I must go to the hills again
Where the earth meets the sky
Where the wind howls around your head
And where there is the buzzard’s keening cry.
And all I ask is a clear path, on which to walk
And, on its route, a sheltered meadow in which to lie
And all I ask is a clear day, with not too many clouds in the sky,
And all I ask is a lonely place, with out too many people passing by.
And all I ask is the distant sight of a village church steeple,
beside it a sleepy pub; with a garden and a cool spot out of the sun
And all I ask, is at the end of the day when the walking is done
When the shadows length, and I am too tired to run.
Is a bowl of water and the bone I am due.
Is somewhere to rest my paws, and in my dreams, rabbits pursue
Friday, October 12, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Besuited Man
My suit is my armour
Can't you see?
The cloth turns aside arrows.
The pinstripes protect me.
Let others their worn denim or corduroy prescribe
I am happy when in a suit I am spied
Something that fits- and fits me best
I am not happy in a string vest
Clothing you can wear anywhere
For which few doors are barred
A besuited man is a suitable man at large
Maybe as all formality is dead
Maybe fashion says I should look like,
I just stepped out of bed
But as people judge by looks,
then look and see
As the besuited man,
the smart man,
the well dressed man.
Is visibly me
Can't you see?
The cloth turns aside arrows.
The pinstripes protect me.
Let others their worn denim or corduroy prescribe
I am happy when in a suit I am spied
Something that fits- and fits me best
I am not happy in a string vest
Clothing you can wear anywhere
For which few doors are barred
A besuited man is a suitable man at large
Maybe as all formality is dead
Maybe fashion says I should look like,
I just stepped out of bed
But as people judge by looks,
then look and see
As the besuited man,
the smart man,
the well dressed man.
Is visibly me
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Bad Advice - What Real Men Do
The things that people expect Real men to do
- Get Drunk At Any given opportunity - if you don't get utterly leg less you are not a real man
- Ogle at any passing female who is even slightly attractive. Irrespective of context, time, place. E.g. Doctors, policewoman. Real men have a huge sex drive
- Eat the hottest curry possible. Real men can take the pain; the meal is an opportunity to look hard not eat nice food.
- Violence or threats of violence are always a solution. Even if he is twice your size and you are more the shape of the Michelin man than he-man, act as if you are as good as Andy McNab in a fight situation.
- You are a rule breaker. Act like a career criminal. Even if you have never even got a parking ticket, Real men have their own rules. Laws are for other people, etc
- Spend lots of money. You are well off. Obviously not super rich, your are no toff, you work, but Real Men hare largess.
- Worship football. In fact all sport, no matter how obscure you must know about if not have tried your hand at semi-pro or retired due to injury. Badminton, show jumping and tennis do not count. Horse racing just about.
- Drive too fast, in a very big car. Even if you live near work, and have no family, a huge saloon is required. Hatch backs and people carriers are a no-no. Estates not good. Four-by-four is ok as long as it is not a girlie RAV4 or similar
- Read a tabloid. Never a broadsheet. Certainly not a novel unless it is an Andy McNab or is something gritty or hard-boiled. Books on sport or war are good
- Military experience is very handy. Always claim some.
- Children should be called "ankle bitters" and generally ignored/bullied
- Women are "skirt" and generally ignored/ogled/bullied. Apart from mothers who are feared/worshipped
- Green vegetables, salad and fruit are for not for Real Men
- You are an island, a rock, a fortress and need no help from anyone. all men do this - especially if lost.
A Hot Dog Day
The sun turns the air to the consistency of treacle.
Basking in the sun are the teeming people.
Swarming on any open space, like kicked over ants’ nests.
Women in bikinis, men down to their string vests.
Flesh already turning a bright cherry red.
And people eat outside, as if it were the med.
A Black Dog pants in a drought ridden tree’s shade.
And it is so bright that all the colours fade.
For a short, short time, it is sunny and warm.
And the only people unhappy, are those who tend lawns.
(ok written last summer)
Basking in the sun are the teeming people.
Swarming on any open space, like kicked over ants’ nests.
Women in bikinis, men down to their string vests.
Flesh already turning a bright cherry red.
And people eat outside, as if it were the med.
A Black Dog pants in a drought ridden tree’s shade.
And it is so bright that all the colours fade.
For a short, short time, it is sunny and warm.
And the only people unhappy, are those who tend lawns.
