Come Die With Me

I've been watching a lot of Come Dine With Me of late. It's the sleeper hit of 4OD. I don't watch it for the cooking, I don't watch it for the party tips, neither do I watch it for the competition. I watch it because of Dave Lamb, the narrator. His caustic remarks could strip the paint off of a fence. I sit watching it wondering why the fuck anyone would put themselves up for such public humiliation? It's been on telly for over twenty series, surely the cunts that go on it know what they're letting themselves in for? They must have seen it before they sign up for it. Do they delude themselves by thinking Lamb will not pick up on their strange habits and ways? Do they think he will take them into his heart and be nice to them? Whatever the fucking idiots think he generally kicks them when they're down. He's my hero.

Did you ever know that you're my hero?

It got me thinking, all this Come Dine With Me viewing, what kind of party would I throw if I ever got on the show. Well you get a budget of £125 to spend on your meal, this I would pocket and try to do it as cheaply as possible. Crisps are a nutritious (when enjoyed within a healthy diet) and tasty snack, so they could be the basis for my meal. As a starter I would serve a few bowls of Prawn Cocktail crisps. I would write it on the menu as 'Crunchy Prawn Cocktails!' so the fucking idiots that came round would be none the wiser. Next up is the main. Again, bags of crisps can be very filling, maybe some Bacon Flavour Wheat Crunchies mixed up with Quavers would become 'Cheesy bacon surprise!' For the vegetarians amongst the diners I would provide them with 'croustilles de fromage et l'oignon'; a packet of Cheese and Onion Walkers. The pudding is more tricky, but I would serve several bags of Boots Own Brand Yogurt & Mint Crisps. Bam, Yogurty pudding right there! All washed down with a four pack of Stella! A definite score of ten all round!

'I FUCKING LOVE CRISPS, ME!'

Anna came round last night and forced me to exceed my bandwidth by making me watch more CDWM. This wasn't the only time she's been round this week. Last Tuesday she rocked up at my doorstep demanding to be fed. Thankfully I had some food on the go already so gave her the lion's share of that before blows rained down on me. Saturday was little different, I had cooked a curry and she'd got wind of it. Before you could say 'Chicken Jalfrezi' she was banging on my door and screaming that she wanted my 'fookin' food, you four eyed cunt!' I dutifully invited her in and she insisted on me helping her drink two bottles of wine and half a bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum whilst watching Gorky's Zygotic Mynki and Hawkwind videos on Youtube. How could I refuse? I am in fear of what that girl could do next!

It's amazing what growing up in a small Welsh village mixed with a parent's 70's vinyl collection and handfulls of magic mushrooms can do...

I awoke this morning eerily without a hangover. I'm writing this still waiting for it to kick in. It still hasn't and it's freaking me out. I was up early to collect Ninjasaurus Rex from the station as we were to attend Nerdfest 2011, also known as Vapnartak. It's a big wargaming event here in York. I'd not been to it for ten years and back then it was in the Merchant Adventurer's Hall. It had three trade stands, four display games and a man dressed up as a Fallshirmjager brandishing an MP44 at the public. It was unrecognisable today, it has grown out of all proportion, like a Lovecraftian beast taking over the Racecourse. There were even Jousting reenacters galloping around the paddock to tilt at one another as they passed every five minutes. There was about a million games in progress, four trillion trade stands and countless numbers of fat balding middle aged men panting over 15mm high toy soldiers in Einsatzgruppen B uniform. Logan Josh and Anna were both dragged along to make up the numbers. Both suffered terrible shock at the mass of Nerdism on public display. Josh was stunned into silence (for once) by the horror of it all. He was all excited about it when I mentioned it a few weeks ago. Now he will wake up screaming at the memory of grown men arguing about the correct buttons used on the coats of French Voltigeurs during the Battle of Borodino. Anna took it much better, she was a willing participant in finding out why Peter Pig is called Peter Pig. She even bought some figures; King Alfred and his burnt cakes or something. Mr Rex and I are much better versed at these events and took it all in our stride, engaging the nerds with chats about new figure ranges and fat Americans wearing tiny t-shirts. I came home, nerdy but happy with a bag positively brimming with a game, a t-shirt and some plastic Russian tanks. Happy Days.

Oh God! The smell! The smell!

Buy for the Future!

