» Pet Peeves

The National Speed Limit
In the UK, we have a thing called the National Speed Limit. The road sign is a white circle with a diagonal black line through it. It means that on single carriage roads cars and motorcycles can drive at 60 MPH, on dual carriageways, you can drive at 70 MPH.

Why is it that three quarters of road users in the UK don’t seem to fucking know this? I’m not asking people to take risks and I’m not talking about winding roads or bad weather. But, when it’s a clear day and the road is straight for a long distance fucking well got at the speed you’re meant to! Few people seem to know that it’s also against the law to drive too slowly. Yea, I’m talking to you farmers with slow lumbering tractors towing three tones of hay. For the love of some fucking deity, stop and let some of the three-mile tailback pass you!

I know this rant makes me sound like some speed freak but I’m not, I drive a 10-year-old Accord for fuck sake, the things got the handling of a boat and a turning circle about as large as an articulated lorry.

Politicians. Not any in particular, all of them. They come up with a manifesto, people like it and vote for them. The shitty bit seems to be actually delivering it. Even offering an explanation as to why they could not deliver is covered the most huge amount of bollocks ever created. I see running the country as one of the most important jobs you could have. The people in power and their underlings seem to have cast iron jobs. If it were a business, those who fuck up get sacked, not so in government. I have less respect for politicians than I do teachers and believe me, that saying something.
(Fri 2nd May 2008, 22:13, More)

» Blood

Bleeding+++
Hello,

I was lodging at his best mate’s house about a decade ago. We both worked for the same company, he had a car so I got a lift into work each morning.

One morning, the frost had been quite bad, my mate and I were walking to his car. This walk evolved having to traverse some concrete steps in order to reach the car park above. These steps were nice big slabs of concrete cemented into place, with nice sharp corners on them.

On that fateful day, I was approaching the bottom of these steps at a right angle, with my hands stuffed into my jeans pockets because of the cold.

Unfortunately, at the bottom of these steps was a patch of ice, my feet slip out from under me and, without the ability to stop my fall (hands in pockets), I fall on my back with my head making a not insubstantial contact with the corner of the bottom step. I made an embarrassingly loud cry as my head smashed into the concrete.

My mate, who was ahead of me, turned round at the time I was attempting to get back on my feet. I think is words were ‘Oh for fucks sake… OH SHIT’. I remember blood dripping down the side of my face and my mate taking his jacket off and starting to wrap it around my head. I also remember saying ‘head wounds always look bad and can bleed a lot’, at this point all a knew was my head hurt and blood was dripping past my left eye. He told me ‘Yes, but they don’t squirt all over the place’.

I don’t remember much of the drive to A&E, what with my head being wrapped my mate’s jacket, like some mad turban.

When we reached A&E, I just about remember staggering around, jacket on head while my mate (bless him) explained what happened. The next thing I know, I’m bundled into a wheelchair and taken into a room where a nurse peeled my mate’s now knackered jacket off and bandaged my head. She wrote out a brief description: Head wound, bleeding +++.

After a short wait, I was wheeled into another room by a nice nurse, who told me to lie down on the table and she would treat my wound. By this time the panic had subsided and I thought I would be stitched up and on my way in no time.

As she undid the bandage, she went ‘Urh’ and then did the bandage back up. She said that she would not be able to treat me and was going to get the matron.

A couple of minutes later, the matron comes in and says ‘Ok Mr Shadders, your head needs some stitching that the nurse can’t do, so I’m here to do it now, no need to worry’. She then unwound my bandage and then uttered ‘Oh my, urgh!’ and promptly did my bandage back up. She then said that I had a serious wound that would require a surgeon to fix.

Another few minutes waiting, now I’m thinking, “Christ, how much damage has been done? It can’t be good when two professionals get freaked out and run off to find a superior”
Eventually, a surgeon comes in and unwinds my bandage yet again, he says “Oh dear, that’s a nasty mess”. Then he tells me that I have a severed artery that needs to be reconnected, but before he can do that, he has to get the bits of concrete out of my head. After that, he can sew my scalp back together. I’m no expert, but having a look on the interweb, it must have been the Supra-orbital. Mr. Surgeon then goes and puts on an apron.

By that time I was just glad to have someone say they could do something rather than sounding like they were retching and running away to find some other poor sod to do the work.