(ok written last summer)
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Pride In One's Work
Even I, a dyed in the wool lower-middle management clone, even I, cynical bitter and twisted as I am, even I, safe in the knowledge that what I do does not matter, try to do things properly.
Some of it is stubborn pig ignorance – some of it habit but mainly it is a perverse pride. Even if everyone else just cuts and pastes their reports from articles on wikipedia, even if most of the data they produce is meaningless garbage spilled out from some data base that bares no resemblance to reality, even if no one reads what I write and what I do is utter pointless, I will do it properly.
Maybe not well, or perfectly, but you will get what you asked for/need. Should some one need the last quarters results in a pie chart, and run down of the critical issues since the last meeting and the outstanding testing for a project done by Tuesday, they will get it.
Is it is partly my own insecurity –not in my job but emotionally – that I do not want to let people down. Partly that I am honest. I did sign a contract to do this and I will do this. And I think that is no bad thing.
So many other people do not seem to care if what they do is wrong, poor or faulty. The utterly selfishness, lack of pride in one’s work is breathtaking. Having visited hundreds of factories and workshops, and dealt with a great many builders, electricians, plumbers and roofers I am still amazed by how they treat their work.
Slap dash
Haphazard
Careless
Things don’t work, or are broken or so poorly done as to be nearly, but not quite useless.
So is this just a rant then?
Well no. I think it is cultural thing. I think the lack of respect, especially in the UK (note to Americans : its is the small selection of islands, off Europe, you use as an airbase) for trades people and anyone not in a suit and tie and “in charge” means that no one has any respect to what they do as "work" anymore
It is all about money. Ok the bad old days of “loadsamoney” is gone, but there is a hangover from it. Commercial gain and capital is all that matters.
No one reads History, or English Literature for the joy of it at University. They want jobs, so they study management and try and get on "Grad Schemes". And why wouldn't they? ho wants to get in 20 grand of debt studying Elizabethan culture and the rise of the Roman Empire, to then work in a call centre?
Doing a job well does not matter anymore. Even what it achieves does not matter. What matters is how much you are paid and how rich you are. Period.
Added to this that consequences of doign a job badly are nill (anyone know anybody fired for incompetence? Aside from big executives resigned after being caught defrauding the company, making a complete mess years running).
Doing it well, and being respected by your peers for it does not happen.
We judge success and happiness by the size of bank balance, house, car and flash clothes.
The Protestant Work ethic is dead.
The Fast Buck is how we are.
Some of it is stubborn pig ignorance – some of it habit but mainly it is a perverse pride. Even if everyone else just cuts and pastes their reports from articles on wikipedia, even if most of the data they produce is meaningless garbage spilled out from some data base that bares no resemblance to reality, even if no one reads what I write and what I do is utter pointless, I will do it properly.
Maybe not well, or perfectly, but you will get what you asked for/need. Should some one need the last quarters results in a pie chart, and run down of the critical issues since the last meeting and the outstanding testing for a project done by Tuesday, they will get it.
Is it is partly my own insecurity –not in my job but emotionally – that I do not want to let people down. Partly that I am honest. I did sign a contract to do this and I will do this. And I think that is no bad thing.
So many other people do not seem to care if what they do is wrong, poor or faulty. The utterly selfishness, lack of pride in one’s work is breathtaking. Having visited hundreds of factories and workshops, and dealt with a great many builders, electricians, plumbers and roofers I am still amazed by how they treat their work.
Slap dash
Haphazard
Careless
Things don’t work, or are broken or so poorly done as to be nearly, but not quite useless.
So is this just a rant then?
Well no. I think it is cultural thing. I think the lack of respect, especially in the UK (note to Americans : its is the small selection of islands, off Europe, you use as an airbase) for trades people and anyone not in a suit and tie and “in charge” means that no one has any respect to what they do as "work" anymore
It is all about money. Ok the bad old days of “loadsamoney” is gone, but there is a hangover from it. Commercial gain and capital is all that matters.
No one reads History, or English Literature for the joy of it at University. They want jobs, so they study management and try and get on "Grad Schemes". And why wouldn't they? ho wants to get in 20 grand of debt studying Elizabethan culture and the rise of the Roman Empire, to then work in a call centre?
Doing a job well does not matter anymore. Even what it achieves does not matter. What matters is how much you are paid and how rich you are. Period.
Added to this that consequences of doign a job badly are nill (anyone know anybody fired for incompetence? Aside from big executives resigned after being caught defrauding the company, making a complete mess years running).
