The Foot Is Down! Praise the lord!

After a hard week slogging it out in that job we all know and hate, there is nothing that I like more than to sit at home on a Friday night with the sole objective of obliterating what once was a fine nation of brain-cells.

Not anymore! Well that’s what the girlfriend thinks anyway. She has decided that since she is devoid of flaws and imperfections, that she would be best turning the focus of her attention to me. What she hasn’t quite realised yet, is that this is going to be something of a laborious project. You see I think she is overlooking the small detail that I have more vices than Fred Dibnah’s tool shed. No doubt she will waste no time hunting them down one-by-one, like some sort of emotionally sadistic splinter cell of the Salvation Army. Stalking her prey before finally moving in for the kill.
I should probably step back from the edge of the resentment cliff, before somebody – namely me - says something that they later find themselves regretting.

I don’t mind not being able to drink on a Friday night in my own house, even if it is after a hard week in an unfulfilling job. But after last weekend I discovered a minor problem that I am confident is here to stay. For some inexplicable reason, I seem to have been singled out for a phantom hangover, which looks like it will pay me a visit every Saturday morning regardless of whether I have been drinking or not.
The only possible cause of these phantom hangovers is that my body has been stockpiling surplus “hangovae” for some years now. Sadly, I am merely required to have a quick reminiscence to the last time I had a cognitive memory; in order to realise that I have a considerable reservoir stowed away. Instantly the phrase:

“My God, my God, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?”

springs to mind. And it is all accompanied with harrowing images to help conjure up my own personalized version of hell to boot. With the pain and anguish brought about by the phantom hangover, I have decided to give my girlfriend what she wants and just hide alcohol around the house in a variety of cunning and devious locations. After all what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

Anyway, I’m off to build a “speak easy” in my bathroom, but in the meantime I’ll have to just stick to my copy of “The Good Book”.

NHS Sunday? Prepare to die of boredom!

I had the dubious honour of spending Sunday up in the Ulster Hospital. Don’t worry I’m fine; it was my “significant other” who was banjaxed. Or to phrase it in the terms of those of a sturdier disposition, she had a “dodgy finger”. In fairness to the girl, she had already been to the GP to have it looked at and was given antibiotics, which hadn’t worked. Naturally this played straight into the hands of her “hypocondrian sensibilities” and ensured that my Sunday afternoon was written off as a lost cause.

As a man, who is more than familiar with the present state of the NHS, I was already aware that a Sunday afternoon probably isn’t the best time to go the hospital. Sadly my girlfriend’s finger was on the brink of falling off – or at least that what she indicated was due to happen – so I was unable to persuade her, that perhaps going in the middle of the week, would be a slightly more opportune time.

Since I was destined to end up in a hospital, I figured that “the Ulster” was less likely to be filled with the usual plethora of Saturday night casualties. As it happened my instincts were bang on the money, and the expectant scene of carnage didn’t materialise. My first thought was that we could possibly be sitting in the U.K.’s only utopian NHS hospital; but as it happened and in traditional NHS fashion, they managed to ensure that the stereotype was rigidly maintained.

As would be expected, the waiting area is a no smoking zone, which to my mind is ridiculous as a hospital waiting area is possibly the best place to suffer from a smoking related malfunction. Naturally, as we already know, times have changed and we just have to roll with the punches. All that is, with the acceptance of the hospital staff, who according to the many large posters now lining the walls of the waiting area, are exempt from being punched.
Naturally, it is easy to see the reasoning behind this and when you have only been sitting there for roughly 30 minutes you are inclined to agree with the sentiment. However, after the 3-hour mark, you quickly find yourself switching sides in the “war on NHS violence” and begin looking for somebody to strike.
Perhaps the answer to this scourge - which apparently is a blight on the NHS - would be to start treating patients within a reasonable time frame and not leave them like lost souls in a perpetual state of purgatory.

