This guy is a genius.

As letters of complaint go, this one is possibly the best I've ever come across, they guy is truly marvellous……..

Written to Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Airlines by a chap who was rather underwhelmed by his inflight meal..

 

 

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Dear Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: [see image 2, above].

I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation: [see image 4, above].

It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.

Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, above].

I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [see image 6, above].

Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 7, above].

Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.

Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly

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Big Cheese

I am naturally a cynic, this means that I expect people to do stupid and inane things but a recent incident in our local pub left even me astounded by the depths of ridiculousness some people will plumb.

There's a chap who drinks regularly in our local, we'll call him Big Cheese because that's what he thinks he is. He's been drinking in there for years and he still propositions every young barmaid in there, as he used to in the days when my best friend and I worked in there and probably back beyond that. He's got a beer gut that makes him look ten months pregnant and a platinum blonde bob. His arrogance is legendary around the area and he once got barred from the pub for attempting to land one on the landlord. Witnesses were heard to say that it was the girliest attempt at a punch ever seen.

Anyway, a while back Big Cheese decided that ordinary bar stools were not good enough for a man of his calibre so he bought another bar stool and had a little plaque put on the back (just so everyone knew it was HIS bar stool) that says 'Bezzo's chair for football'. It may as well have said 'They guy who owns this bar stool is a proper twat' because that's the message that everyone took from it. Last Friday the gang got together in the pub to discuss holidays and Big Cheese was in there drinking (and flicking his platinum bob about). He was stood up chatting to his friends instead of sitting in the prat-seat, which was at the end of the bar in the middle of a very ordinary looking group of middle aged chaps having a chat about football. After about half an hour an elderly gentleman on crutches came into the pub and headed over to the middle aged blokes who naturally parted and made room for him to sit on the nearest bar stool which happened to be – the prat seat. The moment that tweed touched leather upholstery Big Cheese's head went up and his hackles rose – some bastard had his arse on HIS chair and although he wasn't interested in the prat-seat before the chap sat down he sure as hell was now. You could practically see his mind turning things over – "the social rules suggest that it is not on to turf a disabled man off a bar stool however that bastard is sat on MY stool and is evidently unaware of how very very important I am. What do I do?". Inevitably arrogance won. He strolls over to the group of men, shoulders swinging, beer gut held proudly aloft like a 20 stone peacock and in an oh-so-jokey, matey-matey way informs the disabled chap that this is HIS bar stool. The men look stunned, they don't seem to have expected this and they clearly aren't regulars here, something that is unlikely to change since their friend has just been told to get his crippled ass off the bar stool by some fat git who is clearly scent marking the bar stool in the manner of a dog piddling up a lamp post. One of the group must have pointed out to Big Cheese that the guy wasn't able to stand up at the bar as he was on crutches because the next moment the arrogant tosspiece barges his way across the bar, grabs a bar stool, hoists it across the entire length of the pub and plonks it next to the prat-seat. The man on crutches now has to carefully ease his way off the prat-seat, balance and turn on the crutches and manouvre himself onto the ordinary bar stool, by which point he and his mates are looking distinctly unimpressed. Undeterred by the fact that half the pub is now gawking at him and marvelling at the fact that someone is a big enough cock to make a disabled man get off a chair, Big Cheese triumphantly carries the prat-seat over to his group where he proceeds to stand next to it with one arm draped protectively over it to prevent anyone else sitting on it. Far from being impressed by his assertion of his property rights, people were turning to each saying "Did he really…he didn't just…he surely didn't just do that did he?". Amusingly, the football was on in the pub on Tuesday and I got a text from one of the boys saying that Big Cheese had just come into the pub carrying…yes, you guessed it, the prat-seat. In order to stop other patrons sitting on it, the utter tit has started taking the bar stool home with him and bringing it back each time he comes into the pub.

I don't know what staggers me most, the fact that Big Cheese does these stupid things or the fact that he can't see that his every action makes him look like a pillock. As long as he is drinking in our local there will be forever be a village missing its idiot.

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Wanker of the Week #2

The day after the US gives itself a fine clean sheet by swearing in a brand, shiny new president, British politics follows by…..offering us a new candidate for Wanker of the Week. How marvellous, we are SO proud.

