I have just learned through the “Rumour Mill” that women are allowed to propose to men on the 29th of February. No doubt men all over the country are sitting in a cold sweat and trying to hide from significant others and crazy randoms.
I took the opportunity to look into this one further and it would appear that the carnage does not stop there. That’s right! Apparently this hair-brained tradition doesn’t extend quite as far as the woman buying the engagement ring. Nor would it surprise me in the slightest if the whole idea was created by a woman. After all the terms of the contract seem to be very much in the woman’s favour.
If any women are thinking of proposing to their other halves, I would like you to take a moment to contemplate the folly of such actions. If your boyfriend/casual sex partner had wanted to get married he would have asked by now. At best he might just turn you down blankly, but at worst if he says yes, then you can look forward to spending the next forty years in abject misery, unless of course he finally decides one day that he has had enough and just wills himself to death.
This is a dangerous day indeed. A day that is by its very nature too open for abuse, from spinsters and lady-stalkers. Men quite frequently say “yes” as a cover for having not been listening to the conversation in the first place and there is no guarantee that they will have picked up on the marriage thing until the “big day”. I can only imagine that it must feel like being sold into “sex-slavery”, only without the sex and a little less freedom.
As it stands, I have been press-ganged into dinner this evening and I am starting to get more than a little nervous at the prospect of the whole ordeal. So, if you haven’t heard from me within the next month or so, you’ll know that it didn’t go well.
Friday 29 February 2008
Monday 25 February 2008
Valentines Day! Decadent Industries and Financial Molestation!
Thank fuck! Valentines Day is finally over and done with. All I can say right now is that it is quite possibly the biggest swindle to have been unleashed on the human race and should be abandoned forthwith.
Now that I can look back retrospectively on the carnage and misery of the event, I can right it off as a day when greedy self-centred girlfriends, levy all types of outlandish demands in the name of “love”.
I am starting to get the feeling that this blog entry may be just a little unjustified, on account of having a girlfriend who doesn’t pander to the hype that surrounds the day. With that said, I still can’t shake the feeling that my other half may just be stockpiling these minor indiscretions. At any rate, at least I have given her the only thing that is prized by women above any material possessions. Leverage, ammunition, call it what you may, but I have a funny feeling that the next time harsh words are exchanged in the heat of battle, it won’t be long before this little bombshell is dropped right back on my doorstep.
I and every other man in the world have very good reason to despise Valentines Day. Retailers are out to make an absolute killing and seem to manage to do so, with a mercenary disregard that would cause the toughest of men to shed a tear. I recently heard of a florist charging the extortionate price of £60 for 12 roses. I wouldn’t have a problem paying that sort of money, provided that the roses came wrapped in the “Shroud of Turin”. Of course, I only heard about this florist, because they were on the news, crying about how large supermarkets were stealing business from them by offering roses for the grand sum of £10. It doesn’t take a statistician to figure out what the gender breakdown of Tesco customers was that day.
For those of you that did get financially raped yesterday, the Valentines Day rules are really quite simple. However, in order to pull it off you will need to have the nerves and bravado of a “grifter”.
1. Firstly, obtain a gift that will ensure, a sleepless night on the sofa has been avoided, whilst parting with the lowest amount of money possible. (See the Tesco Roses).
2. Once this has been achieved the key to getting away with the crime, is to ensure that after the purchased article has been handed to the “mark”, trying not to look as though you spent a miserly quantity of cash on it.
3. Throw in a comment like “I hope you like them”, which will invariably put the other half onto the back foot and remove the opportunity for questioning.
4. And most importantly, make sure you get rid of the damn receipt. This might seem like and obvious schoolboy error, but most girlfriends use the receipts in a mans wallet like GPS. Armed with your receipts they can tell where you have been and what you did.
Finally, the beauty of this system, can be altered and adapted for almost every occasion, so use it wisely.
Now that I can look back retrospectively on the carnage and misery of the event, I can right it off as a day when greedy self-centred girlfriends, levy all types of outlandish demands in the name of “love”.
