Vote Sniper!

By the time you’ve got to the end of this outpouring of unconsciousness I will have written in excess of 31,000 words on this, my 67th Blog entry. That is a lot of words. It’s why I took a sabbatical after the March entry - I felt I’d earned it.

But now I’m back. The constant implorations of a needy readership persuaded me to come back for you. I’m selfless like that. It’s the sort of sacrifice you see in public servants. Maybe that’s my calling. Perhaps I should take up politics?

Politics needs big ideas and I have tons of them. On occasions I’ve described them on these pages – snipers, for example. For those of you that may have missed these entries, I’ll expand a little.

My sniper system is genius in its simplicity. The basic idea is to have strategically placed snipers across the country armed with the latest weaponry and delegated authority to shoot people who transgress. For example, someone drops litter one of my snipers takes the offender out. Word gets around quickly in the litter dropping community and I can assure you no one will drop litter again.

It’s such a simple idea and can be applied to so many areas of life that I (and therefore my followers) find irritating. Anagram TV for example.

Anagram TV is the term I apply to TV programmes that are essentially the same as another show – the only difference is bits have been moved about to make it look different. You can apply it to any property programme, the entire schedule of ITV3 and anything to do with food. Oh, and anything involving Katie Big Tits Jordan Price, Paris Hilton or Ross Kemp.

I would have all TV executive offices bugged and placed in the line of sight of next-door’s roof. Any discussions reaching the earpiece of my strategically placed sniper involving Ross and getting him to talk to a bunch of 'yahnahwatameaners' in Swindon would see the offenders brains being splattered against the wall. I calculate that we would get back to original programming within a month - nice documentaries about how soap is made.

There are so many other areas that my sniper system could address – middle lane crawlers, lazy people pretending to be disabled, politicians that don’t answer questions directly (all of them) and anyone with ginger hair come to mind immediately.

I’ve formed the Sniper Party (strap line - 'Shoot to Win") and I’m standing for election in my local area. My logo is a head and shoulders shot of Ross Kemp with a target on his forehead. I’ve been at the polling station all day in fact. Curiously my opponents have been conspicuous by their absence – perhaps they’ve read my manifesto. It does go into a lot more detail about my sniper initiative…

So if you haven't voted yet - vote for the Sniper Party. If you have voted already and it wasn't for us be afraid, be very afraid...

The Apathy App...

Many of you will know of Slash the Editor: he is the curmudgeon with horns who sits on my right shoulder whispering ‘cut it – too wordy’ in a deep monotone whenever my fingers hover over a keypad.

Occasionally though, he comes out with something insightful, such as the other day when he pointed out that no one actually reads my blog anyway. I think he has a point as I often throw some of the subject matter into conversations with blog recipients only to find a blank face staring back at me. Such is life for those who pose with prose.

I suspect most of you, especially the ones not reading this blog, have written material in your home that has never been read. Some people just don’t like reading. I have a friend Terry, who shall remain nameless, who has never read a book in his entire life: ever. This is quite astonishing to me but it doesn’t seem to bother him.

And anyway, books are so last century. The future is digital. My blog is digital and so will all your books be one day. This worries me. How are people who don’t read anything going to be able to boast about it if they can’t display books on their shelves that have never been opened?

Naturally I have a solution. Well, in truth Slash does. He thinks the digital world is in dire need of an Apathy App. Doesn’t sound much but here’s the clever bit: you don’t bother to download it. That’s right, it ticks all the digital boxes. If you hate reading simply don’t download the Apathy App. Genius.

So for those of you that don’t read this blog, follow this link and don’t download anything www.werewolfofhampshire.blogspot.com (but you might like to look for the link showing Rab C Nesbitt struggling with a call centre…).

Now, Slash may be many things but he is not stupid. He knows he’s onto a winner here financially. Literally millions of people have not downloaded the Apathy App already and even at the discounted retail price of £1 he anticipates he will retire at 4pm this afternoon.

Another worrying statistic...