 

 

This week's wanker comes in the sternly-suited form of our helmet-haired leader of the house of Commons, Harriet Harman, a woman whose main claim to political fame is that she's slightly less inept than Jacqui Smith, the Home Secretary and she was once 'Equality Minister', one of the most impressively titled and well paid non-jobs ever created.

So what is Harridan Harman doing this week to merit this fine award? Well, she is proposing a rule change (to be debated in Parliament tomorrow) that will remove "most expenditure held by either House of Parliament from the scope of the Freedom of Information Act". For those of us who have English as a first language rather than Bullshit I will translate – she is proposing a rule change that will ensure MPs expenses are kept secret from the public. Note it's just MP's expenses, not expenses of every state paid worker, no, it's just MPs who apparently deserve not to run the gauntlet of getting outed for spending the GDP of Luxembourg on first class travel courtesy of Johnny Public. If the proposal goes through then no one would be entitled to know how exactly how much of our MP's nests we have paid to feather.

This would be a distinct advantage for those such as Stevenage MP Barbara Follet who billed the taxpayer more than £1600 for window cleaning. Our window cleaner charges £4 a week, hers it would seem charges over £30.  Do you think:

a) She has a fuck sight more windows than me? 7.5 times more windows to be precise, making a total of 52.

b) She lives in a large greenhouse?

c) The window cleaner is stealing from her and instead of getting a new one she's just putting the difference through on expenses?

d) She's a cheeky cow who is taking the piss?

Answers on a postcard please.

Harriet is looking to take away this pesky scrutiny by the taxpayer which does after all detract from the important Cabinet job of working out how to funnel more taxpayer's cash into their personal accounts, trying to think of new and exciting ways to remove civil rights using the words 'war on terror' and 'national security' and looking for stuff to ban. Entertainingly yet not entirely surprisingly it is only the government who wants this rule pushig through, the Lib Dem MPs and the Conservatives have been issued with a three line whip and the instructions from their bosses that they WILL vote against it. They believe it would be bad for the public image of politics in this country but hey, Labour have never let the reputation of politics get in the way of their madcap plans before so they aren't all that likely to start now are they?

Harriet has said that information about expenses claims needs to be given in an 'affordable and proportionate manner', her cast-iron disregard for reality ensuring that she entirely misses the irony that if Labour MP's expenses claims were 'affordable and proportionate' then they wouldn't have to hide them. We must also pause for a moment to admire the chutzpah of this bunch of monkeys who in time honoured tradition chose a busy news day (the day the expansion of Heathrow was announced) to try and sneak this little gem through in the hope that no one would notice. Bad luck chaps.

So, while Barack Obama is telling Americans that "Those of us who manage the public's will be held to account – to spend wisely, reform bad habits and do our business in the light of day – because only then can we restore the vital trust between a government", Harriet is telling us to "Fuck off and mind your own business you nosy plebs, we are cleverer, better and more important than you and if you keep interfering we're going to move the goalposts. If you don't like it you can kiss my over-sized arse because we make the rules and we don't give a toss what you think". How very noble of her.

Harriet Harman you are without a doubt Wanker of the Week, come on down and collect your prize. And no, you can't put the bus fare on expenses.

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Translation

Does anyone out there speak Dutch? If so could you possibly translate this:

Vier bommenwerpers neergeschoten

Op 28 april, om 8.22 uur, rapporteerde een Bristol Blenheim van Coastel Command van de RAF dat een konvooi Duitse schepen, bestaande uit twee torpedobootjagers en acht vrachtschepen, op 17 kilometer zuidwestelijk van Texel in zuidelijke richting voer. Besloten werd om het konvooi aan te vallen met vier Blenheims van het 59e Squadron. Zij werden geëscorteerd door drie Blenheims van het 235e Squadron. Omstreeks 10.18 uur stegen de Blenheims van het 59e Squadron op vanaf Thorney Island en vielen om 12.12 uur het konvooi aan wat op dat moment de Berghaven van Hoek van Holland binnenvoer. Ter bescherming bleven de escorteerde Blenheims net onder het wolkendek rondcirkelen.

