Anger Management

 

 

Another happy day

I have come to the conclusion (after getting ridiculously annoyed over the twat in the Zafira who cut in front of me at the lights without any form of indication) that I may perhaps have a couple of teeny weeny anger management issues. If I am going to reach spiritual harmony and avoid an ulcer/ murder charge I may have to let go of some of my currenty held angers. This will not only make me a sunnier, more even tempered person but will also free up some grouch-space that I can fill with brand new irritations. So, what can I let go of?

 

Fat Slapper

Perhaps it is unreasonable of me to be annoyed by the fact that some of my uni friends have added 'fat slapper' to their friends list on Facebook. I mean it looks like she asked them to be friends and they are very polite girls. Sure, they didn't like her at uni but hey, she never asked any of THEIR boyfriends to sleep with her while they were out at work trying to earn their tuition fees did she? No, it was just MY boyfriend who came in for that special honour. And not even because she really wanted him either, simply because the rabid whore wanted to prove to me that she could do it if she wanted to. But she failed and just managed to show herself up as the slag-tastic boot that she really is. And then she lied about it as well and seemed to think that I'd care when she suggested that we should just admit we weren't really friends. Really? Who'd have thought it, you sociopathic slut? Perhaps that particular annoyance is going to take a little more work than some of the others. Maybe I'll leave that one for another time.

 

The BMW driver

OK, so I had right of way and the blockage was on his side of the road yet he drove his sodding great BMW 4×4 through the gap I was already halfway through, forcing me onto the pavement and into an emergency stop to avoid embedding myself in the lamp post. Then he grinned smugly at me as he went past. This is indeed annoying but I should not dwell on it, I should be content in the knowledge that karma will follow him, he will probably pull that shit in Cheetham Hill or Salford and end up staring down the barrel of a sawn off shotgun. If I see him again I will be polite and stop. Preferably in the gap he's trying to get through so he gets stuck and is left with the options of a) driving into my car and forcing it backwards, b) reversing and taking a different route, c) assaulting me and moving my car. Options a and C will cost him money and option b will cost him humiliation. If he wants to play smug petty car driver then I assure him, I can be just as ridiculous. Right, so that's not so much anger 'dispensed with', more 'put on hold'. It's a start.

 

Work

So most of the time work sucks and I am paid less than a man who is not only completely incompetant but also about as much use to the company as a chocolate jockstrap. So I spend half my time doing stuff that he is meant to be doing but is too stupid, inept and lazy to deal with, well there's no point being angry about it because I'm fucking well stuck with it. I have to have a job and since the yoghurt-knitting, vegetarian, politically correct, diversity trolls made it illegal for companies to ask me if I am planning to go off and have babies they just assume that I am. This means I've got more chance of growing a pair of silver wings and circling the Statue of Liberty than I have of finding alternative employment so I might as well stop bloody whining and get on with it till the employment world deems me suitably withered and old. Result! Anger successfully converted to rather depressed resignation.

 

So, that's one anger put to the back of the pile for later consideration, one put on hold till I can successfully ruin BMW Bastard's afternoon and one converted into something else. I would say that's a successful result. How very therapeutic, perhaps I should start a new career as an anger management advisor!  

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Eeeeewwwwwwww

Spider forces family out of home

A camel spider attacking a scorpion in the desert A soldier's family have been frightened out of their home by a spider thought to have been brought to Essex from Afghanistan in a kitbag. Lorraine Griffiths and her three children have moved out of their house in Colchester, the RSPCA said. They are refusing to return until the large sandy-coloured creature, thought to be a camel spider, is captured. An RSPCA spokeswoman confirmed they had visited the house but failed to locate the creature. "If it is the spider they believe it is, then normally they don't attack humans, but they could give a painful bite," the spokeswoman said. Mrs Griffiths believes the spider got to the UK in a kitbag brought home in June by her husband, Rodney, 32, when he returned from Afghanistan. He is now back there on a further tour of duty. She said the spider was seen in her bedroom by her two elder children, aged 18 and 16, and an electrician working at their home. "They identified the spider using the internet," she said.   Seriously, I wouldn't just leave the house, I'd leave the county. And I wouldn't be going back either. What if the bloody thing laid eggs somewhere and one day you woke up to find 48 000 little camel spiders swarming round the house? It actually makes my skin crawl. I now have spider-ick, you know, the one where you get all paranoid about spiders being in the corner and you shoot a foot in the air if a hair brushes against hte back of your neck……

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Brainfreeze

This week I booked a few days off work. I had big ideas about what I was going to get done with my few days off work. they were a bit vague but they definately included making my house immculate, coming up with a solution to the chronic storage issue that means that most of the time our house looks like some sort of warehouse, possibly painting some rooms, getting the dog into top condition and writing something inspirational that will ensure I can give up work and live off the proceeds. What have I acheived? Bugger all.