If we measure concern by the size of the Governments advertising budget they are currently obsessed with the nation’s alcohol consumption. Estimates vary of course but it’s reckoned that booze costs the NHS around £3 billion per year.

A worrying statistic but I don’t think the Government needs to fret.

According to the inter-world-wide-netty thing pubs are closing at a rate of 52 per week: another worrying statistic. There is only reckoned to be about 60,000 pubs in the UK so applying all my mathematical know how I can confidently inform you that we will be out of pubs in a little over 20 years: another worrying statistic. According to my calculations we will run out of beer before the oil wells run dry: another worrying statistic.

Revenues raised from alcohol duty are estimated to be in the region of £5.7 billion annually: another worrying statistic. A loss to the Revenue but at least the NHS will no longer have to deal with drunken sots from the North East attending A&E on Saturday nights asking for Newkie brown bottles to be removed from their rectums.

Another worrying statistic is the number of times news stories use spurious statistics to hammer home a story. According to the BBC Charter 95% of all news stories will be backed up by a statistic by 2015. I’ll stick my neck out even further and suggest that an organisation with a vested interest in the news item will supply the statistics 99.9% of the time.

So, my advice is to keep salt by your favourite telly chair so that you can take a pinch from it whenever you hear another worrying statistic.

But, don't get too glum. Remember, statistics are simply lies wrapped up in numbers.

And that, my friendly blogees, is 100% guaranteed 99.9% of the time.

PS – please excuse my lack of blogging lately but I have been working hard on my new venture www.wedothewords.com and haven’t had time to write my blog. Statistically I am better off working for the new company than I am writing this blog but only when you factor in that no one pays me to read this. However, if every reader donated £1 for each initial viewing and 50p for 15% of the additional viewings thereafter I might be able to give up work. Statistically the first person to make a donation gets 75% more affection from me than the remaining donators, although the first 9 after the initial donator do make me feel warm inside, but only on a Wednesday, and only then when it falls on a Tuesday, which statistically it is more likely to do than a Monday, except in February, which as we all know is a statistical anomaly…

Tooning & Mooning

I woke up with a strange sensation this morning. No, not that you perverts – pride. Yes, after nearly 18 months of lighting up the linguistic backwater that is Blogland I have finally inspired a follower to start his own Blog. Why not go and visit it: http://werewolfofhampshire.blogspot.com/

It’s not as the name suggests about a hirsute Victorian gentleman with wolverine tendencies and a toothsome smile. That said Chris, the author, is not shy when it comes to facial hair or indeed a mane. The latter manifests itself in a Francis Rossi ponytail. Some say the ponytail is shared as Chris and Francis have never been seen together… spooky.

You will discover Chris is ‘in toon with the moon’ or as I might describe it, barking mad. He is a keen gardener and contends that planting should follow the rise and fall of the white orb that the Clangers once called home.

He has extended his toonery to other aspects of his life and now refuses to attend to his Farmer Giles with the required medication (a soothing unction) unless the moon is floating at exactly a 68-degree angle to the pub sign in front of the Fox…

Unfortunately, when perfectly aligned, he administers said unction outside the public bar causing unaware drivers travelling in an easterly direction along Hawley lane to involuntarily become in toon with the mooning…

Enough frippery. Today I’d like to throw some light on the snow issue that has caused untold misery to millions in the UK. I think I know what’s happened. Its not snow at all: its cocaine. This explains why everyone is talking about it incessantly and sliding about on their arses – they’re off their heads.

It’s why prisons and sink estates seem to have mysteriously clear pavements. How else can you explain why there isn’t even a light dusting of the white stuff on bankers’ coats?

There is a way to get the country running normally again but it involves inserting a digit up your jacksy and tooning in with the moon… Next Blog? I dunno - probably politicians, I haven't had a good moan about them in ages...

This is not a Christmas Blog...

Slash, my vicious editor and erstwhile business associate frequently accuses me of aiming my ire at obvious targets – like bankers. With this in mind I will be ignoring the most obvious target you could think of at this time of year: Christmas. This blog is a Christmas free zone.