Alhoewel een torpedobootjager werd getroffen, eindigde de aanval voor de Britten in een drama. De vier aanvallende bommenwerpers werden kort na elkaar door flakgeschut neergehaald en stortten nabij de monding van de Nieuwe Waterweg in de Noordzee. Slechts twee vliegers overleefden de aanval en die werden door de Duitsers krijgsgevangen gemaakt.

Eén van de Blenheims die werd neergehaald was de V6097. De drie bemanningsleden van de bommenwerper kwamen daarbij om het leven. De piloot, luitenant Herbert Badland, spoelde op 13 juni aan op het strand van Rockanje en werd aldaar gegraven. Sergeant Albert Hazell staat te boek als vermist. Sergeant Henderson spoelde op 8 augustus aan op het strand van het eiland Rozenburg. De sergeant werd twee dagen later ter aarde besteld op de Algemene Begraafplaats te Hoek van Holland.

Ook de drie bemanningsleden van de Blenheim V5520 die bij de aanval verloren ging, liggen in Hoek van Holland begraven: luitenant Sydney Collier, sergeant John Mingham en sergeant William Powell.

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Las Vegas

I think I might have gone and done something a bit stupid. For a change.

In the pub after unpteen vodkas, 2 glasses of wine and a jagermeister, agreeing to go to Las Vegas for a fortnight with my friend and the lads seemed a really good idea. With the alcohol merrily swirling through my veins it seemed that spending upwards of £750 plus spending money plus money for clothes to visit a place I'd never actually wanted to visit for a whole 14 nights was not such a silly plan, in fact it could only lead to good things.

Having sat and thought about the facts I have realised that:

1) I am not interested in gambling in the slightest. Not even a little bit.

2) Due to the cost of the actual holiday I won't be able to afford to do any tours or shows because they are all over a hundred quid.

3) I have no idea whether Vegas is one of those cities where you can wander all over the place or whether it's a city that you are likely to get mugged in if you step off the main street.

4) Being someone who is fond of both their own space and space around her, perhaps volunteering for a holiday to be spent constantly surrounded by other people in the middle of a city wasn't sensible.

5) The lads will be be playing golf every other day and my friend is happy to sit by a pool for a fortnight so what am I going to do to mause myself during the day for a fortnight on a very limited budget?

6) Someone sent me a link to a list of venomous spiders in the Vegas area. Stupidly I did some further research. Bad idea.

 

If anyone has been to Vegas, advice would be welcome and if anyone can think of a decent way of getting myself out of this it would also be gratefully received.

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Football is utterly ridiculous.

This young gentleman is Kaka. No idea what his first name is because I've never heard anyone use it. For anyone who doesn't know who he is, he is a Brazilian chap who plays football for AC Milan and his proposed transfer sums up perfectly what is so very wrong with English Premiership football.

The UK is in recession, whichever way you look at it we are suffering what you might call a 'temporary financial embarrassment' and our government has not helped by spending everything that was in the treasury and then a whole lot more besides. Companies are going to the wall daily with the loss of thousands of jobs and the banks won't help struggling businesses by extending loans or offering new ones.

In this atmosphere of financial gloom what are Manchester City's new Arab onwers doing to show that they empathise with the Brits and understand the pain that many of their club's supporters are going through? Are they offering assistance to local businesses? Nope. Are they investing in the local area (which is fucking rough I can tell you)? Nope. They are offering AC Milan the princely sum (and I use the term literally) of £100m for the young man pictured above. For anyone who'd like to see that amount in figures it is £100,000,000. For anyone lving abroad it is US$146,713,615 or Aus$218,207,159. Has he discovered the secret of world peace and the cure for all cancers? Nope, he kicks a leather windbag around a field with a few other blokes once a week and occasionally makes the wind bag go into the net at the end of the field. How very earth-shattering.

So what will Mr Kaka receive in wages? I shall tell you – £500,000 PER WEEK. Per fucking week. For anyone who is still reading this little sports-based rant that is US$733,568 or Aus$1,091,0355 per fucking week. Utter madness. I don't blame Kaka for this, if someone were to offer me that much money for that much work I'd bite their hand off. No, the fault lies with the FA (Football Association) who won't cap wages or transfer fees and the foreigners who have decided that an English Premiership club is the latest accessory so are snapping them up and pouring obscene amounts of money to try and buy themselves the Premiership title. Can you imagine what you could do with £100m in a deprived area of Manchester? You could build a couple of hospitals or schools, invest in some local businesses that are struggling, create some new facilities for local kids to give them something to do that isn't getting pissed and knifing each other. Or you could buy one young man who'll probably wreck his cruciate ligament in the first 4 months of play and never come off the bench again. Good decision there my princely Arab friends. Not.