Doing it well, and being respected by your peers for it does not happen.
We judge success and happiness by the size of bank balance, house, car and flash clothes.
The Protestant Work ethic is dead.
The Fast Buck is how we are.
A Boy Running
Arms and legs pumping
Head lolling
From side to side,
As he is running
No longer fast
Not with any speed
But he keeps moving
Filled with the need
To escape
To flee
To evade
Running on emotion
All energy spent
Tears mingling
With the sweat
Legs heavy
Lungs bursting for breath
A boy running
He hasn’t got there yet
25 May 2007
Head lolling
From side to side,
As he is running
No longer fast
Not with any speed
But he keeps moving
Filled with the need
To escape
To flee
To evade
Running on emotion
All energy spent
Tears mingling
With the sweat
Legs heavy
Lungs bursting for breath
A boy running
He hasn’t got there yet
25 May 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
The Difference is the Distance
The difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.
The difference between life and death is a breath.
The difference between happy and sad is a smile.
The distance between you and me is not a mile.
The end is the end, is the end in itself
The difference between left and right is only the side.
The difference between old and young is the length of the ride.
The difference between the start and the end is the time.
The distance between you and me is not on a sign.
The end is the end, is the end in itself
The difference between one and the other cannot always be seen.
The difference is, well, you know what I mean.
The difference is what you make it to be;
That is the difference and the distance between you and me.
The end is the end, is the end in itself
"Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad." - Euripides (480-406 B.C.)
The difference between life and death is a breath.
The difference between happy and sad is a smile.
The distance between you and me is not a mile.
The end is the end, is the end in itself
The difference between left and right is only the side.
The difference between old and young is the length of the ride.
The difference between the start and the end is the time.
The distance between you and me is not on a sign.
The end is the end, is the end in itself
The difference between one and the other cannot always be seen.
The difference is, well, you know what I mean.
The difference is what you make it to be;
That is the difference and the distance between you and me.
The end is the end, is the end in itself
"Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad." - Euripides (480-406 B.C.)
Friday, May 25, 2007
Another Day Begins
And another day begins.
And the alarm goes off so early that it is still dark, wailing away like a bereft and hurt child, before you can club it to silence.
And another day begins.
And you lay there in the dark, caught between the blissful unconsciousness and tired consciousness, between duty to get up and the desire, the deep need to sleep.
And another day begins.
And the alarm goes off again. You club it senseless again, and lie there, with an aching bladder and the foul taste in your mouth. You are awake.
And another day begins.
And the hot water isn’t on yet, and you cut yourself shaving and there are a pile of yesterdays bills among the detritus on the kitchen benches, and the milk is off and the toast is burnt and the kettle boils away to itself, un-notice un-loved and un-wanted.
And outside the rain slashes down and the trees read up to the sky with cold skeletal hands, begging for salvation
And people and buses, and cars and trains hustle and bustle by, sickening keen to start the day
And the cheery, buoyant and above all irritating radio presenters introduces another, sickening, cheery, buoyant, and above all irritating pop song, by another cheery, buoyant and above irritating pop star as you try to get you head straight before you brave your way to work, as;
Another day begins.
Just like all the others, with all the joy the light and life taken out of it.
Another day begins.
With always so much that has to be done, and so little that you want to do.
And another day begins.
To merge with the last, in a sea of grey, bland, memories.
And the alarm goes off so early that it is still dark, wailing away like a bereft and hurt child, before you can club it to silence.
And another day begins.
And you lay there in the dark, caught between the blissful unconsciousness and tired consciousness, between duty to get up and the desire, the deep need to sleep.
And another day begins.
And the alarm goes off again. You club it senseless again, and lie there, with an aching bladder and the foul taste in your mouth. You are awake.
And another day begins.
And the hot water isn’t on yet, and you cut yourself shaving and there are a pile of yesterdays bills among the detritus on the kitchen benches, and the milk is off and the toast is burnt and the kettle boils away to itself, un-notice un-loved and un-wanted.
And outside the rain slashes down and the trees read up to the sky with cold skeletal hands, begging for salvation
And people and buses, and cars and trains hustle and bustle by, sickening keen to start the day
And the cheery, buoyant and above all irritating radio presenters introduces another, sickening, cheery, buoyant, and above all irritating pop song, by another cheery, buoyant and above irritating pop star as you try to get you head straight before you brave your way to work, as;
Another day begins.