The first day is, as everyone knows, a day of rest. You sit around doing doodly squit and wondering why none of your neighbours seem to have a job. The grumpy looking woman across the road was still in her dressing gown at 2pm, the lazy slut. And she spent ALL day on the phone. Maybe I'm being hasty in my assessment of her as an idle trollop who is too lazy to get a job and too indolent ot even get dressed before the sun sets. Perhaps she is running an adult chatline from her front room and the grubby grey dressing gown helps her to feel in character. I still can't think of an explanation for the bizaare and alarming series of bangs and crashes eminating from next door but they aren't just a daytime thing, that's permanent. I have taken to wandering around muttering "detached house, detached house" to myself like a mantra. Still, at least the little shits have stopped posting the gravel from our driveway through our letterbox because that was really beginning to get on my nerves. As was the smaller brat's habit of smacking the side of my car with a plastic fucking light sabre.

Then I got sucked into daytime TV, not because there's anything interesting on but because I was fascinated by how awful it is. The BBC is wall to wall house buying programmes. I'm not being funny but if you have a budget of £750 000 why the hell do you need the assistance of the smug faced tv presenter to find a house in the country? Most rural dwellers manage to find a house for less than a third of that all by themselves. And they always spend half the programme whining about how they don't like period features, they want exactly the same new built house they have in Essex but in the middle of a field. Unbearable. If you don't fancy that there's always The Jeremy Kyle Show. For anyone who hasn't seen it, it's like Jerry Springer but with the cream of British trailer trash. There's always some trashy 17 year old who is pregnant with her third child and can't work out which one of the three unemployable, buck toothed, half witted drug addicts she's onstage with is the father. I mean really, condom packets even have pictures on them, how fucking hard can it be to work out which bit of the anatomy you put it on? It's riveting and also rather depressing to think that week after week the producers of this show manage to find yet more human detritus to drag out onstage for the amusement and horror of the middle classes, a bit like in Victorian times when the rich people used to go to gawp at the lunatics in Bedlam or have a day trip to the slums of Whitechapel to marvel at the sorry state of the inhabitants. It's surprising how little society changes, the technology may be different but the people are the same.

By the time I realised I'd done nothing useful except clean the house and have a bloke round to quote me the GDP of Germany for fitting some wardrobes my days off had gone and I'm back at work tomorrow. I think it would be best if I never become a housewife, I suspect I wouldn't be very good at it.

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Another kick in the arse for the British motorist.

This morning I was sent this link to an article in the Telegraph, detailing the latest plans for road pricing.

The Telegraph can disclose that the Government is pushing ahead with plans for a national road-pricing scheme, including testing "spy in the sky" technology.

Eight areas of the country have been selected by ministers for secret pay-per-mile trials which will begin in 2010 and are expected to pave the way for tolls on motorways.

Motorists face paying up to £1.30 a mile during peak periods on the busiest roads.

Gordon Brown was thought to be against national road pricing, a flagship policy of the Blair administration.

But the detailed level of planning now underway indicates the issue it set to become a key battleground in the next general election – which is likely to coincide with the trials beginning.

It will leave Ruth Kelly, the Transport Secretary, particularly vulnerable as she defends her marginal Bolton West constituency.

The Daily Telegraph has learnt that eight areas – Leeds, North Yorkshire, Milton Keynes and Buckinghamshire, south west London, Suffolk and Essex – have been selected for the trials.

Initially, in January 2010, one hundred cars in each area will trial the new technology – in many cases entailing placing black boxes to allow their movements to be tracked – but members of the public will be invited to join the pilots in June 2010.

 

Ok, well let's start at the beginning shall we? Firstly, their 'secret pay per mile trials' are not looking quite so secret are they? Because I didn't find this link myself, I was sent it by someone working for a protest group, 'People Against the Bastard Government Shafting the Motorist' or something like that and someone I know working in transport already knew about the ideas before they hit the press. So secret it most certainly isn't.

And what is this 'members of the public will be invited to join the pilots' crap? Oh yes, I can just see that catching on can't you? They'll  be lining up round the block to volunteer to pay up to £1.30 per mile to get to work, somewhere they probably don't want to be going in the first place.