Do these people not realise that they are messing with natural selection?

 

I mean look at Manchester United's Ronaldo. He earns approximately £125,000 a week (which is US$264,084 or Aus$392,772) and this enabled him to buy a huge, powerful, expensive Ferrari which he promptly wrote off after 2 days of ownership. Clearly the many dials and buttons on the dashboard were too much for Mr Ronaldo's lonely brain cell to deal with and it went into meltdown, leaving him incapable of working out how to drive in a straight line and how not to hit the wall on a perfectly straight road. In the olden days natural selection worked by ensuring that stupid people couldn't get a vastly ridiculous salary and therefore couldn't afford to buy big, complicated machines capable of doing huge damage to themselves and others. Football has messed with this delicate balance leaving us all vulnerable to being rear ended by a halfwit driving a car more powerful than the Sellafield nuclear plant and more expensive than our house. Can you imagine the children when he inevitably (and briefly) marries a tan-tastic glamour model whose major ambition in life is to get on Celebrity Big Brother? Frightening.

So in short the English Premiership is now a joke, no longer a sport but the tame plaything of rich oligarchs and royals in far flung corners of the world, who buy up clubs for the price of a city and render the youth training programmes pointless as the youths coming up through them will never get to play on the first team. Doesn't bode well for the future of England's national side does it? With any luck it'll push people towards the financially disadvantaged lower league clubs which still have local players, local fans and a dodgy pie available at half time for less than a fiver. It's time for the rise of the little club, the likes of Bury FC. Premiership my backside, league two is where it's at!  

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The first Wanker of the Week of 2009.

Last year gave us a fine and varied crop of wankers and 2009 has made a marvellous opening bat with the appearance of Dr Richard Batista.

 

 

In case you were wondering, he's the one with the moustache.

In 2001 Dr Batista donated a kidney to his wife (you'll not be surprised to learn that she's the one in the photo without the 'tache) which saved her life. This action showed all the hallmarks of a thoroughly decent bloke, willing to go through much pain and trauma to save someone else's life however in one swift blow Dr Bastista has managed to undo all that hard work and unmask himself as really, a bit of a twat.

So how has he managed this? Simple, he's in the middle of a divorce which by the looks of things is moving slower than he hoped and isn't really going his way so his new demand is this: Either give the kidney back or pay me $1.5m, which is the random value of a kidney that my lawyer and me have plucked out of the air.

He is quoted as saying "There is no deeper pain that you can ever express than betrayal from someone who you love and devoted your life to", quite an amusing statement from a man who is demanding his kidney back from his ex-missus. Perhaps in Dr Batista's world this doesn't actually count as a betrayal. The soon-to-be-ex Mrs Batista should also be narked off at the price he is charging, I'm willing to bet you can buy an illegal kidney for WAY less than $1.5m via the internet or some dodgy foreign bloke in the back of a pub somewhere. 

He also says "I feel humiliated betrayed, disrespected and disregarded as a man, as a husband, as a father". Well  mate, I'm not surprised because after this behaviour it looks like the reason she left is that not only are you a sanctimonious, self pitying whinger who has no problem making himself look an utter twat in front of the entire world but you're also as mad as a hatful of angry weasels. Seriously, get a grip man, she's dumped you, that's shit but really, demanding the kidney back that she needs to survive is not the way forwards, especially since divorce lawyers apparently don't count donated organs as a marital asset to be divided. Go out with the boys, get drunk, call her names and enroll in therapy because if you carry on along this path you're going to be found on a park bench in 8 years time, still wearing the suit you wore to court but without the shoes, whiffing of cat wee, clutching a bottle of cheap whiskey and muttering about 'that bitch and my kidney'. Have some backbone you snivelling little wretch.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you Dr Richard Batista – Dick by name, dick by nature.

 

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