I am starting to get the feeling that this blog entry may be just a little unjustified, on account of having a girlfriend who doesn’t pander to the hype that surrounds the day. With that said, I still can’t shake the feeling that my other half may just be stockpiling these minor indiscretions. At any rate, at least I have given her the only thing that is prized by women above any material possessions. Leverage, ammunition, call it what you may, but I have a funny feeling that the next time harsh words are exchanged in the heat of battle, it won’t be long before this little bombshell is dropped right back on my doorstep.
I and every other man in the world have very good reason to despise Valentines Day. Retailers are out to make an absolute killing and seem to manage to do so, with a mercenary disregard that would cause the toughest of men to shed a tear. I recently heard of a florist charging the extortionate price of £60 for 12 roses. I wouldn’t have a problem paying that sort of money, provided that the roses came wrapped in the “Shroud of Turin”. Of course, I only heard about this florist, because they were on the news, crying about how large supermarkets were stealing business from them by offering roses for the grand sum of £10. It doesn’t take a statistician to figure out what the gender breakdown of Tesco customers was that day.
For those of you that did get financially raped yesterday, the Valentines Day rules are really quite simple. However, in order to pull it off you will need to have the nerves and bravado of a “grifter”.
1. Firstly, obtain a gift that will ensure, a sleepless night on the sofa has been avoided, whilst parting with the lowest amount of money possible. (See the Tesco Roses).
2. Once this has been achieved the key to getting away with the crime, is to ensure that after the purchased article has been handed to the “mark”, trying not to look as though you spent a miserly quantity of cash on it.
3. Throw in a comment like “I hope you like them”, which will invariably put the other half onto the back foot and remove the opportunity for questioning.
4. And most importantly, make sure you get rid of the damn receipt. This might seem like and obvious schoolboy error, but most girlfriends use the receipts in a mans wallet like GPS. Armed with your receipts they can tell where you have been and what you did.
Finally, the beauty of this system, can be altered and adapted for almost every occasion, so use it wisely.
Man dies in cake-eating contest!
You would be forgiven for thinking that I made that headline up, but you would be wrong. Yes! This did actually happen and I for one find it to be a more than terrifying way to go. I won’t lose any sleep over it, at least until the next time I happen to be invited to a party were I know that “fairy cakes” are going to be in circulation.
I think that we can all agree that this is a headline that you don’t see every day. Not least because I have to whole-heartedly agree with the club owner’s statement, which contains the line “…and should serve as a cautionary tale”. It will no doubt do just that, when parents wheel it out across the country, as a form of foreboding of the perils of gluttonous behavior at birthday parties. In fact now that I think about it, is it not a little insensitive to use reference to a form of fictional story, when consideration is given to the detail that the offending item or items were “fairy cakes”.
If the headline itself isn’t bad enough, clearly the first aiders at the event just weren’t thinking on their feet that particular evening. Everybody over the age of 10 knows that the only treatment for a chronic case of “fairy cake blockage” is 3 ½ gallons of orange squash, preferably administered using one of those crazy straws, which coincidently just don’t seem to be as big as they used to be.
I suppose the people who are going to suffer the most out of this are the ones that come to extend their condolences. I can just imagine it now.
“I'm sorry to hear about Barry, how did he die?”
Try keeping a straight face after getting the answer to that question. I’ll even bet your sitting with a smirk on your face just thinking about it.
As with a lot of funerals, people usually assemble back at a house for a cup of tea and a bun, but given the circumstances, I just can't see how tea and buns would be appropriate.
Anyway, just so you know that I am not making this up, check out the story for yourself by clicking the link below:
http://www.bebo.com/Link.jsp?Url=http%3A%2F%2Fnews.bbc.co.uk%2F1%2Fhi%2Fwales%2F7261888.stm
More updates will be posted as and when I think of something, until then that’s your lot.
I think that we can all agree that this is a headline that you don’t see every day. Not least because I have to whole-heartedly agree with the club owner’s statement, which contains the line “…and should serve as a cautionary tale”. It will no doubt do just that, when parents wheel it out across the country, as a form of foreboding of the perils of gluttonous behavior at birthday parties. In fact now that I think about it, is it not a little insensitive to use reference to a form of fictional story, when consideration is given to the detail that the offending item or items were “fairy cakes”.