Just like all the others, with all the joy the light and life taken out of it.
Another day begins.
With always so much that has to be done, and so little that you want to do.
And another day begins.
To merge with the last, in a sea of grey, bland, memories.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Sparrow’s Flight
Out of the darkness,
into the light.
The sparrow’s flight,
takes it
From the cold stormy night,
into the warmth, the heart’s delight.
Suddenly.
Weaving, darting, through the rafters,
full of life and joy and laughter,
the little bird flies.
It sings, it sings,
high and clear.
So all around can hear,
the melody of its song.
But all too soon it is gone.
Even as the song’s echo, lingers on.
The bird flies in by a window and out again.
From the dark night and back again.
Within our reason, and beyond our ken.
A few wing beats, a swift flight.
A short burst of song.
For my grandmother, Gwen (1922 – 2007)
into the light.
The sparrow’s flight,
takes it
From the cold stormy night,
into the warmth, the heart’s delight.
Suddenly.
Weaving, darting, through the rafters,
full of life and joy and laughter,
the little bird flies.
It sings, it sings,
high and clear.
So all around can hear,
the melody of its song.
But all too soon it is gone.
Even as the song’s echo, lingers on.
The bird flies in by a window and out again.
From the dark night and back again.
Within our reason, and beyond our ken.
A few wing beats, a swift flight.
A short burst of song.
For my grandmother, Gwen (1922 – 2007)
Friday, January 26, 2007
The problem with writing poetry in the dark, is that it is like life.
You can only guess at what mark you are making and whether it makes any sense. And even when you are finished you probably cannot see the whole thing.
Like life, you grope for meaning and to create something. But you cannot see what you are doing.
And should you actual see it - it probably is a big mess of condictions.
You can only guess at what mark you are making and whether it makes any sense. And even when you are finished you probably cannot see the whole thing.
Like life, you grope for meaning and to create something. But you cannot see what you are doing.
And should you actual see it - it probably is a big mess of condictions.
I write poetry in the dark
I write poetry in the dark, searching for meaning
not seeing, only feeling.
I grope in my enforced blindness for the words; the meaning; for a truth.
I write poetry in the dark, sober or drunk it is a blessing
My fingers or pen connects to the back of my brain and the words and the emotions pour out. A dark, polluted river of thoughts from my soul.
Free from me, unleashed and no longer dammed, contained, constrained.
I write poetry in the dark, a glimmer of light in the nothingness.
The last glowering, glowing embers from my mind and my will.
Battling sleep and fear and worry and necessity;
chiseling out the only time I can.
To be me
I write poetry in the dark, so I am me
for a few stolen minutes
I am me
for a few precious, stolen minutes
I am me
Before sleep takes me
11/01/07
not seeing, only feeling.
I grope in my enforced blindness for the words; the meaning; for a truth.
I write poetry in the dark, sober or drunk it is a blessing
My fingers or pen connects to the back of my brain and the words and the emotions pour out. A dark, polluted river of thoughts from my soul.
Free from me, unleashed and no longer dammed, contained, constrained.
I write poetry in the dark, a glimmer of light in the nothingness.
The last glowering, glowing embers from my mind and my will.
Battling sleep and fear and worry and necessity;
chiseling out the only time I can.
To be me
I write poetry in the dark, so I am me
for a few stolen minutes
I am me
for a few precious, stolen minutes
I am me
Before sleep takes me
11/01/07
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
An Autumn Walk
From high above in the broken sky
I hear the crow’s harsh guttural cry
Does he call to me, far below?
Or to someone I do not know?
His voice, raucous and coarse, carries on the cold air
I turn my head, looking here and there
But the caller I cannot see
Even if he were calling to me.
What does he say, with his throaty cry?
What does he say and why?
Is it to warn of cold winter looming?
Is it to warn of fleet footed time passing?
Is it to warn of the day and the years growing ever short?
Of life and work becoming ever more fraught?
That we will all soon pass away?
And that our struggles and woes will, with us fade one day?
And the golden and red leaves whisper in the wind.
And the sun plays hide and seek in the clouds
And the morning, idly, turns into the afternoon
I hear the crow’s harsh guttural cry
Does he call to me, far below?
Or to someone I do not know?
His voice, raucous and coarse, carries on the cold air
I turn my head, looking here and there
But the caller I cannot see
Even if he were calling to me.
What does he say, with his throaty cry?
What does he say and why?
