All posts by Brian

Blue waffle

I cannot deny that the internet is a marvellous creation filled with many wondrous things. Stocked to the brim with joyful bundles of cute kittens, online shopping and naked celebrities aplenty. It is inarguable that the world is a better place for the instant access of information, film showing times and ‘free’ music.

None of these life-enhancing features change the fact that the internet is annoying as fuck.

Take Google, without doubt the single most-visited site on the internet. You pop along for a daily search, but unless you’re searching for something huge (Amazon, BBC News or midget-porn), or you have a very specific search term, then you’re likely to end up with a load of shit. Searching ‘holiday’ returns 85,300,000 results. In theory this means there’s a holiday-related website for every 85 people on the planet.

The reality is that the internet is getting too full. In fairness, not all of those millions of results will be relevant; in fact I’d argue 85,299,990 are irrelevant as the majority of people never look past the first page of results anyway. But stuff gets put on the internet every day, and rarely gets taken off. The whole thing needs cleaning up – not a job I’m volunteering for (unless it pays well) but it will have to be done at some point so why not get on top of it now?

Let’s have another little sideswipe at Google. Those fuckers play around in their ball pool meeting rooms and snooze away having wet dreams in their sleep pods, all the while representing a liberal and ‘for the greater good’ ethos, but behind the scenes they’re just as capitalist as your evil Microsofts and PC Worlds.

Case in point are the sponsored search results which appear at the top of your search in an eye-catching yellow box. Some company has paid for that, probably handsomely depending on how common the search term is. I can live with that, money makes the world go around, but most of the time it’s fucking useless and doesn’t take you where you want to be.

I recently found out that they often pay for these adverts per click, so now I click the shit out of one whenever I see it. What’s that? I’ve searched for pictures of the Eiffel Tower and Argos is the top link…CLICK CLICK FUCKING CLICK. I go back and forth a few times clicking away, laughing at myself maniacally in the knowledge I’m wasting their money like a bored evil villain in training.

And what’s the deal with cookie tailored advertising? Just because the wife did a search for the NSPCC six months ago on the same IP address doesn’t mean I need to see some sad kid’s face whilst I’m searching for the latest celebrity phone hack. It’s a serious buzzkill.

Great in theory, the internet. Fucked in practice. The next time you’re at a dinner party and some smug bastard called Gerald mentions what a testament to the achievements of modern man the internet is, just tell him to Google ‘blue waffle’.

Jewellery, drugs and homemade destruction derbies

I am a bitter person, I acknowledge that. But very little pisses me off as much as lottery winners.

The truth is that you’ve got more chance of a handjob from Pippa Middleton. Nowadays you put your £2 on at 13,983,816 to 1 and come away with £4m. That’s why not many bookies or mathematicians play the lotto. I don’t mind people winning the lottery, though I will admit there is a little twinge of jealousy when Wayne and Waynetta Slob match six of the smugly colourful fuckers we call ‘the winning balls’.

Still, fair play to people who still put up the cash despite the odds. My real problem is the wankers who go public about their win. The ones you see in on page 6 of The Mirror with a bottle of Champagne that some reporter has pushed into their face. At least have the fucking common decency not to remind the rest of us how poor we are.

Lottery winners who’ve gone public throughout the decades have always interested me, as a self-confessed people watcher, not in the voyeuristic, dogging kind of way, honest. Through all of my memories and even a little research most of the winners who went public seem to have one thing in common – they all appear to be absolute dickheads.

They’re a wide group of people from all walks of life. Take that media proclaimed ‘lotto lout’ Mike Carroll, a fine specimen of a man. That guy won £10m at the age of 19 and managed to blow it all on jewellery, drugs and homemade destruction derbies, and he now has less money than Greece. What about the guy who dumped his wife the week after he went public for some young bimbo?

The only thing worse than those who waste a small nation’s GDP are the other ones, the opposite of wasters, the very worst of the worst, the sub-human scum who say: “I’m not going to quit my job”. Those fuckers make my blood boil. Obviously they’re lying; why the fuck would anyone continue to clean shit-spattered toilets when they have a seven figure bank balance? They’re lying through their teeth and rubbing their win in everybody’s face. If I won millions I guarantee you I’d never work another minute of my life. The fact that they are even misguidedly considering it is like a big ‘fuck you’ to the millions of losers throughout the country.

