Car Users

Anyone who has ever driven in the UK or is unfortunate enough to have to commute in this country will have no doubt noticed that there are several different categories of people who drive over here and they can usually be identified by their car. So, let's have a look a few of them shall we?



Mrs Fearful

You'll notice her because she's only sat two inches from the windscreen, she's sweating slightly, she's driving at 21mph and she looks like she's been left in control of an angry stallion. Which is ironic really considering her car has virtually no horsepower at all. She's gripping the steering wheel like a lifebelt with both hands because she knows full well that these small cars are tricky little devils and that if you break concentration for a moment, or remove one hand to change the radio station, the malevolent vehicle will spin round 90 degrees to the right and plant you into a tree. If Mrs Fearful is on the motorway, she will be in the middle lane driving at 55mph and being undertaken by 18 wheelers. There may well be a collection of cuddly toys on the parcel shelf which jars a bit because no woman in her 50s has any place playing with cuddly toys. After 20 minutes stuck behind her on a B road you'll be ready to drag her out of her car and strangle her with the seatbelt.

She will be driving: A Toyota Yaris or a Nissan Micra.





You'll hear this idiot coming a good few minutes before you see him, thanks to the fact that the boot cavity is filled with sub woofers and so everyone in a 4 mile radius is being treated to the aural delight that is his happy hardcore collection. When the car eventually comes into view you'll be surprised by the fact that Ford didn't realise that what their Focus was missing was an exhaust the size of an industrial drainage pipe and the kind of bodykit that's going to leave him stranded on the top of all but the tiniest speed hump like a dachshund on a log. There's no way round it, he drives like a twat, most probably because he is a twat. Red lights are no object to Chav-boy, he's not bothered if he gets three points on his licence because he hasn't got a licence. Or insurance. Or ownership papers for the car. Your best survival techique when around Chav-boy in the car is to let him do his dangerous overtaking move because frankly he's a fuck sight safer where you can see the gormless little tit.

He will be driving: something smallish that he's tried to make look like a Suburu by removing all the badges and adding a ridiculous spoiler and huge exhaust. As if the general public can't recognise a Corsa when they see one, even if it has been pimped to within an inch of its life.




Chav-girl's car is instantly recognisable, not only because it's bright pink but also because it's the one driving down both lanes of the road, as chav-girl's lane discipline isn't quite what it might be. Chav-girl for some reason best known to herself, thinks the Playboy bunny is the coolest logo in town and so her car has a big, pink playboy bunny on the bonnet and a 'playgirl on board' sticker in the back window. Why anyone wants to emulate a group of bimbos whose claim to fame is that they pose in the buff and aspire to sleeping with a man who makes your grandfather look like a spring chicken is anyone's guess but Chav-girl does. That's why she has the matching Playgirl handbag and watch too. Her steering wheel and seats have pink furry covers on and the overwhelming cloud of knock off perfume and air freshener combined within the interior would be enough to render a less hardy individual unconscious. It's certainly enough to put off any would-be car thief who hadn't been put off by the fact that the vehicle is a fucking awful colour. Your best survival technique would be to give Chav-girl a wide berth because she isn't actually watching the road or the other traffic, she's putting more lipgloss on in the rear view mirror and trying to find her Rihanna CD on the floor.

She will be driving: A Nissan Micra or Ford Ka, custom sprayed to a level of pink that makes your eyes bleed.





Mr Arsehole

Make no mistake, this is the biggest wanker you're going to meet on the road. Or anywhere else for that matter. He's in something corporate and in his head, he's the greatest thing ever to walk the earth. He's in a big car and as we all know, the highway code states that anyone in a big car can do whatever the fuck they like, including parking in disabled parking spaces and tailgating smaller vehicles. At least that's how Mr Arsehole remembers it anyway. If you're expecting him to indicate then you're in for a disppointment – it isn't his job to let you know what he's going to do, it's your job to just get the fuck out of the way, he is, after all, on his way to somewhere far more important than you, obviously. If the road is blocked by parked cars and there's only one lane available, don't expect him to give way to you, if you expect this to happen and move forward then your car is going to be spending the next month having the wing rebuilt. He gives way to no man and certainly no woman. Mr Arsehole is married but is sleeping with his PA. He thinks he's the greatest lover ever to grace a seedy hotel but secretly she wonders whether it might not be less miserable to just save up and buy Louboutin heels and matching handbags herself. His wife is just grateful that she doesn't have to do this particular chore any more and chuckles quietly to herself at his mistaken belief he's being discreet while enjoying the spectacle of the sad prat making a tit of himself. Again. You'll recognise Mr Arsehole on the motorway because if you're in the fast lane he'll be the cockgoblin parked on your bumper, flashing his lights and waving his arms. Much fun can be had on roads by waiting till he does this and then slowing right down to 20mph while watching what shade of red his head goes in your rear-view mirror.