Is it to warn of cold winter looming?
Is it to warn of fleet footed time passing?
Is it to warn of the day and the years growing ever short?
Of life and work becoming ever more fraught?
That we will all soon pass away?
And that our struggles and woes will, with us fade one day?
And the golden and red leaves whisper in the wind.
And the sun plays hide and seek in the clouds
And the morning, idly, turns into the afternoon
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Spending Time
We spend our time;
Heedlessly,
Recklessly,
Wantonly
And extravagantly
Not until we have spent nearly all of it.
Nearly last every precious drop.
Do we know its true worth.
We spend our time as if we have endless credit
But when we finally receive the bill of want we have spent,
Then we see
That it is all on trivia and fripperies
Heedlessly,
Recklessly,
Wantonly
And extravagantly
Not until we have spent nearly all of it.
Nearly last every precious drop.
Do we know its true worth.
We spend our time as if we have endless credit
But when we finally receive the bill of want we have spent,
Then we see
That it is all on trivia and fripperies
Not Going Well
It may not seem, or possible it does, that I am a wage slave, grinded down every day by hard labour at the coal face of corporate life.
Sadly I am.
It gobbles up time, like a starving dog with a plate of prime steak, leaving me we scant seconds "to stand and stare" let alone attend to minor things like shopping and cooking.
I use to work around 60 hours a week (ish). Not counting the time spent in traffic jams (note to town planners, how to get people out of cars. Offer an alternative that works. Why would I want to spend more money to sit in the same traffic jam in a dirty cold bus? Why build vast housing estates miles from places of work? And not near any shops. Town lack of planning really.)
Now it is around 40 hours. I found that doing my job, doing it poorly, or well makes no real difference. As long as do not actual defraud the company or physically assault someone, then I have a job.
Sadly though, work is what we are. It defines us, gives our lives structure and purpose. Yes you can have a wild social life and great friends and family, but first question you get asked on meeting someone "what do you do?". If your answer requires an explanation you have, what I call, a pretend job.
If you like me, you are one of those middle management clones, who shuffle paper and now electronic mail from one place to the other, taking up air, space, money and time and actually doing nothing remotely helpful in the main. Or, possibly, doing a job that if the company in question had employed half decent management would not need doing. Like HR. They use to do the admin for employment - now they do the interviews, the discipline the training. Surely a boss should know who they need to do what? If they are any good? Similarly Quality Management. They write processes on how to do things then check to see if people follow them. So why doesn’t the boss decide how to do things and then see that his staff do it?
Pretend Jobs. Not real, like a Doctor or a Farmer, or a Builder. We make nothing. We create nothing, we only exist because the leaders are so colossally stupid, or too busy going on jollies to see Man U play or racing at Ascot.
And we have to spend hours and hours in air conditioned glass houses, in places like Slough industrial estate, pretending what we do matters.
As you can see the play isn't going well...
Sadly I am.
It gobbles up time, like a starving dog with a plate of prime steak, leaving me we scant seconds "to stand and stare" let alone attend to minor things like shopping and cooking.
I use to work around 60 hours a week (ish). Not counting the time spent in traffic jams (note to town planners, how to get people out of cars. Offer an alternative that works. Why would I want to spend more money to sit in the same traffic jam in a dirty cold bus? Why build vast housing estates miles from places of work? And not near any shops. Town lack of planning really.)
Now it is around 40 hours. I found that doing my job, doing it poorly, or well makes no real difference. As long as do not actual defraud the company or physically assault someone, then I have a job.
Sadly though, work is what we are. It defines us, gives our lives structure and purpose. Yes you can have a wild social life and great friends and family, but first question you get asked on meeting someone "what do you do?". If your answer requires an explanation you have, what I call, a pretend job.
If you like me, you are one of those middle management clones, who shuffle paper and now electronic mail from one place to the other, taking up air, space, money and time and actually doing nothing remotely helpful in the main. Or, possibly, doing a job that if the company in question had employed half decent management would not need doing. Like HR. They use to do the admin for employment - now they do the interviews, the discipline the training. Surely a boss should know who they need to do what? If they are any good? Similarly Quality Management. They write processes on how to do things then check to see if people follow them. So why doesn’t the boss decide how to do things and then see that his staff do it?
Pretend Jobs. Not real, like a Doctor or a Farmer, or a Builder. We make nothing. We create nothing, we only exist because the leaders are so colossally stupid, or too busy going on jollies to see Man U play or racing at Ascot.