I have just returned from a shopping experience at Morrison's and regular readers and those that know me will know I am a tolerant man, I don't allow much to wind me up, but today is different. Having just spent an hour standing behind couples staring at fish fingers wondering whether to buy the tuna friendly dolphin flavour ones or the lungfish flavour ones, I have come with a new way of shopping. Pay attention this is the future!

Every Little Helps...

The customers (or drones, if you prefer) will be brought to the site of the supermarket (now renamed food factory) on special monorail transport, each carriage of which will have separate compartments big enough to house one drone. From the moment they step onto the monorail a door will close behind them, therefore trapping them until released by the robot driver upon arrival at the food factory. The drones will not be released simultaneously but one at a time allowing each drone to step off the monorail onto a moving walkway, again with individual places per drone. I'm not sure how the drones will be fixed in place here, but it might involve magnets, which would require everyone in the country to have metal sheeting inserted into the soles of the their feet at birth. This moving 'walkway' will carry the line of drones into the opening of the food factory and stop them in front of a computer terminus. At this juncture the drones will punch in their requirements to sustain them for another week. It will be a simple menu, with little choice, ie, wholemeal bread, multi-grain bread, kibbled bread, rye bread and fruit bread will be under the single button marked 'BREAD'. Choice confuses drones. It confuses and frightens them. The less choice the better. People operate quicker when there is less choice. So you would have a computer screen that looks something like this:

Press your buttons now!

Obviously this is still a work in progress, I feel that there may be too many meat and vegetable choices. But not to worry, the future is still ages away yet, so we've got time to work on it. The drone would have five minutes to press each button the appropriate amount of times for each product they wanted. Then they press done. After five minutes, whether the drones have finished or not the walkway will whisk them around the shop. First stop will be a machine that fits a shopping basket to the drones front, again, maybe through magnets and more invasive surgery. The computer will have worked out which drones want what from the computer terminal they were standing in front of and will stop in front of the large vending machines that make up the food factory. The food will be packaged in a similar way to this:

Om Nom Nom

Each drone will have their choices dropped into their baskets and when all have been thus served, the walkway will transport all the drones to the checkout, where a computer scanner will minus the cost of the food from the amount of work hours the drones have stored in their implanted computer chips that are stored in the frontal lobes of the the drone's brain. They earn this virtual money by spending the week working in munitions factories to feed the on going war with America. Yes, this my friends is the future of the shopping trip as we know it! Hopefully it won't be long off now!!

Keep the eating! Keep them fighting!!

I went to see Black Swan on Friday night, here is a film review ala Logan Josh:

Natalie Portman plays Nellie Deane, a country secretary who comes to the big city in search of fame, fortune and gold dust. She immediately falls in with a bad crowd at her work place and swiftly loses her job by setting off the smoke alarms with an unauthorised fireworks display in the boss' office. Losing her income means she loses her penthouse flat in the heart of the city and has to move in with her on-off boyfriend Crash Barfight (Bob Carolgees sans Spit the Dog) in the suburbs. Portman befriends the neighbour, a Mexican cleaner who doesn't speak a word of English (a beautiful portrayal by an uncredited Esther Rantzen). Portman and Rantzen embark on a series of moral crusades against the uncontrolled and illegal fishing of the River Hudson by the Mafia. The city government previously having turned a blind eye to Mafia bosses throwing grenades into the river to farm the livestock and sell the catch to nursing homes for hyper inflated prices. Portman and Rantzen change this blinkered view and also eventually win over the hearts of the mafia bosses, Portman marrying one of the 'made guys' in the process. Carolgees returns to the scene however and attempts to upset the apple cart by literally upsetting an apple cart in the street. It is his metaphor for his undying love for Portman. She realizes she married the wrong man and uses her mafia connections to have her husband killed so she can return to the arms of her former lover. They marry and live happily in Montana farming cats.