He will be driving: A large BMW or a Range Rover Sport which is about as likely to ever do anything off-road as I am to walk up Everest in a bikini and a pair of Jimmy Choos.  


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It’s just life…..again.

We have got Sky. The idea of Sky had been broached by Mr Vicola but I believed I had made my belief that Sky is the TV viewing option of Satan perfectly clear. Apparently not, because it was installed in the house when I arrived at home after work. We are now the proud possessors of 15 squillion channels of mindless, pixellated entertainment. If I really felt the urge, I could watch a whole day of sci-fi weirdness or soppy Mills and Boon style romance. Currently Mr Vicola is engrossed by a man who is talking about who built the Sphinx, happy days. I am slightly concerned that Mr Vicola may lose the ability to speak altogether after having Sky for a few months and I'm fairly sure that there's some sort of evil message being beamed into the subconscious of Sky subscribers by the Dark Lord Murdoch. I don't know what his plan is yet but  it could well have something to do with taking over the world. I'm onto him though and I refuse to be suckered in by 24 hour availability of murder mysteries…

In other nonsense, today has been spent lamenting the gross stupidity of the halfwitted muppets in the Debenhams warehouse. My grandmother bought us some lovely glasses from Debenhams as a wedding present. That was three years ago and being the clumsy pair of oafs that we are, we've managed to break some of them over that time so I decided to go onto the Debenhams website and order some more tumblers and some more wine glasses. The tumblers arrived without a problem but the wineglasses are proving more problematic. Now I don't know about you but I wouldn't have thought that taking a box of fragile wine glasses, putting them in a plastic bag then slinging them in a sack with a load of other stuff with delivery was the way forwards. Apparently the same thought didn't occur to whichever partially trained monkey was dealing with my order because the glasses arrived, in their plastic bag, in many tiny little shards. So I sent them back with the courier and rang Debenhams to inform them of this unfortunate incident. They were very apologetic and assured me that this shouldn't have happened and another pack of glasses woudl be sent out immediately, in a more glass-friendly package. Little did I know that by 'glass friendly package' they actually meant  new plastic bag' because the new pack of glasses arrived today, in exactly the same packaging and even more pieces than the last one. Good work Debenhams. So that's £40 of glasses plus delivery costs on 2 packages that they have wasted because someone in their warehouse is too stupid to work out that if thin glass is flung round the back of a van without adequate padding, it will break. Honestly, how hard is it to work out really? I'mthinking that perhaps the warehouse requires a new packaging policy, preferably not one drawn up by someone with more toes than functioning brain cells. Perhaps I'll just do a trawl round the stores instead.

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Some pictures from the Highlands

It rained for most of the time and the rest it was grey but we went to some pretty places where I played with my camera…..

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A brief thank you

Just a brief thank you to everyone who sent good wishes and vibes for father-of-Vicola's operation. He is now up and about, swearing, being grumpy and moaning about the fact that his football team got stuffed royally on Saturday by a team up of the only 11 people in Bournemouth who are under 80. Clearly he's on the mend. The ward was horrendous, full of ill people. I'm slightly scared of ill people, on the grounds that they may be contagious and therefore may make me ill, not a situation that pleases me. One bloke was sat there in his bed, right by the door you use to get on and off the ward, in his pants and nothing else, throwing up more loudly than I've ever heard anyone honk before while his dozy wife sat there staring into space and smiling inanely. For the love of god woman, draw the curtains, it isn't a spectator sport and we don't all want to bloody watch. I tell you, I scuttled past the ill man like someone had set fire to my arse, I can tell you. It's been years since I moved that fast. And as for some of the other visitors, well, no woman over a size 30 should ever be seen in public without a bra and no, coral leggings and a lilac t-shirt do not go together. Or they shouldn't, not in public anyway.

This is just a quick entry because I'm at the inlaw's house. Which in itself provides a wealth of stories and unfortunate events but they are going to have to wait till I get home because any minute now someone is going to walk in and start nosying over my shoulder again. So bye for now and hope you're all having a good week!

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Fingers crossed

I would just like to ask all the nice Voxers out there to keep their fingers and toes crossed for Father of Vicola who is today having surgery on blocked arteries in an attempt to restore the blood supply to his foot and allow him to walk further than 10 paces again. Thank you for your assistance!!

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Wanker of the Week

This week has brought us a proliferation of wankers, from the family in Scotland who are so fat that the council are paying minders to stop them from eating blocks of lard to the latest bonkers offering from the harpy formally known as 'Lady Mills-McCartney'. However beating them all by a country mile is the charming Anjem Choudary, everyone's favourite fanatical jihadist.



Before we get into what Choudary has done this week to bring him the honour of 'wanker of the week', let's have a little look at his previous actions, many of which are also worthy of mention.