And we have to spend hours and hours in air conditioned glass houses, in places like Slough industrial estate, pretending what we do matters.
As you can see the play isn't going well...
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Sorry someone has asked me to write a play (well they had a idea they thought somebody should write a play about and said I'd have a go) and this is taking up my creative juices.
That and all those boring things like work and such like, taking my time up.
Normal service resumed shortly - when I have determined what normal actually is.
That and all those boring things like work and such like, taking my time up.
Normal service resumed shortly - when I have determined what normal actually is.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Literally Mindedness
On a grave stone “Not Resting but Sleeping.”
Cannot think why, if this was really the case, why they all objected so much to my opening up the tomb to get them out. I mean who wants to sleep in a tomb? – and they had been there since 1892, so surely time to get up and about a bit?
“Glad to be of Service”
Highly unlikely- more likely you are fawning to get a tip.
“Have a Nice day”
Surely that is my prerogative if I do or do not have a nice day?
“Alright?” or “how are you?”
As you don’t really care or want to know why ask? Please, don’t bother. Just get on and ask what you wanted to ask which will probably involve me parting with money/time/both for no discernable benefit to myself.
“Can you help me?”
I don’t know – what do you need? Sorry, general people in distress or need I will help if I can but saying “can you help me?” and waiting for me to say yes or no is very loaded. No makes me feel like a heel and you feel low, even if I am in a hurry, late etc. If I say yes and then you ask the way to somewhere which I invariable do not know it has wasted all our time. Why not say “Can you help me? I need….” Other wise I am trying to guess what you need want and my imagination is over active and I worry it may be that you need a kidney or £10.50 to get Shepton Mallet tonight because your brother’s dog sick or you want just one more person to join your branch of the Holy Saint Bartholomew New Refrom Church to get your own pew cushion. Help me out here.
“Eyes bigger than your stomach”
Making personal remarks about someone’s appearance is meant to put them off eating? And if this was really the case they should eat more as they would be very thin.
“Extreme….”
Usually isn’t extreme.
Extreme makeover is actual remodelling – it is not a makeover and a make over is a makeover. Knocking walls is not a makeover that is rebuilding. And it is not extreme – it is called building a house.
Extreme Sports. Are not sports, as there is little in the way of competition as no one else is stupid enough to carry out the highly dangerous activity.
The exception is of course Extreme housework. Doing the iron in three foot of ragging torrent of water, is an extreme way of getting out of doing it on a regular basis.
“It will just take five minutes”
It will never just take five minutes. Face it will take ten, if not fifteen. And I will get hot, sweaty and probably get some rip/stain on my clothing doing it. It is a lie.
“Can I have a word?”
No, but you can have a brief chat. This is not the Archers, but real life. Try and use real sentences please.
“I was wondering…”
Means it is already booked and done and I will have to do it, but now having done this, you feel guilty about not consulting so you will ask me about it. If you disagree will cause massive argument/stress period. This is a typical boss/girlfriend trick. Agree for you to do something with out you knowing about it.
Cannot think why, if this was really the case, why they all objected so much to my opening up the tomb to get them out. I mean who wants to sleep in a tomb? – and they had been there since 1892, so surely time to get up and about a bit?
“Glad to be of Service”
Highly unlikely- more likely you are fawning to get a tip.
“Have a Nice day”
Surely that is my prerogative if I do or do not have a nice day?
“Alright?” or “how are you?”
As you don’t really care or want to know why ask? Please, don’t bother. Just get on and ask what you wanted to ask which will probably involve me parting with money/time/both for no discernable benefit to myself.
“Can you help me?”
I don’t know – what do you need? Sorry, general people in distress or need I will help if I can but saying “can you help me?” and waiting for me to say yes or no is very loaded. No makes me feel like a heel and you feel low, even if I am in a hurry, late etc. If I say yes and then you ask the way to somewhere which I invariable do not know it has wasted all our time. Why not say “Can you help me? I need….” Other wise I am trying to guess what you need want and my imagination is over active and I worry it may be that you need a kidney or £10.50 to get Shepton Mallet tonight because your brother’s dog sick or you want just one more person to join your branch of the Holy Saint Bartholomew New Refrom Church to get your own pew cushion. Help me out here.
“Eyes bigger than your stomach”
Making personal remarks about someone’s appearance is meant to put them off eating? And if this was really the case they should eat more as they would be very thin.