'Four Stars (out of 100)' Daily Bugle

'Weak and emasculating' Metropolis Daily

'A fine cast let down by a weak script' Gotham News

Hate Songs in E Minor

On Monday I went to the cinema to see 127 Hours, it was OK, a bit like an extended pop video, just like all of Danny Boyle's films are,and if you know what the ending is already you are pretty much just waiting for it to happen. I thought it would have made a better documentary, given that Aron filmed himself as he was trapped. Anyway, being in the cinema got me thinking, I was surrounded by arseholes as usual. Cinemas seem to be full, these days, of cunts that don't know how to behave in cinemas. What do I mean? Well everyone that goes to the cinema seems intent on stuffing themselves so full of sweets and popcorn and nachos(!), it's fucking disgusting. Just because you've left your house to go and see a film doesn't mean that you have to ram as much sugar and saturated fat down your fucking mouth as possible. I don't sit at home watching telly whilst shovelling hand fulls of jelly tots in my gaping maw, do I? People always buy far too much as well, as I'm leaving the place I always see massive amounts of left over food all over people's seats. There's enough food left over from the average viewing to feed the five thousand. FUCKING EYES TOO BIG FOR YOUR BELLY! SAVE YOUR FUCKING MONEY NEXT TIME, YOU FUCKING ATROCIOUS REPTILE!!

I need more cake to get me through Avatar

Not only that but people sit through films discussing them, you're not BARRY FUCKING NORMAN, SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AND LET THE REST OF THE CINEMA ENJOY THE FILM!!! Can't they keep their thoughts to themselves for two hours? Does the rest of the room have to endure their verbal diarrhea?

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!

These things are not the only things that get me mad about the cinema at Centretainment. The ceiling lights in the picture house are off centre. I notice it every time I go. It makes me mad. Right, listen, the ceiling is made up of lots of what appear to be two foot by two foot square tiles. There are three rows of lights running from the back of the room to the front and these are embedded in the tiles. But they're not embedded in the centre of the tiles, rather they are haphazardly placed within the surface area of the tile. This begs the question, which came first the tiles or the lights? If the lights were there first it would explain why they are off centre from the tiles. But if that's the case, then what was there before the tiles? What held the lights up? And just why was whatever it was removed to make way for the tiles? If the tiles came first, you'd think that the electrician who put the lights in would have centred them in a tile, keeping an aesthetic within the confines of the movie theatre. Also, the lights are not even equally aligned down the ceiling. One of the rows is closer to the wall than it's opposite number. It's like the whole thing was designed by a gang of retarded monkeys with no hands. SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?? Is it all there just to try to fuck with my mind? Am I being toyed with by Centretainment, is this all just a massive psychological game to see how long I last before my mind shatters into a million pieces?

You are literally blowing my mind...

Berny and I were chatting on site the other day when he asked the question 'what's your favourite love song?' Given that Berny is a Punk and still thinks it's 1976, I would have thought his idea of a love song would be something along the lines of Bell-End Bop by GBH it quite surprised me when he said his favourite love song was 'Hello' by Lionel Ritchie. This was because a girl he once knew had given him the single as a sign of her affection. Being the little Rat Scabies punk he was he placed the disc upon the turntable, allowed the opening bars to begin then promptly threw the fucking thing out of the window. This song is not only hilarious for that reason, watch the video, at about three and half minutes through, Lionel, the protagonist calls the woman of his dreams. She's blind, not only does he call this vulnerable young woman in the middle of the night but he waits nearly five full seconds before saying anything. All she can hear is his heavy breathing down the line, then he bellows 'HELLO!' at her. The poor girl must be frightened out of her wits. He may as well be saying 'I'm outside your house and can see you. Get ready cos I'm coming in and I've got a knife!' Later about five minutes into the video she sculpts a clay head that is supposed to look like Lionel, it turns out more like one of the heads on Easter Island. But she is blind after all...

The crops are failing! Raise another statue for the Gods!!

Berny also asked me what my favourite Gay Anthem was, my vote is always in the YMCA camp (don't excuse the pun...). Berny's was something by Kylie. There was a silence for a while until Berny broke it by asking what my favourite heterosexual song was. I told him Sniper At The Fag Parade by Meat Shits.

Can I get this at my local HMV?

I'm moving to York tomorrow, the house doesn't have internets connection yet so there may not be any more postings for a wee while. We'll see how we get on.