Some of my research involved searching for reasons people have stated in their decisions to go public. Prepare yourself for this horse shit.

“The best thing about it is being able to meet other winners. Camelot organise parties every month around the country, and the other winners are like a support system. No-one else understands what it’s like.”

“Oh no, my normal friends aren’t rich enough for me and they don’t understand what it’s like to have so much money. I can’t associate with this riffraff any more; it’s bad enough that some of them shop at Waitrose.”

I could have handled these, I really could. I’ve managed to stifle the little ball of rage burning inside me for years. Then I heard something new a couple of months ago. An acquaintance of mine happened to engage in conversation with a lottery-winning couple who bagged a cheeky eight figure sum. Turns out this couple engage in a weekly ritual. You guessed it: they still play the fucking lottery! The greedy bastards think being multi-millionaires isn’t enough! What the hell is wrong with these people?

I don’t mind people winning the lottery; someone has to. I like to see money go to normal people, rather than the rich investing lots of money to make lots more money. I just don’t like seeing those smug bastards popping a Champagne cork in The Sun.

A man without a car

Until very recently I hadn’t been on public transport in about 10 years, probably not since I was a student. As a student I had to use trains and buses (oh the injustice, having to mingle with the similarly unwashed) but at that time I had no real concept of the code of public transport.  Well, after 10 pints of snakebite (a drop of blackcurrant juice is one of your 5 a day when you’re a student) you usually don’t understand the code of being human let alone some code of public transportation.

Fast-forward ten years and after working in sales (yes, I’m a wanker) and enjoying company cars for the majority of that time, I find myself without a car. Me? A man without a car? Bollocks.  Starting over again in my career resulted in me having to face facts, one of which was that I was going to have to use public transport – properly this time.

And there is most definitely a code when using public transport. Few people follow it as rigidly as they should. The code goes like this.

One: you turn up at the bus stop or the train station, whatever takes your fancy. Look around and gauge who is there before you. This will come in handy.

Two: the vehicle arrives. It doesn’t matter if the fucking thing stops right by you, rolls out the red carpet and you get piped aboard by the Royal British Legion Marching Band – let those that were before you get on first. You should know who these people are if you’ve taken note of point one of the code. You do this because it’s common, human decency. Do not goose-step past these people in order to get on the train/bus/tube before them. This is neither decent nor humane; it only tells all of the passengers entering the vehicle that you are, in fact, a wanker.

Three: you are on board your chosen mode of public transport. If you are using a mode of transport which allows you to see the human who is paid to be there (the driver of the bus for example), say “thank you” as you get on. Why? Because it is called showing some fucking manners you rude, ignorant pile of goat dung. The driver doesn’t want to be there; no-one grows up wanting to be a bus driver. They probably had dreams of being a sailor or a landscape gardener and here they are, carting about the feral, ignorant and mentally retarded. The least you can do, as a relatively sane member of the public, if you are one, is to say thanks.

Four: find a seat. What this doesn’t entail is walking up and down, stopping by every spare seat, before continuing your hunt for what I can only assume is some of automated masturbating chair.  All seats are created equal, unless you’re on Ryanair, so just pick one.

Five: if you find yourself in an aisle seat and the person on the inside of you needs to leave before you reach your destination, stand up. Don’t just swing your legs out into the aisle and expect them to squeeze past, even if it’s fucking Twiggy next to you ,and frankly you’ve more chance of sitting next to Shergar than her on public transport.

Six: you reach your destination. Let’s be honest, you know when it is. It’s announced before you reach it, you see others get off before you so you know roughly whereabouts you are on your journey and you may well even recognise the surrounding area. What does all this mean? It means get ready to leave before you reach your destination. Don’t get to your stop and then suddenly have a book, headphones, hand cream, makeup or anything else to pack away – it holds everyone up and is fucking infuriating.

These rules aren’t overly hard to follow. If someone who hasn’t been on public transport in a decade knows them, then you should too.  Read it, learn it and practice it so we don’t end up throwing ourselves and each other in front of the poor bastards ferrying us about the country.