“Extreme….”
Usually isn’t extreme.
Extreme makeover is actual remodelling – it is not a makeover and a make over is a makeover. Knocking walls is not a makeover that is rebuilding. And it is not extreme – it is called building a house.
Extreme Sports. Are not sports, as there is little in the way of competition as no one else is stupid enough to carry out the highly dangerous activity.
The exception is of course Extreme housework. Doing the iron in three foot of ragging torrent of water, is an extreme way of getting out of doing it on a regular basis.
“It will just take five minutes”
It will never just take five minutes. Face it will take ten, if not fifteen. And I will get hot, sweaty and probably get some rip/stain on my clothing doing it. It is a lie.
“Can I have a word?”
No, but you can have a brief chat. This is not the Archers, but real life. Try and use real sentences please.
“I was wondering…”
Means it is already booked and done and I will have to do it, but now having done this, you feel guilty about not consulting so you will ask me about it. If you disagree will cause massive argument/stress period. This is a typical boss/girlfriend trick. Agree for you to do something with out you knowing about it.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The Men's Toilet
Okay not a pleasant subject – that is rather the point. Why is it that people – especially people who are supposedly maintaining public facilities think that it is acceptable if men’s toilets are not cleaned?
I mean it is not like it is any particular toilet. From two-bit cafes to gleaming corporate headquarters they are always a mess. Wet floors, multiply non-functioning soap dispensers, no paper towels, toilet bowls last cleaned in 1987, urinals full of chewing gum, the list is endless. Is it because they assume men like things messy? Or is it because men don’t complain?
Decor
Decor nonwithstand, there is ingrain dirt. Nobody, ever, cleans men’s toilets properly. Usually decor is white or white and brown tiles, with chrome taps.
Occasionally, you will come across the “trendy” bathrooms, which have frosted glass doors to cubicles and polished steel trays full of pebbles as sinks. They may also go all continental and have holes in the floor to crap in. Urinals will be steel plates on the wall with a grilled over gutter under your feet so you can see what you’ve passed flowing beneath you. This will be filthy too, but with the added disadvantage of being so trendy as to be unusable.
Urinals
Usual there is an unidentified puddle beneath them, that looks just shallow enough that you can stand in it safely but in fact is just deep enough to seep into your shoes. You try and convince yourself that it is water from the flush pipe, but it probably isn’t. Somebody usual has urinated all over the floor and wall or the urinal is blocked by accumulated chewing gum and it overflows – often just at the point of no return when you are urinating, forcing you to jump back, urinating all over the floor.
See above for the the trendy places.
Toilet Bowls
Somebody has always been there first and made a mess of it. Even if you enter with the cleaner coming out, it is beyond hope.
Cigarette burns in plastic seats seem the favourite. And 50% of the time it is obviously somebody who has been on a week-long curry n’ real ale festival was in there ten minutes ago. Often they have forgotten to flush.
Toilet Paper
Check before you start, as it will not be out, but will have only two and a half sheets length left of single ply of the cheap stuff. That or it is reams of the tracing paper you thought only schools used, that is more likely to cut than to wipe.
You may try and get some paper towels if the toilet paper has run out.
Paper towels
There will be a dispenser. It will be bust, or nobody can be bothered to load it, so the paper towel or roll is left on top of it. Hence, the towels are scattered all over the place, and those that are not are sodden from people with wet hands trying to pick them up.
Taps and Sinks
The sinks are always small and have no plug. There will be two taps – mixers are for sissies. So you have a choice: if there is any hot water at all, scold your hand off or getting it so cold that you spend hours afterwards trying to get feeling back in it.
You may find a separate hot water heater with a third tap, for hot water, this will not work at all, or deliver a tiny dribble of water that will be icy, just until your about to give up, then will go blister hot for just long enough to burn you.
Soap
If there is any at all it will of an odd colour originally but is now ingrain with dirt and grim as to be mainly black. There may be dispensers on the walls, but usually they will be empty, or contain some pink stuff that is supposedly soap but is stuff that just sticks to your hands and does not come off. If you dry your hands with the paper towels, bits of it will stick to hands for hours.
Occasionally there will be pump action soap dispensers. When you try and work them, they will always not work for two pumps, then will suddenly spurt out at an odd angle all over your arm. Again this stuff will not come off.
