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Here, boy! Snack time.


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(Fri 15th Apr 2016, 21:11, More)

The perfect Christmas gift - a DIY CDC kit


EDIT: Christmas FP - woohoo!
(Thu 24th Dec 2015, 11:10, More)

Badoom, and, quite possibly, tish!

(Tue 2nd Jun 2015, 19:00, More)

Little bit of non-politics ladies & gentlemen...


DE-RIS
(Tue 28th Apr 2015, 12:27, More)

Perhaps they should have used a fucklift?

(Sat 22nd Nov 2014, 11:05, More)

Liddle bitta politics ladeez & gennelmen

(Thu 19th Jun 2014, 10:00, More)

Erm-rm-rm-flm-day of my drmfrm weddingfrm

(Thu 9th Jan 2014, 17:08, More)

Royal scratchcard, anyone?

(Fri 14th Sep 2012, 22:18, More)

'Ning all. Fluffy kitten threadrush, day 2.

(Thu 9th Feb 2012, 9:29, More)

Ahhh, Ma'am...


Sorry
(Thu 2nd Feb 2012, 10:45, More)

Best answers to questions:

» My Saviour

Pussy in peril.
Note: Lacks LOLs and puns and is highly likely to be tl;dr

I had travelled to Cardiff for some meeting or other. When it had finished, it transpired that one of my colleagues – who I’d only met briefly once before – and I were going to be getting the same train back. Louise was going to Hereford, me to Crewe.

We got to the station platform just in time to see our train accelerating out of sight, leaving us with an hour to kill until the next one. As unappealing as station buffets are, it was better than standing on a windswept platform, so we went in for a coffee.

About twenty minutes into our wait, a large family bundled into the room, speaking loudly with Irish accents and looking like they’d just come from tarmacking over some lucky heather. One of the children was a little girl of about four years old who was carrying a tiny black and white kitten. I say “carrying” but she was actually holding the kitten up by gripping its front paws between her thumbs and forefingers and bouncing it up and down like you would when trying to make a doll ‘dance’.

I’m not normally squeamish, but watching this was turning my stomach so I suggested to Louise that we might be better waiting outside. I’d considered confrontation – very briefly – but given the belligerent vibes being given off by the adult members of the family, my fat yellow streak had taken over.

Of course, once we were outside, the mental image of the poor kitten wouldn’t leave me and nor, it would appear, Louise.

“How much money do you have on you?” she asked. Once the moths had flown out of the coin pocket of my wallet and the portrait of the Queen had stopped blinking at the bright light, I determined that I had five one pound coins.

“Right,” she said. “Give them to me, we’re going to buy that kitten.”

And with that she marched back into the buffet and started telling the matriarch of the family some bullshit story about the kitten being the spitting image of her recently-deceased and much-beloved moggie, and would they be prepared to sell the kitten?

“Ah well, it cost me fifty pounds,” announced the Pikey princess.

“I only have five,” countered Louise.

“Ah, go on then,” came the reply. I was happy to see that no spitting on and shaking of hands to seal the deal was required as the kitten was unceremoniously grabbed from the young girl and thrust into Louise’s hands.

Once we’d taken our leave and retreated outside, Louise turned to me and asked, “Do you want a cat? I have two dogs and they hate cats.”

And so it was that I found myself on a three hour train journey with a kitten that preferred to be held than kept in the makeshift carrier of an empty frozen chip box donated by the buffet manageress. At Crewe station my wife met me and we transferred the kitten to a proper cat carrier ready for a trip to the vet for a check-up.

Aside from being only about six weeks old and a bit under-nourished, probably from being separated too early from its mother, the only thing the vet could find wrong with the kitten was that her front shoulder joints were stiff, almost certainly from being put under strain by the ‘dancing’.

And then when we got the kitten home, it fell out with our cat, so we had to dump it on the in-laws, whose own cat had recently died.

Fifteen years later, Rosie the cat is still around. She can still jump on top of the kitchen cupboards but doesn’t really like going outside any more.

tl;dr – rescued kitten finds loving home.
(Thu 9th May 2013, 16:51, More)

» Call Centres

Bomb the buggers
In the early 1990s I worked in a directory enquiry centre that was located in the northwest of England, in a town famed for its rail connections and heritage, even though we exclusively handled calls from London.

Aside from dealing with the lowlife scum that exclusively populate the capital, the job was OK, and made even more amusing when some tit tried to make a bomb threat to our building.

