Responses

  1. S'ferkin' funny. I have had to re-attach my derriere due to excessive laughter. The C is for Cars is bloody brilliant. Now you only have 25 letters left to write about. Oh go on, that's the book I wanna read, maybe throw in the odd tangential slight at your in-laws, but the A-Z of modern life, do it, if not, I'll do it, nick the C entry and make a shed load MWAHAHAHAHA!!! You've been warned.
    Alternatively, write your in-laws book, make a fortune, move into a big house and never have them over when/if it all goes pear shaped.

  2. Hehe! Found you, Stu said you were on here!
    Welcome to VOX…I think you're going to fit right in 😉

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