After he had injected me with anaesthetic around the wound and had started taking the bits of concrete out (an odd sensation), some other chap comes into the room and starts say ‘Ah, Mr. Surgeon there you are, I just wanted to….Urh, I can see you’re a bit busy, I’ll come back later’

Anyhoo, Mr. Surgeon finishes the job and sends me on my way. I remember waiting to a lift home, trying to see what my head looked like in window reflections as there were no car around (I would have used the wing mirrors). If my head hadn’t been throbbing so much I would have laughed at the amount of people who walked by took a look at me, then registered my stitches, grimaced and looked away.

I have to say, that I owe a lot to those people who were on duty at A&E that day. I doubt that my injury would have been one that would have stopped bleeding on it’s own. I certainly don’t resent the nurse or the matron for having the guts to say they could not deal with it and find someone who could. I’d much rather that, than making a crap attempt at fixing the problem. I should also thank my mate for sacrificing his jacket and getting me to hospital quickly, I shudder to think what would have happened had I been on my own. Thanks John!

You know what the weirdest thing is? After all that, the most blood I saw would have been enough to half fill a plastic cup from an office water cooler.
(Fri 8th Aug 2008, 1:07, More)

» That's when I knew it was over...

Over...
I knew it was over then she said she was meeting with a friend called ‘Adam’. I was working shifts, and said that I could meet up with them after I finished work. Got a refusal, I thought it was because I had met Adam before and could not hide my loathing of him. One; he was a letch and two; he was a teacher. I HATE teachers, as far as I’m concerned, those to can’t, teach.

Anyway, I’m at home getting more and more worried because it’s getting later and later. I get a phone call that the answering machine catches. It’s her, she tells me in slurred speech that she been unexpectedly been called into work, then she fails to put the phone down & I can hear her talking to Adam.

So, I sampled the message she left, and played it back to her when she turned up the next day.

Not long after we split. Surprise! She started seeing Adam. I heard that he treated her badly; still don’t know if I should be happy or glad.

This was over five years ago and I cant believe how bitter I still feel about it.
(Thu 21st Jul 2005, 23:37, More)

» Customers from Hell

Sometimes the customer has more sence
Many moons ago, I got a mortgage with Halifux. As I had an account with Barstardlys at the time and the company I worked for paid my on the last working day of the month. I had a bit of trouble with having enough cleared funds in my account for the transfer of money to Halifux on time.

So I then get some nasty letters from Halifux about my late payments. Obviously I did not want this to continue and figured that the best way to deal with it was to open an account with Halifux to reduce the time it took to clear the funds.

After making an appointment to see someone with enough brain cells to authorise an application for an account. I get ushered into one of those odd little cubicles where I explain that I have been getting late payment letters and would it bee a good idea to open an account with Halifux and get my wages paid into the account, avoiding the fucking three day wait for two banks to sort out a transfer that should take minutes with all the computing power they have. She said that was an excellent idea and would be a solution to the problem. I fill out all the forms and she sends them off to head office. All I wanted was a current account with a cheque book and a debit card.

About a week later, I get a letter saying my application has been refused. Eh? I phone up, only to be told I’ll have to make another appointment. So I do.

At the appointment, I ask why they refused the application. You have a bad credit rating they responded. Why? I ask. The lady had to phone up head office. But she came back with “you’ve been late on some mortgage payments”. I know says I, that’s why I want the account the account in the first place and that’s what I explained when I applied for it.

I also politely pointed out that Halifux had thought it was fine to loan me many tens of thousands of pounds in a mortgage but thought I could not be trusted with a current account with a poxy debit card. I have to say that the lady telling me this did blush and say that she could not argue with my logic and that personally it made no sense. To her credit, she did appeal on my behalf but it was defiantly a case of ‘The computer says NO’.

Arse holes and elbows sprang to mind. But I was able to fire off a nice letter to them the next time I got a snotty letter. Funnily enough, I stopped getting them after that.

I suppose the moral of this story is not to loose your cool, the people you have to deal with don’t have a say in policy. Be polite and most people will respond in kind. Those that don’t, first explain the error of their ways and fucking deck them if they don’t respond.

Length? Boasting is crass.
(Fri 5th Sep 2008, 21:34, More)

» Tales of the Unexplained

I freeked an Ex out once.
Many moons ago, I was dating a lass who was living in a student house with three/four other people.

We where watching TV when I turned to her and said "The phones going to ring for you".

Being a sensible lady, she looked at me and said "Yah, right"

Within ten seconds the phone rang, she dropped her jaw and said "How the fuck did you know that?"
I said I didn't know but she should answer it.

When she came back she said it was her mum and then called me freeky.

To this day I don't know why I felt so sure it would ring and be for her.

Shame it never happens for the lottery though!
(Thu 3rd Jul 2008, 20:48, More)