Remember, this was before the public was familiar with their calls being answered in faraway places, so the numbnuts who made the threats were invariably convinced that you were in their local exchange and got most miffed when you pointed out that you were 150 fucking miles away from whatever piss-fragranced phone box they were in. Nonetheless, we too had a bomb threat form to fill in and report, but our procedure was to not evacuate the building because you could be walking towards the bomb - never mind that the fucking building could fall down around our ears.

Our other entertainments came from the sheer stupidity of some of the callers and their requests.

Some of my colleagues in other sites collected their favourite enquiries and sent them out in newsletters. Among the ones I remember are:

Punter: “Argoed Fish Bar, Cardiff, please.”
Operator: “I have nothing for the Argoed Fish Bar, could it be under another name?”
Punter: “Well it used to be called the Bargoed Fish Bar until the B fell off the sign.”

Punter: “I’m flying to Germany, could I have the flight enquiry number for Luftwaffe please?"
Operator: “I think you might mean Lufthansa?”
Punter: (click)

Punter: "I want a number for (company name) in Woven, please."
Operator: "I don't have any record of a place called Woven, where is it near?"
Punter: "All I know is it's in Scotland. The label on my sweater says 'Woven in Scotland'"
(Wed 9th Sep 2009, 11:13, More)

» Sticking it to The Man

Not another Honda Accord
This one is about my wife's Vauxhall Corsa.

In 1996 herself decided she wanted a new car and duly chose a spanking new Rio Verde (green) pearlescent Vauxhall Corsa Premier 1.2. As she's a nurse, the car would regularly be parked on the shonky hospital car park, protected only by poor lighting and convicted sex offenders (a post for another time), so she opted to pay an extra £270 for the official Vauxhall alarm system that was Thatcham category 1 rated.

Unfortunately, the alarm was a dealer-fit item, and we subsequently discovered that they didn't know what they were doing.

The alarm was of the type that automatically armed 30 seconds after you got out of the car, and required you to reset it by going back into the car and pressing a dongle against a dashboard-mounted plate.

In practice, this meant that the missus just had time to park outside the house, lock the car, find her house keys and open the front door to the house, before the alarm set itself and immediately went off. At the end of a late shift, or in the early morning following a night shift, that made us very unpopular with the neighbours.

Over the course of the next couple of months, when we could spare the time from work, the car went back to the dealers five times. On each occasion, they completely failed to find any fault. In the end, I told them I wanted the alarm removed and a full refund.

They removed the alarm promptly enough, but pissed about when it came to giving us back the money. They claimed that they couldn't refund us until Vauxhall had approved the refund. Unfortunately for them, I knew enough of the law to know our contract was with the dealer and it was their responsibility to pay us back. It was irrelevant if they ever got their money off Vauxhall.

After seven weeks of snotty phone calls and snottier letters, we'd had enough. The dealer's premises was adjacent to a small council-owned pay & display car park, so we formed a plan.

As an impecunious, then childless, couple, our weekend days were often spend lazing around doing very little so we decided we'd park the Corsa next to the dealer's entrance and make a small protest.

We covered the car in balloons and mounted two big printed signs on it saying "(name of dealer)'s customer service is rubbish if you have a problem with your car" and "expect to fight to get your money refunded even if you're legally entitled to it" (or something like that). And we stayed there all day Saturday, and returned on the Sunday, passing the time by reading newspapers, writing out our Christmas cards and drinking Thermos coffee - oh, and chatting to numerous potential customers who came to find out what had pissed us off so much.

We were also approached a couple of times by staff asking if they could help, before they phoned someone senior and were obviously warned off. Before we left on the Sunday, we told them that unless we got our money back, we'd be there the following weekend too, and every one thereafter.

By a strange coincidence, the cheque was ready for us on the Monday, along with a letter saying they didn't want our business any more. Surprise, that.

Yes, I know it was a petty and fairly weak protest, but we felt better for it and, hopefully, contributed to them losing the Vauxhall franchise the following year.

Apologies for length, monster drugs, etc.
(Fri 18th Jun 2010, 16:50, More)

» Neighbours

Friendly neighbours
We’ve lived in the same place for close on 20 years and had the same set of neighbours on one side for all that time. As neighbours go, they’ve been mostly more entertaining than annoying, especially in the past few years.

To start with, they’ve been on benefits for most of the time we’ve known them, claiming for a variety of ailments. Despite this, they’ve managed to raise five (yes, five) fairly decent kids. The two eldest are particularly good guys, although we no longer see the oldest son as he had the temerity to marry a woman 20 years his senior, so the family have disowned him.

Then came the incident when they asked me around to look at their computer as they were having dial-up connection problems. They knew me to be a bit of a computer geek and thought I might be able to help.