What it doesn't say is whether this half assed road charge is going to be on top of the half assed congestion charge that they are so determined to introduce in Manchester. That would then mean that to use a car you pay VAT on the car, fuel duty on the fuel, road tax to legally have it on the road, congestion charge to drive it anywhere in the city and pay-per-mile charge to go anywhere at all because you can oyur bottom dollar that it won't stay restricted to just charging on motorways. But hey, apparently this is all for our own good, to reduce congestion because according to government thinking everyone is sat in the 7 mile tailback on the M60 at 7.30am because they think it's funny to cause traffic chaos. It's not really in order to go to work and pay the tax that funds these ridiculous fucking ideas that drain our pay packets even further. At least Dick Turpin had the decency to wear a mask, Gordon Brown and that useless little tart Ruth Kelly (Transport Monkey in Charge for anyone outside of the UK) are quite happy to blatantly lift your wallet and expect you to say thanks afterwards. It doesn't so much leave Ruth Kelly vulnerable to losing her seat as vulnerable to losing her head courtesy of a Bolton resident who is sick of having to pay through the nose to get anywhere. 

The other issue is the technology. Leaving aside the fact that thanks to the government's policy of giving IT contracts to their mates rather than a company that is qualified to do the work there is more chance of me growing wings and circling the Empire State Building than them actually managing to get the scheme up and running, the technology that they are proposing is appallingly intrusive. A box in your car that will allow it to be tracked anywhere in the country and you to be charged accordingly. I don't fucking think so sunshine, not in my car, not now, not ever and I don't suppose I'm the only person who objects to this idea. Also, a fiver says that MPs cars are made exempt from this tracking nightmare, the self centred bastards.

All in all I'd say this is a triumphant fuck-up from a government that seems hell bent on political suicide. Fingers crossed that they get the task of achieving a vote of no confidence in themselves completed soon then we can all go back to living normally without this constant, obsessive monitoring nonsense. They are the Crown Princes of Fuckwittery – fact.  

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Russia – A little bit mental.

I've been trying to work out what the chuff is going on in Russia and why they are bombing the crap out of Georgia over some pisspot territory with fewer inhabitants than Milton Keynes and guess what? I still don't get it. So maybe it's down to the Russian leader. Russia has traditionally been run by barmpots, the kind of men that in this country would have been sitting around in a haze of Prozac and harmlessly weaving baskets in an institution somewhere, not stomping round Moscow with the big red nuclear button in one hand and their nuts in the other. Let's have a look at some of the ones I can remember as being interesting……

 

 

Nicholas – an unfortunate ending

Nicholas II, last of the rather unfortunate Romanovs, a family mainly known for having huge palaces and getting themselves killed, 2 traditions that Nicholas managed to uphold. He appears to have been a fairly inoffensive bloke, if a little ineffectual but the interesting thing about him is that his wife was obsessed by Rasputin a big, grubby religious bloke who drank too much and classed bonking rich women as a vocation rather than a hobby. Quite how she thought haemophilia could be cured by allowing this alcoholic lunatic to take the piss and and annoy the Russian public is anyone's guess but she did. 

 

 

Lenin – Not a fan of dissidents

Lenin, started off quietly with some fine ideals about everyone being equal and living in a blissful communist world. Went a bit tits up when Communism began to unravel and he became infected with the Russian obsession for control. The instigator of the Russian secret police Lenin continued in fine mental-case fashion by bumping off the tsar and starting up 'terrors', a short little term for 'the mass extermination of anyone I think doesn't agree with me'.In short, started disappointingly but clearly got more impressively mad as he went along.

 

 

Stalin – Not a fan of anyone at all

The mighty Stalin – a man who will forever be known not for the good things that he did for Russia (of which there were couple) but for the fact that he was a Grade A, double deluxe, king sized fruitbat. Truly mental. Stalin didn't just bump off those he thought didn't agree with him, he bumped off virtually everyone. Gays, gypsies, dissidents, the disabled, the mentally ill (ironic eh?), all were fair game. The creator of the world famous 'Labour Gulags' from which virtually no one emerged alive and that includes staff. Those that weren't killed off by the administration were more than likely to get carried off by disease or malnutrition as Russia was, to use a technical term, a piss poor shithole. Estimates for the number who died as a direct result of execution  and a result of poor administration leading to appalling social conditions range from 3 million to 60 million. Which I'm sure you'll agree is a triumph for statisticians, "Either the population of Manchester died or the population of the UK, we're not too sure which".