I am most certainly not going to rattle on about foul smelling sprouts and even more putrid aunties who litter sitting rooms across the country following their temporary release from care homes where they usually pass away the afternoons testing manufacturers claims that the upholstery is urine resistant.

It’s why I’m not going to mention the strain put on the national grid by attack dog owning, tattooed, never had a job in their lives but its not their fault, chain smoking skinheads called Jake, who decide that the best way to teach little Jaketta about the nativity is to plonk a herd of illuminated reindeer in the front gardens of their council houses and hammer a Father Christmas with a flashing nose under every window.

I won’t bother to mention the false bonhomie that is cringingly offered by anyone reliant on tips to supplement their income and I most certainly won’t be getting on my high horse about being fed a diet of American films that are awash with ‘meaning of life’ metaphors and always end with some washed up American loner, who was an alcoholic divorcee for the first 20 minutes of the film, sobering up sufficiently long enough to save humanity and re-marry his wife.

I won’t mention this country’s obsession with a white Christmas or the fact that if it does snow all of our TV news bulletins will come from a gritting shed in Chelmsford, flooded with councillors all proclaiming their readiness to deal with a prolonged and sustained deluge, only to discover, after the first dusting, that it’s the wrong kind of snow for the grit they ordered.

And, finally, I will utter nothing at all about the many myriad of religious factions who pile out of the woodwork at this time of year to remind us how bad we are, despite most of them touching up young boys for the last 100 years.

Nope, no more soft targets for me, I definitely won’t be talking about Christmas…

How very inconvenient

Larson, the cartoonist, was a genius and an American – a very rare combination indeed. He was able to encapsulate frustration into a one liner and a sketch. My particular favourite was a picture of a shop interior in which all of the shelves had been placed just below the ceiling. The caption read: ‘Inconvenience Store.’

You might think that this is simply the whimsy of a fertile imagination but his cartoons are borne out of real life. I come across this sort of stuff all the time. For example, on Saturday I encountered an ‘Inconvenient Convenience’ at Farnborough Football Club.

The urinals under the main stand are high enough up the wall to trouble Meadowlark Lemon. For anyone under 7 feet the only feasible way to avoid a puddle and an embarrassing tie die stain around the crutch is to stand a yard away and ‘arc.’ This option requires a steady hand, stomach muscles and a well-timed sprint towards the urinal prior to the shake. Inevitably this set of skills are only in the domain of the under 40s. Anyone beyond that age is acutely aware that nothing dribbles uphill.

Last Friday, whilst travelling to Bristol, I also encountered the most ‘Inconvenient Parking Meter.’ I was planning to meet a colleague at Chievely Services leave my car there and drive down with him. The new thing in parking is buying your ticket by telephone. The sign informed me it was for my convenience, as I would no longer need to rout around for change – a dubious benefit as the cost for parking was a crispy tenner.

To take advantage of this convenience I had to register as a customer. The sign informed me of the benefits – if I ever parked in one of the management’s parking spaces again I wouldn’t have to do much. Obviously, to enjoy such a worthy benefit I’d need to register my car too – that way if I ever parked the same car in one of their parking spaces ever again I’d save loads of time. Clearly, taking my debit card details was a pre-requisite, as it would also save me considerable time should I ever park the same car in the one of their parking spaces ever again.

As the other option to giving them my debit card details, car registration number and registering was parking on the hard shoulder of the M4 I opted for the convenience.

I then set about the registration process – a system based on hitting the right key, in the right order and listening to a voice recorded over the top of a 7 year old practising the violin regurgitating my selection back to me. Not too difficult for numbers but quite a task when you combine numbers and letters. Take a look at your telephone keypad. Under most of the numbers are 3 or 4 letter clusters. So to simply input the letter V of my registration number for example, I had to input the number 8 – the violin voice then asked me to confirm I had selected the number 8. 1 for yes, 2 for no, 3 for repeat the options. I selected 1. It then suggested I might like to pick 1 for T 2 for U 3 for V or 4 to repeat the options. I selected 3 for V. The violin asked me to confirm my selection - 1 for yes, 2 for no, 3 for repeat the options. I selected 1.