New Post, Old Post

I was going through my documents and deleting some of the shit when I stumbled upon the following post from a very early Blog I used to write on Myspace. I deleted all the entries from that particular blog in a fit of stupidity. Scraps of it survive, some of the Singapore stuff survives, as I've shown you before, but this is the last bit of it from when I was working in Gamestation and is dated from 28/09/2006, enjoy:

Today was the last day I shall ever work for Gamestation!! Hooray!! I have decided to take tomorrow off as I would only be losing thirty six quid and I can’t face another day in that fucking place. When I arrived this morning there was a little standing around as all the senior staff were away, Jo was recovering from some unexplained illness, Dawn was away, again with little explanation. So the warehouse was given over to Dennis, Monkey Boy and Steve the Fat Bullfrog. It wasn't so much the lunatics taking over the asylum as the monkeys taking over the zoo. I also saw blood on the toilet seat this morning, so the whole thing threatened to turn into The Lord of the Flies. I can just imagine all the staff stripped to the waist, covered in war paint, with Rob wielding the Conch and Monkey Boy running about with a Pigs head

I had no pen so I stole Vin’s pen, when I had finished at five I hid it, just to give me some amusement in my absence. How did I know it was Vin’s pen? It had written upon it: ‘Vin’s pen. Hail Satan.’

A source close to me was working with Dennis for the afternoon and the conversation came up about films and favourite films. Dennis’ top five films consists of the first four Rocky movies. He wasn't keen on the fifth in the series, my source tells me. I wondered what order he put this top four in? Does he think four is better than two? Is Ivan Drago a better opponent than Clubber Lang, say, from three? The mind boggles.

I walked past were Mark was working on the scanning computers about five. If you remember that Simpsons where Homer gets really fat to take time off work and ends up using a computer at home. Well, he increases productivity by using a wooden woodpecker on a spring to tap the key. Mark appeared to be doing the same, although it was with a Headknocker Beavis (from Beavis and Butthead) doll. He was mashing the keyboard for all he was worth with the model when I passed by. The Irony was probably lost on him though.

The bus journey home was terrible. I was victimised by a four year old in a pram (what the fuck was she doing in a fucking pram at that age?) who insisted that she put her mother’s bus ticket in my pocket. Her mother screaming at her, the only way a Chav mother can ‘Stop it (Insert Generic Chav Name: Britney, Jade, Chardonnay etc.), I’ll smack you if you don’t stop.’ Whilst texting various people on her mobile phone. The fucking cunts. As I said in an earlier entry, I really believe there should be some sort of IQ test for anyone who wants to breed.

213th post end of year Hogmanay Spectacular in 3D! (selected areas)

Hoots Ma Boab and Jings! Welcome to the 213th Post end of Year Hogmanay Spectacular Post! Why 213th?  Why end of year? You ask? 213th because I missed the 200th posting and end of year because it's 31st of December, you dumb fucking twat. Do try to keep up. Anyway, I thought I'd take this chance to have a look at my readership, similar to as I did on the 100th posting. That means this is all about you, yes you! and you as well. That one at the back. OK, I asked a favour of you last time and I'll ask the same favour. When you've read this post please leave a comment. It only takes a second and I know I've installed anti spamming measures, but you know, I write this for free, for you. Go on, don't be a cunt.

Do as the monkey says...

So lets take a walk down Google Analytic lane and see how many folks have strolled this same way over the past year and a bit:

HOLY FUCKING SHIT!! Over 20,000 visits!! Who are you people? Where are you coming from? What the fuck is going on here!! OK, OK that's not the whole story, the actual visitor number is a bit lower, but it's still over 16,000 people:

The mind boggles with what people hope to find here. I only started writing this so Craig could read what I was up to in Iceland, what could people possibly want with this blog? Buts lets take a look at where they are coming from:

Good God! People from 144 countries have landed on my blog! About the only place people haven't come here from is China, mind you, my writings are probably banned along with everything else in the Internet universe by the Great Firewall of China. I've even had a reader in the Congo who decided to read at least two pages of this shit! Even someone in Greenland has read a portion of this blog. I didn't even know they had electricity in Greenland! Disappointingly North Korea hasn't sent anyone over to have a look. It's a bit of a shame that really, I've been reading a lot of books recently about North Korea and I would have thought they'd have repaid the compliment.

Go on Kim, you know you want to...

Well, let's turn our attention to how people are finding their way to these pages. As usual the search engine phrases that are used to get here show the best and worst of the people using the internetz... Well, some of it makes for depressing reading. Why someone is searching for the operating times of the Boston abattoir I will never know. Maybe it was their first day on the job and wanted to get to the pig sticking plant nice and early so as not to piss off their boss? Other interesting searches to note here are 'abattoir poker' and 'abbatoire [sic] avatar':

Woah. American Masturbators Society? I can't even find the words:

Who in their right mind is searching for Bin Hookers in Belfast? Are they searching for Nazi boots, or claiming that Boots the Chemist are Nazis? And what has that cunt Bono got to do with air raid shelters in Italy? My mind is literally blowing...