 

 

Yeltsin – Russia’s answer to the village idiot

Ah Yeltsin. In days gone by he wouldn't have been leading the country, he'd have been dancing round the court in a harlequin costume, wearing a silly hat and getting kicked in the arse by the king. As long as Yeltsin was sitting in the Kremlin there was a Russian village somewhere missing it's idiot. Yeltsin's fondness for vodka led to some truly entertaining behaviour, who could forget the charming tv clip of him pinching the arse of a diplomat's wife then giggling like an errant schoolboy while she stood there, utterly thunderstruck? Or the clip of him dancing? Or indeed any of the clips of him as pissed as a newt doing something that presidents don't usually do? The good thing about Yeltsin being as pissed as he was is that he could never have started a nuclear war for the simple reason that he would never have been able to press the 'start' button. He did apparently order the invasion of Chechnya but I'm inclined to think that isn't what he was asking for, he was just slurring his words and someone misheard him. He was like your alcoholic great uncle that everyone in the family is slightly embarrassed by and is a shining example to lunatic alcoholic heads of state across the world.

 

 

Putin – human or android…nobody knows

 

 Putin. He wasn't born, he was created in a workshop somewhere out of bits of scrap metal and some rather dodgy old circuitboards. A man with less discernable sense of humour than a boiled cabbage, Putin made his early career in the KGB, which to be fair is not noted for its award winning stand up comedy team.  Russia had obviously decided that the 'comedy president' experiment hadn't been a huge success so went right down the other end of the scale by appointing Putin. Putin's Russia was not a good time to be a journalist, as they kept getting shot but according to Putin this was a coincidence and nothing at all to do with him. In another burst of coincidence anyone who disagreed with this view or tried to prove otherwise also ended up getting shot. What are the chances eh?

 

 

Medvedev – also available in beige

Russia's current president Dmitry Medvedev is the political equivilant of beige. Nondescript, boring and utterly devoid of anything noteworthy and this is for one very good reason – he isn't actually a person, he's a giant sock puppet being operated from behind by Putin who wasn't allowed another term because of the pesky rules. To be fair, he has engaged in a crazy fight with Georgia but this is only because Putin told him to. I suspect that poor old Dmitry still has to put his hand up in class and ask Putin if he go for a pee. 

 

So there we go, some of Russia's finest basket-cases of the last century. Given their fine history of oddballs things could go one fo two ways – either much hilarity and entertainment as we watch another Russian premier go spectacularly insane or world annihaliation as one of their ruling nutjobs finally hits the red button. Either way I think we can all agree that when it comes to picking mentally questionable leaders Russia is definitely setting the gold standard. 

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World of Fun

And so the search for alternative employment rumbles on.

The possible job that had come up has now been put back as the manager is going off on maternity leave in a month or so and they don’t think they can get someone up to speed before she goes, so that one won’t be an option until April or May of next year, by which time I will quite possibly have gone entirely insane with boredom.

My job wasn’t too bad for a while, while the usual advisor for this area was posted indefinately to a site down on the south coast. I got to look after sites, go trundling round the countryside for brews in site cabins and generally do interesting jobs. People spoke to me like I had more than 3 functioning brain cells and might actually have some knowledge about something. But he’s back now so it’s a return to being regarded as the girl who does the filing and spending all day scanning in training documents and faffing about on the internet because it’s more interesting than dealing with the mind-wreckingly tedious shit that I should be doing. I am also back to spending a lot of time answering stupid questions from Mr Useless, usually questions that I have answered  twice a week for the last 3 years and that the gormless halfwit still hasn’t managed to absorb. He’s rung 3 times so far this morning and it’s only 10am. If I have to explain to him one more time the system for applying for a trade card I’m going to get my arse up to Newcastle and tattoo it onto his damned forehead. What REALLY grinds my gears in a huge way is that this useless sack of shit earns several grand more than I do per year, despite the fact that he is less use to a civil engineering company than a truckful of rubber chickens.

So I am once again entering the soul-destroying process of job hunting. There’s nothing confirms your utter worthlessness like a good bout of seeking employment.  In the year I have had precisely 1 interview, which I thought went well but evidently didn’t as I didn’t get the job. I’ve filled in about 6 forms for support jobs for the police, which includes having to write a fucking essay demonstrating ‘how you have respect for diversity’, all of which have come to nothing because, as I found out the other day from a policewoman that I know, all the sodding jobs are recruited internally. They only advertise because the law says they have to. Marvellous, those are hours of my life I spent writing about respect for bastarding diversity that I will never get back. I mean how much can you really say? “I’m not a racist and I don’t give a toss if my colleagues like to sleep with members of their own sex”? Why does it require a full essay? So bollocks to the police, I am turning my attention elsewhere. I’m looking at ‘executive assistant’ jobs in the NHS. With any luck I too can become a public servant, get a cracking pension at 60, all public holidays and several strike days a year and it can’t possibly be any less successful than my attempts to join the police support staff. Fingers crossed people, fingers crossed!

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