Hand Dryers
These are automatic hand chapping devices. To get them to work properly will always require twice as much time as it would take to just shake them repeatedly outside the window. The timer on button press ones will require you to press the button twice, wetting your hands all over hand on the wet button. Sensor ones, will need you to hold your hands so close to the nozzle without moving, that one small part of your hand will burn and the rest remain wet.
Okay not a pleasant subject – that is rather the point. Why is it that people – especially people who are supposedly maintaining public facilities think that it is acceptable if men’s toilets are not cleaned?
I mean it is not like it is any particular toilet. From two-bit cafes to gleaming corporate headquarters they are always a mess. Wet floors, multiply non-functioning soap dispensers, no paper towels, toilet bowls last cleaned in 1987, urinals full of chewing gum, the list is endless. Is it because they assume men like things messy? Or is it because men don’t complain?
Decor
Decor nonwithstand, there is ingrain dirt. Nobody, ever, cleans men’s toilets properly. Usually decor is white or white and brown tiles, with chrome taps.
Occasionally, you will come across the “trendy” bathrooms, which have frosted glass doors to cubicles and polished steel trays full of pebbles as sinks. They may also go all continental and have holes in the floor to crap in. Urinals will be steel plates on the wall with a grilled over gutter under your feet so you can see what you’ve passed flowing beneath you. This will be filthy too, but with the added disadvantage of being so trendy as to be unusable.
Urinals
Usual there is an unidentified puddle beneath them, that looks just shallow enough that you can stand in it safely but in fact is just deep enough to seep into your shoes. You try and convince yourself that it is water from the flush pipe, but it probably isn’t. Somebody usual has urinated all over the floor and wall or the urinal is blocked by accumulated chewing gum and it overflows – often just at the point of no return when you are urinating, forcing you to jump back, urinating all over the floor.
See above for the the trendy places.
Toilet Bowls
Somebody has always been there first and made a mess of it. Even if you enter with the cleaner coming out, it is beyond hope.
Cigarette burns in plastic seats seem the favourite. And 50% of the time it is obviously somebody who has been on a week-long curry n’ real ale festival was in there ten minutes ago. Often they have forgotten to flush.
Toilet Paper
Check before you start, as it will not be out, but will have only two and a half sheets length left of single ply of the cheap stuff. That or it is reams of the tracing paper you thought only schools used, that is more likely to cut than to wipe.
You may try and get some paper towels if the toilet paper has run out.
Paper towels
There will be a dispenser. It will be bust, or nobody can be bothered to load it, so the paper towel or roll is left on top of it. Hence, the towels are scattered all over the place, and those that are not are sodden from people with wet hands trying to pick them up.
Taps and Sinks
The sinks are always small and have no plug. There will be two taps – mixers are for sissies. So you have a choice: if there is any hot water at all, scold your hand off or getting it so cold that you spend hours afterwards trying to get feeling back in it.
You may find a separate hot water heater with a third tap, for hot water, this will not work at all, or deliver a tiny dribble of water that will be icy, just until your about to give up, then will go blister hot for just long enough to burn you.
Soap
If there is any at all it will of an odd colour originally but is now ingrain with dirt and grim as to be mainly black. There may be dispensers on the walls, but usually they will be empty, or contain some pink stuff that is supposedly soap but is stuff that just sticks to your hands and does not come off. If you dry your hands with the paper towels, bits of it will stick to hands for hours.
Occasionally there will be pump action soap dispensers. When you try and work them, they will always not work for two pumps, then will suddenly spurt out at an odd angle all over your arm. Again this stuff will not come off.
Hand Dryers
These are automatic hand chapping devices. To get them to work properly will always require twice as much time as it would take to just shake them repeatedly outside the window. The timer on button press ones will require you to press the button twice, wetting your hands all over hand on the wet button. Sensor ones, will need you to hold your hands so close to the nozzle without moving, that one small part of your hand will burn and the rest remain wet.
Monday, August 14, 2006
The Little Book of Just About Everything Else
Full of the knowledge and wisdom of the world - such as:
What you should have listen to your mother saying, but didn't
Instructions that make no sense
Really glib advice
Criticisms that work for anyone.
"You want to have you cake and eat it..." Well obviously. You would not wish to eat someone else's cake now, would you? That would be theft.
What you should have listen to your mother saying, but didn't
Instructions that make no sense
Really glib advice
Criticisms that work for anyone.
"You want to have you cake and eat it..." Well obviously. You would not wish to eat someone else's cake now, would you? That would be theft.
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