Choudary is an extremist who seems to believe that his calling in life is to wage holy war against the infidel and bring us all global Islamic Jihad. Lucky us eh? He claims that "People here are living in anarchy. There's a rape every minute. Islam has the answer to everything". Well indeed, because we all know that there are no rapes at all in Islamic countries, ever. And if there's 1 every minute here then that makes a grand total of 524160 per year. In my 29 years that's a whopping great 15,200,640 rapes so clearly either I should go out less because in the next 5 years my number is going to come up or he's plucked a random figure out of thin air because he's got no fucking idea how many rapes there are in this country. I'd lay a fiver that it's less than in Saudi Arabia but unlike Choudary I'm not going to state that as a fact because I don't know for sure.

Choudary has been recruiting soldiers for his lovely Jihadist war on the streets of London (because obviously his contribution to Jihad is best done in the comfort of the centrally heated office, rather than from a scratty, flea-ridden tent in the shit-hills of Afghanistan. After all, Jihad may be important but a man needs his creature comforts doesn't he?). One of his recruits was interviewed about his meeting with Choudary and his conversion to Islam by the Daily Mail and had this to say for himself, "I'd already gone off pork and I had my last drink on holiday in Cyprus last year, just one pint. Michael Jackson's death to me was a sign". So as you can see, we should really be alarmed because Choudary clearly targets the brightest and best to play Jihad Joe, the ones with robust mental health and a true sense of what's important. This little chap goes on to say that sharia law would bring fear into the UK and this would be a good thing because "If there is no fear, people just act on their whims, drinking alcohol and taking drugs and having sex". Imagine that, people having a drink and having sex, it's like a party in Satan's front room over here, it really is. No one in countries ruled by Sharia law ever has sex, it would seem. I'll be honest, I'm not convinced Jihad Joe has really thought this through. But then I suppose those recruited by Choudary and his like aren't meant to think are they? They're just supposed to do as they're told.

Choudary's recruits don't believe in letting work get in the way of Jihad, or for that matter, Loose Women and re-runs of Diagnosis Murder. Choudary himself is living off benefits, despite being a fully qualified lawyer and his recruits are taught that is is their Muslim duty to claim benefits and make no contribution to the 'enemy' British state. Perhaps the rules on claiming benefits in the UK are mentioned in the bit of the Koran that I skipped. Now again, I'm not convinced this has been thought through. Leaving aside the fact that everytime they buy anything they are paying VAT which goes straight to the Treasury and the 'enemy' British state, their aim is to bring in radical Islam and stop women from being educated and taking jobs. Since approximately 70% of British women work either full or part time in paid employment this would automatically reduce the amount of tax being paid to the treasury by a vast amount and mean that the welfare state would no longer be sustainable. So Choudary and his beardy-weirdy followers would have to actually get up off the sofa and get a proper job. That is assuming that the UK hadn't already descended into a piss-pot backwater like Afghanistan. Hard-liners know a lot about Jihad and what benefits they are entitled to but don't seem to be that hot on running a national economy. Plus they don't seem like working. Obviously there aren't any Jihad rules about sitting on your arse all day watching daytime telly.

It's not just our morals that Choudary has put in the firing line, nope, our festivals are also a no-no. Apparently our yuletide festivities are 'the pathway to hellfire'. Who knew? Ooops. He goes on to explain that "Every Muslim has a responsibility to protect his family from the misguidance of Christmas because its observance will lead to hellfire. Protect your Paradise from being taken away – protect yourself and your family from Christmas". So I'll take that as a 'no' to the last slice of christmas pudding shall I?

It's possible that the delightful Mr Choudary may soon be silenced by the authorities as he's apparently being investigated by the police for demanding that gays be stoned to death (that's assuming that he doesn't get taken out by a Catholic fanatic as the Catholic brethren wasn't that amused by his call for the Pope to be executed due to his 'insults to Islam'). Still, before drifting out of the limelight and becoming just another benefit-scrounging soap-dodger, or worse, actually having to spend the day working instead of planning international jihad, Choudary has managed to pull a blinder by demanding that the Queen be tried for genocide and the extermination of a nation.  Now being a lawyer he should know that the queen is classed as sovereign and is therefore immune from prosecution but even if she weren't, I would have an issue with his assertion that she 'applauds her sons and daughters to go and massacre hundreds and thousands of innocent people'. As the Head of the Armed Forces is she not supposed to support them? I must have missed the conflict where the aim was to 'go and massacre hundreds of thousands of innocent people' but I'm sure if I asked, Mr Choudary could put me straight. As long as I was wearing a burqa, asked permission to speak first and didn't leave the kitchen.

So there we are, Anjem Choudary, benefit-scrounger, jihadist, terrorist recruiter and all round asshole. Please come and collect your 'Wanker of the Week' award – you've just about got time to get here and back to yours before 'Murder She Wrote' starts….

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