Anyway, after about 3½ hours, two doctors and an X-ray, we were told that it was a mild tissue infection, and promptly dispatched back onto the street with a little tube of magic cream. I can only hope it works, because I really can’t face another Sunday as provided by an NHS waiting room.

The Sushi Train of pain!

Well, as previously stated, I was sworn to go for Sushi on Friday night. And as a man of my word, we went for sushi. There are a couple of problems that I have with sushi. Firstly as much as I like the taste of fish, I don’t particularly like the smell of it. And secondly, I am a man who likes carbohydrates by the barrel load. I should probably point out that it was the first time that I have eaten sushi and to be honest, it doesn’t taste too bad. However, the atmosphere of the place has ensured, that I came away with psychological sushi scars that may not heal for some time.

Rather than that typical restaurant feeling that we all know and love, you kind of get a feeling more equated to having dinner in the luggage lounge in Heathrow Airport. Instead of suitcases, you are confronted by little plates of food travelling aimlessly round a conveyor belt, which could have been there for any undetermined period of time. Come to think of it, that isn't like Heathrow at all. The plates of food would have to be cracked open and the contents stolen to be like any airport luggage lounge.
It would be better described as a lottery, only you really wouldn’t want to be the winner. If the lottery aspect isn’t enough of a deterrent there is also the small issue of mental arithmetic exam that you are required to use in order to avoid bankruptcy. Now that I think about it, I am almost certain that they have based the billing system on the old verbal reasoning tests, once immortalised by the 11+. The system is quite simple in principle, but not so applicable to the real world. Just so you have an idea of what I mean I have prepared an example below:

Blue Plates = £2.00
Green Plates = £2.50
Yellow Plates = £3.00
Red Plates = £3.50

It doesn’t seem too difficult so far; until that is you start to get into it. During the meal, we managed to go through:

4 blue plates, 4 yellow plates and 4 green plates. = £30.00

If the customer has 3 bottles of beer and the waiting staff have the speed and stealth of ninjas. Who got shafted on the bill?

Yes! You guessed it! I got shafted!

If this is the format for all sushi restaurants, it is easy to see why “Dr Kawashima’s: Brain Training” is so popular in Japan. Anyway, I think it will be sometime before I venture over the threshold and into the world of sushi again.

Best just to stick to the traditional restaurant arrangement in the future.

No I don't want a loan, but I would like you to pay my damn rent!

Okay, maybe I’m just becoming increasingly infected with uncontrollable rage as I get older, but the end of last week left me with the overwhelming urge to strike somebody employed within the financial sector.

It all started on Friday morning when I phoned the bank. I am also more than aware of the old cliché surrounding banks and the generalised hatred of them, but this is different. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t pissed off that they have taken an extortionate sum of money from me, in what they like to call “charges”. However, that is not what I am taking exception to.

Having recently managed to clear the balance of my credit card, but only after several years of having to hand over great wads of cash, in an attempt to keep the financial wolf from the door.
I thought I was in the clear, until Friday morning that is, when I had the dubious pleasure of calling my bank to find out why the rent had not left my account. You would think that it was pretty straightforward, but after asking my question and getting fobbed off by Raymond – the agent of darkness on the other end of the line - it quickly becomes clear that he has no interest in answering my query. Nope, Raymond has his own agenda. He has decided that instead of telling me about why money hasn’t left my account that I would rather know about the Halifax’s extensive range of loans, which coincidently are extremely affordable. At least that is, if what Raymond told me is to be believed. (Apparently, the UK’s interest rates don’t apply on planet Halifax).

This isn’t the first time that I have been financially propositioned by a bank clerk either. I recently paid a cheque into my account and was then asked if I would like to apply for a credit card. Clearly, these people are not doing their jobs properly. Even the most fleeting of glances at my banking history would tell a delightful story of personal loans and credit card debts. So the only assumption, that can be made from these perpetual offers of money from the bank, is that they rather preferred me when I had to give all my money to them, rather than getting to keep it for myself.
Perhaps, I will send them a bunch of flowers along with a sypathy card that reads, sorry to hear about your loss of customer service.