If the headline itself isn’t bad enough, clearly the first aiders at the event just weren’t thinking on their feet that particular evening. Everybody over the age of 10 knows that the only treatment for a chronic case of “fairy cake blockage” is 3 ½ gallons of orange squash, preferably administered using one of those crazy straws, which coincidently just don’t seem to be as big as they used to be.
I suppose the people who are going to suffer the most out of this are the ones that come to extend their condolences. I can just imagine it now.
“I'm sorry to hear about Barry, how did he die?”
Try keeping a straight face after getting the answer to that question. I’ll even bet your sitting with a smirk on your face just thinking about it.
As with a lot of funerals, people usually assemble back at a house for a cup of tea and a bun, but given the circumstances, I just can't see how tea and buns would be appropriate.
Anyway, just so you know that I am not making this up, check out the story for yourself by clicking the link below:
http://www.bebo.com/Link.jsp?Url=http%3A%2F%2Fnews.bbc.co.uk%2F1%2Fhi%2Fwales%2F7261888.stm
More updates will be posted as and when I think of something, until then that’s your lot.
Ikea: Flat-pack hell for the masses!
So, the “ole lady” and me went to Ikea at the weekend. It should come with a bank manager’s health warning.
I had merely agreed to go to the aforementioned retail store, with the intention of spending about 50 or 60 bones. As you have probably already guessed, things went horribly wrong. As we walked round a grey path complete with arrows to ensure that you don’t get any ideas about breaking from the herd. The corral leads you round mocked up show rooms, which paint a vivid dream of how your home could look, just in case you had any plans of using some artistic license to decorate your home. From there you descend into the belly of the beast, where you are armed with a trolley, which might I add, won’t be long filling with a plethora of crap you could probably live without.
After walking for what seemed to be an eternity in itself, we finally reached the checkout. Looking back, I think I will be bringing a flag to plant at the checkout should I ever decided to return. It isn’t long before the £60 I had planned to spend, sees me walking away with a receipt for £150 and if you thought that the trauma of overshooting my budged is finally behind me you would be wrong. My skills of quantity surveying aren’t long in returning an answer that no taxi driver in Belfast is going to be prepared to load my newly acquired shit into their car. So we are press-ganged into making use of their delivery service, which according to Ikea will deliver the bulky items to our house for a “reasonable fee”.
Twenty-five fucking pounds!!! I must have missed the memo that decided £25 was reasonable! Anyway, rather than dwell on the effin £25 delivery fee, which if you haven’t realised yet, is not fuckin’ reasonable, I will begrudgingly move on to conclude this bleak little episode.
If anyone ever suggests going to Ikea again, I think I will just commit suicide instead. Although admittedly, I may need to look through the Ikea catalogue and buy a flat pack guillotine. At least I don’t have to worry about how I am going to get it home, because Ikea will deliver it for a “reasonable fee”.
I had merely agreed to go to the aforementioned retail store, with the intention of spending about 50 or 60 bones. As you have probably already guessed, things went horribly wrong. As we walked round a grey path complete with arrows to ensure that you don’t get any ideas about breaking from the herd. The corral leads you round mocked up show rooms, which paint a vivid dream of how your home could look, just in case you had any plans of using some artistic license to decorate your home. From there you descend into the belly of the beast, where you are armed with a trolley, which might I add, won’t be long filling with a plethora of crap you could probably live without.
After walking for what seemed to be an eternity in itself, we finally reached the checkout. Looking back, I think I will be bringing a flag to plant at the checkout should I ever decided to return. It isn’t long before the £60 I had planned to spend, sees me walking away with a receipt for £150 and if you thought that the trauma of overshooting my budged is finally behind me you would be wrong. My skills of quantity surveying aren’t long in returning an answer that no taxi driver in Belfast is going to be prepared to load my newly acquired shit into their car. So we are press-ganged into making use of their delivery service, which according to Ikea will deliver the bulky items to our house for a “reasonable fee”.