Bored yet?

Imagine the fun I had with the debit card details. Then disaster. I pressed the wrong key but confirmed it was the right key. I put this down to repetitive the strain injury that to this day has left me with an index finger set to permanent point mode. I had to ring off and start the whole process over again.

By now I was drawing a crowd. People get so inquisitive when they see someone circling a car like a punch-drunk boxer and repeatedly calling the phone cupped in their hand a bastard.

30 minutes and two text message confirmations later, feeling light-headed and now 30 minutes late for my meeting I set off.

The moral of this story is: never trust anything or anyone that promises you convenience because it invariably mean theirs, not your...

What a load of bankers...

Forgive me blogees for I have sinned. It has been nearly a month since my last blog-fessional.

I can’t point to a particular excuse, only that life keeps getting in the way. Or to be more accurate, my new business venture www.wedothewords.com (please go visit – lovely website). By some strange quirk of fate it has been attracting customers. The business isn’t just me, there is an old chum from a previous career involved and Slash the editor. My old chum brings savoir-faire to the adventure and Slash brings brevity. I bring the biscuits (Rich Tea obviously – the SAS of dunking biscuits).

New business ventures are predictably unpredictable. But there are two things you can always be sure of: expenditure (of time, effort and money) confidently strides out over the horizon whilst income rolls around behind you kicking and screaming like a truculent child.

I’ve been involved in quite a few new ventures over the years some successful, some not so. But, the common denominator in all of them is that I always played with other people’s money. This is something I have in common with the banks.

When I was young and looking for my first bank loan to buy an Opel Manta the first stop after the application was the bank manager. He wanted to size me up and try to understand why a 19 year old would need a ‘sports car’. He offered me the loan, but only on the proviso that I buy a Ford Fiesta or Escort. Those were the conditions of the advance.

These days, of course, things are different. I wouldn’t get to see the bank manager, because there isn’t one. But, the Indian call centre disguised as my personal banker would, until recently, have suggested a Ferrari.

They wouldn’t need to worry about my defaulting because at the end of the day banks can’t go bust – because you and I guarantee all their loans. It’s our money the Government are using to prop them up.

This is an interesting concept. Lets think about it for a minute. Everything I earn I put in a bank. The bank uses my money to lend to people and businesses. It also borrows against my money so it can lend even more money. It then sells the future interest repayments of my money to other banks or takes out a mortgage on my money to lend even more money.

Anyone still with me?

My money is now so far away from where it started that I have lost interest and the bank have lost track. But no matter because should someone in the long chain of lending not pay up the Government will step in and make good the loans. With my money. Genius.

But banks are even cleverer than that. They have taken all of my money and refused to lend it to anyone. In this way they can keep my money to pay bonuses.

Yesterday I read in the paper that the man the Government put in charge of the Quango responsible for looking after my money in the banking system stated, and I’m quoting almost verbatim here, ‘… if we take away bankers bonuses or defer them as shares to be vested over some years we are in danger of losing all the talent in the banking sector as they move elsewhere to achieve their remuneration expectations…’

Two things: Who are these talented bankers? Are they the ones who purchased securitised loans riddled with toxic debt? Is it the bankers who thought lending money to the long term unemployed in the Mississippi Delta represented a good lending risk? Or is it the ones that apologised for their mismanagement of banks to the Treasury Select Committee last year before walking off into the sunset with multi-million pound pension pots?

One thing's for sure - it's not the man who told me to buy a sensible Fiesta...

And anyway, where would all this talent move to – I imagine banks are crying out for bankers who don't understand what they are selling?

Naturally I have a solution. It involves snipers. I can’t go into too much detail here, blogs have ears and all that…

Bugger, I'm ranting again...