Needless to say, it worked perfectly while I was looking at it – and downloaded all their e-mails – many of which came from a domain called “Adult Friend Finder”. Somehow I managed to say nothing and refrained from investigating until I got home.

Never has the boot cycle on my PC seemed so long, but I eventually confirmed what I suspected: the neighbours are swingers. Not only that, but a bit of judicious searching found some pictures of them in flagrante with another female, as well as herself bent over the bonnet of their (Motability-provided) people-carrier, flashing gash.

Shortly afterwards, four identical stickers appeared on the corner windows of said motor. Bearing in mind that they ferry their kids around in the car, it was a bit of a surprise to find that the stickers showed the logo of the local swingers’ club (thanks Google image search), but the most frightening encounter happened several weeks later.

Again, their computer had gone on the fritz, probably as a result of downloading gigabytes of pr0n. Hubby came and knocked on the door (I work from home) and asked if I could take a look at the PC. As some of us have to earn our cash, I told him that I’d nip round after work, which I dutifully did.

The missus answered the door, wearing pixie boots, fishnets, a skirt like a pelmet and a tight black top. It was obvious she had no bra on since her tits, after five kids, looked like roof-tilers’ nailbags and were keeping her stomach warm. Now, some people might have been put on guard by this, but this was her normal daytime garb and I can be very naive.

She proceeded to tell me that hubby had fixed the PC, which she thought might have been affected by “some of the sites we visit”. She then explained that these unnamed sites were really good for meeting people and had improved their social life dramatically. In fact, her husband had even been contacted and asked if he wanted to be a pr0n star!

Sometimes, I’m not the brightest of bulbs, but I suddenly began to suspect where this conversation was heading and, choking back the bit of sick that had popped into my mouth, I did what a News of the World reporter would do: made my excuses and left.

Length: about 7" judging from the photo.
(Wed 7th Oct 2009, 12:50, More)

» Complaining

Pea alert
In 1996 she-who-must-be-obeyed decided she wanted a new car and duly chose a spanking new Rio Verde (green) pearlescent Vauxhall Corsa Premier 1.2. As she's a nurse, the car would regularly be parked on the shonky hospital car park, protected only by poor lighting and convicted sex offenders (a post for another time), so she opted to pay an extra £270 for the official Vauxhall alarm system that was Thatcham category 1 rated.

Unfortunately, the alarm was a dealer-fit item, and we subsequently discovered that they didn't know what they were doing.

The alarm was of the type that automatically armed 30 seconds after you got out of the car, and required you to reset it by going back into the car and pressing a dongle against a dashboard-mounted plate.

In practice, this meant that the missus just had time to park outside the house, lock the car, find her house keys and open the front door to the house, before the alarm set itself and immediately went off. At the end of a late shift, or in the early morning following a night shift, that made us very unpopular with the neighbours.

Over the course of the next couple of months, when we could spare the time from work, the car went back to the dealers five times. On each occasion, they completely failed to find any fault. In the end, I told them I wanted the alarm removed and a full refund.

They removed the alarm promptly enough, but pissed about when it came to giving us back the money. They claimed that they couldn't refund us until Vauxhall had approved the refund. Unfortunately for them, I knew enough of the law to know our contract was with the dealer and it was their responsibility to pay us back. It was irrelevant if they ever got their money off Vauxhall.

After seven weeks of snotty phone calls and snottier letters, we'd had enough. The dealer's premises was adjacent to a small council-owned pay & display car park, so we formed a plan.

As an impecunious, then childless, couple, our weekend days were often spend lazing around doing very little so we decided we'd park the Corsa next to the dealer's entrance and make a small protest.

We covered the car in balloons and mounted two big printed signs on it saying "(name of dealer)'s customer service is rubbish if you have a problem with your car" and "expect to fight to get your money refunded even if you're legally entitled to it" (or something like that). And we stayed there all day Saturday, and returned on the Sunday, passing the time by reading newspapers, writing out our Christmas cards and drinking Thermos coffee - oh, and chatting to numerous potential customers who came to find out what had pissed us off so much.

We were also approached a couple of times by staff asking if they could help, before they phoned someone senior and were obviously warned off. Before we left on the Sunday, we told them that unless we got our money back, we'd be there the following weekend too, and every one thereafter.

By a strange coincidence, the cheque was ready for us on the Monday, along with a letter saying they didn't want our business any more. Surprise, that.

Yes, I know it was a petty and fairly weak protest, but we felt better for it and, hopefully, contributed to them losing the Vauxhall franchise the following year.

Apologies for length, monster drugs, etc.
(Sun 5th Sep 2010, 17:28, More)
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