Twenty-five fucking pounds!!! I must have missed the memo that decided £25 was reasonable! Anyway, rather than dwell on the effin £25 delivery fee, which if you haven’t realised yet, is not fuckin’ reasonable, I will begrudgingly move on to conclude this bleak little episode.
If anyone ever suggests going to Ikea again, I think I will just commit suicide instead. Although admittedly, I may need to look through the Ikea catalogue and buy a flat pack guillotine. At least I don’t have to worry about how I am going to get it home, because Ikea will deliver it for a “reasonable fee”.
My House Hates Me, but at least there's lots of porn!
I think that it is high time I dropped another update into the Ye Ole Blogge. Just realised that it has been at least 255 days since I last vented some of the diatribe that increasingly seems to float around in that colossal blob of grey matter that I like to call a brain.
Currently moved to a new house over in Cregagh, which would be great except it is slowly turning into a bit of a Pandora’s Box.
We managed to get the keys on Wednesday afternoon, only to discover that there was no oil in the tank. Nothing to major you might think, but as it happens the boiler is locked out as well. So having arranged for the oil to be delivered today, I now have to get my old flat mate to call round to unlock the boiler. This might be something to bear in mind for the future. If you have to live with people, it isn’t a bad idea if they happen to work in the trades business.
In a frenzy of logical thinking, I decided that it would probably be a good idea if I bought another £20 worth of electric, which would keep us going for a good chunk of February. Then we discovered issue number two. The stupid keypad that you use to load the code into has decided that my original idea was crap, and as such is refusing point blank to accept anymore credit. This merely leads me to believe that the credit keypad is now harbouring some sort of vendetta against me and would much rather that the Polish people who lived there before me came back. What the keypad doesn’t know, is that I am onto it. It has been trying to fool me by displaying the message “Wrong Tar”, which according to the leaflet that comes with the meter talks about entering a different code. However, I think it is displaying secret messages that can only be read by turning the display screen upside-down, and looking up a result in the Polish-English dictionary. Wee bastard will be laughing on the other side of it’s hash key by the time I’m done with it.
The house might have it’s problems, but it isn’t all bad. It is pretty well decorated and while rummaging around in the hot-press last night, I found a load of “Over 40’s porno”. So I might spend tonight sitting in a bollock-freezing house, but at least I won’t be short of reading material.
I’m gonna wrap this up now, but only because I don’t think that my company pay me for producing blog updates, even if the notion of such a job is quite appealing.
Catch you all later…
Currently moved to a new house over in Cregagh, which would be great except it is slowly turning into a bit of a Pandora’s Box.
We managed to get the keys on Wednesday afternoon, only to discover that there was no oil in the tank. Nothing to major you might think, but as it happens the boiler is locked out as well. So having arranged for the oil to be delivered today, I now have to get my old flat mate to call round to unlock the boiler. This might be something to bear in mind for the future. If you have to live with people, it isn’t a bad idea if they happen to work in the trades business.
In a frenzy of logical thinking, I decided that it would probably be a good idea if I bought another £20 worth of electric, which would keep us going for a good chunk of February. Then we discovered issue number two. The stupid keypad that you use to load the code into has decided that my original idea was crap, and as such is refusing point blank to accept anymore credit. This merely leads me to believe that the credit keypad is now harbouring some sort of vendetta against me and would much rather that the Polish people who lived there before me came back. What the keypad doesn’t know, is that I am onto it. It has been trying to fool me by displaying the message “Wrong Tar”, which according to the leaflet that comes with the meter talks about entering a different code. However, I think it is displaying secret messages that can only be read by turning the display screen upside-down, and looking up a result in the Polish-English dictionary. Wee bastard will be laughing on the other side of it’s hash key by the time I’m done with it.
The house might have it’s problems, but it isn’t all bad. It is pretty well decorated and while rummaging around in the hot-press last night, I found a load of “Over 40’s porno”. So I might spend tonight sitting in a bollock-freezing house, but at least I won’t be short of reading material.
I’m gonna wrap this up now, but only because I don’t think that my company pay me for producing blog updates, even if the notion of such a job is quite appealing.
Catch you all later…
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