I seriously doubt someone was looking for a holiday cottage in Rotherham or Singapore. I just hope they don't go about their business dressed in a costume of Germany...

You think you've seen it all, but it just keeps coming. Like a torrent of madness. What kind of world do we live in when someone calls their son Somme? Hang on, what kind of world do we live in when people search for pictures of dog slaves eating shit? No wonder they're dole scum...

Hooray! I'm not the only one! Maybe we should start up some kind of Sweetcorn survivors group!

I can't Imagine there being any sex in Litchfield, never mind tantrid [sic] sex:

Pot Noodles on planes? Pot Noodle bnp? What flavour is that? Anti-immigrant?

What is it with the Internetz and Nazis:

And I couldn't leave this search engine search without a good bit of old fashioned abuse of your truly:

I think we've all seen enough? I certainly have. You lot scare the bejesus out of me. OK, today is New Years Eve, for most of you tonight is the night you all go out and stand six deep at a bar waiting for three hours to get served, just so the drinks can get sloshed over you as you make your way back through the crowded room to the corner you've managed to secure for yourself until the bells chime out twelve o'clock. Have a good one what ever you do, BUT DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE A COMMENT! See you in 2011 for more shit!

Anti-Christ's Mass

So that's Crass Mess all finally over and only 364 shopping days left until the next one! I'm going to tell you what I've been up to since the last posting. After working in sub-zero temperatures during the day my nights have been packed with far more festive fare! Thursday night saw the annual Treeton Towers drink-a-thon at my local. The whole night was given a special festive sparkle when a fight erupted between Deveaux and Bennett which involved drinks being tossed across the room, karate chops to the neck, effeminate punches thrown and Bennett screaming 'Get him out of here, he hasn't even got a proper name!' It was akin to the misdemeanors of Kid Rock and altercations outside of a Waffle House, you can't get much more redneck than my Rovrum mates. Paul was calmed and sent home covered in beer and, allegedly, his own shit whilst Bennett was left to lament his bite marks and collapsed wind pipe. Funny how it was only the terminally unemployed ones that ended up scrapping... It also marred the arrival of Pettigrew in the village after an eighteen year absence.

'It's my round!'

'No, it's my round!'

Christ's Mass Eve was spent in the company of the family at large, drinking copious amounts to dull the pain of the afternoon. This was followed up on Christ's Mass day with a trip out to Mr and Mrs Cat's for the now famous annual quiz. This generally revolves around sport, so this makes it pretty tough for me, but given that the rest of the family have difficulty writing their own names, I tend to come out somewhere on top. Last year's quiz was under suspicion due to claims of cheating, with little Tommy aledgedly feeding answers to his dad, Darren. This year, precautions had been put in place to stop such nonsense. Tommy was tied up to a pole in the back garden. I came second, due to a tie-breaker situation, with my mother winning outright. We kept the prize in the family at least. My prize? A bag of vacuum packed dead robins:

Om Nom Nom

Christ's Mass wouldn't be Christ's Mass without cards and this year was no exception. I got the usual amount of abusive cards from various friends, mostly with the words FUCK and OFF printed somewhere either on the outside or inside of the card. But the best by far were the two I received on Christ's Mass Eve from Justin and the Evil Herr Docktor Clay. I really have difficulty deciding which I like best. I like Justin's for its homemade qualities and I like John's for its thoughtfulness. I'll allow you to decided which you prefer.
Justin's card, made from a cheep lager box:

John's card, note the added beard, glasses and attention drawn to the feet of the character:

John's card interior.

And speaking of Clay, on a final note here is a text message I receievd from him on Christ's Mass eve:

It's christmas eve and i'm wandering around homebase in a raincoat with a bottle of sherry. Is this the shape of things to come?

Spinning Stephenson!

Over the latter part of last week my car started to have a funny turn for itself. Not only did it refuse to turn over but once finally started it began blowing billowing clouds of thick condensation out of the fans obscuring vision. The windows refused to demist unless they were all wound down. This made driving up and down the motorway to work rather difficult. So difficult in fact, I decided it needed to go the car doctors so he could look at its tummy and make it all better again. It turns out that it's nothing to do with the car's tummy (they don't have tummies, apparently...) but it was the air flow matrix. It was as fucked as fucked can be. It would cost as much to buy a new unit and replace it as the car cost in the first place. It was a cheap car but I'm not doubling the cost of it to keep it on the road. So the poor old block of cheese has been assigned to history. I'm not sure what to do with it yet. My choices seem to be, sell it on eBay and hope the buyer doesn't notice the clouds of condensation or the misted windows, sell it for scrap or parts or my personal favourite, set fire to it and roll it down a hill. Time will tell.

Time to claim on the insurance...

So as a consequence of this situation, further confounded by the fact Tim and Cath won't allow me to stay at their place anymore (I am still confused as to why the cat was in my bed, dressed in a pink tutu), I have had to turn to the HILARIOUS VAGARIES of Public Transportation. Since owning a car I have been able to bypass this mode of transport favoured by peasants and the clinically insane, but now I've been thrown back into the circus like a Christian facing down a lion. My story begins as most public transport critiques do, with complete incomprehension as to how the entire system is handled. At my local bus stop there are NO buses in the morning except on a full moon when Scorpio is in the ascent. And only then do they come once every three hours and seventeen minutes. How does First Buses think people are going to get to work every morning? But of course! Public transport isn't for the employed, they can afford their own vehicles. Only the bottom feeders and dole scum use the bus to go and sign on. We don't need buses in the morning, we only need them to start running after Jeremy Kyle's finished.

'Have we finished here yet? I need to go and sign on'

An aside about buses: When I lived for a while in Dublin the bus stops had the timetables written up, so you could see when your bus was about to arrive. Except it wasn't that simple, no, you get nothing for free in this world, the timetable would only tell you what time the bus set off from its origin. I'm sure you can already see the MASSIVE FLAW in this system of operation, what if you had no idea where the place of origin was? I mean where the fuck is Ballickmoyler and how far away is it from this bus stop that I'm standing at? How long will the bus take to get to me, even with a strong tail wind? The timetables were less than useless. Just think about that for a second.

Whilst you're thinking about useless Irish things, think about this; this man is still alive. Where is the justice in the world?

Anyway, as I was saying, as there were hardly any buses before 9.30 I had to choose one that would get me to the train station before the train left that I needed to take to get to York in time to meet Berny for a lift to site. It happens that the only bus that was on offer was one at 5.17am. It got me to the train station about an hour and ten minutes BEFORE the train I needed. Talk about lack of communication between various transportation executives. So I get to the station nice and early, at which point I noticed that the information that I'd gleaned from the National Rail Enquiries site was actually wrong about the trains departure time and kicked my heels until the ticket office opened. When it did I was told that there were no trains running for the first part of my journey to York, between Rotherham and Doncaster. Cursing Thatcher for privatising the rails, I ran like a demon back to the bus station and jumped on a bus to Doncaster instead. I got there just in time for the train to York and endured the quiet carriage surrounded by the Canadian-Asian guy blabbing into his telephone about 'just having to get to London today' and using the word 'so' as punctuation and the girl who talked incessantly for twenty  minutes into her phone and ended the conversation with 'OK, gotta go, call me back when you get this message.' It made me feel like screaming; IT'S THE QUIET CARRIAGE YOU IGNORANT CUNTS!!! But I would have been breaking the carriage rules myself.

The sign is there for a reason you twats!

In other countries, public transport is an exciting way of seeing the world, in European countries you marvel at the double decked trains and the impeccable sticking to timetables, in Japan one can watch in awe as the team of cleaners take a bow to the train before cleaning it spotlessly. In Africa you can wonder if the bus will make it round the next hairpin bend at 200mph whilst weaving around the corpses of the passengers of the last bus that tried it. It's exciting and adventurous, in Britain it's a fucking grind where as many people as possible are packed in to the carriages after paying extortionate prices for the pleasure of smelling someone else's armpits or listening to strangers mobile phone conversations. And that's if the fucking train turns up in the first place. For fuck's sake, Britain invented the train. How can we get it so wrong, so many times? In the end I did make it to work on time, but this was my misfortune as we were forced to work in -12 degrees, breaking rock hard ground. Just like a North Korean labour camp.

You work now!