Damn

The fact that I've not posted for a while is an indication that, absurdly and contrary to all experience, I'm not grumpy about anything.

However, this post signifies an end to the silence that you had been enjoying. And the culprit is someone who should be making me happy: Tesco.

We, that is my mother, booked an order online to be delivered to my door. It is not a complicated process, and because of this, all was good. Until the time of the delivery arrived. My mother was out, and so I was going to have to accept the delivery, which would not cause a problem, I have done so in the past for Tesco, the Post Office and various other respectable establishments.

And yet, I am not sat here eating biscuits. Because the man was insistent that an adult be present. Technically, he was right to do this, but I don't care. He is still a fool. I'm not terribly good at suffering fools. I tend to get peeved at them. That is why peace is broken. The man in the van from Tesco. Blame him.

Ahhh

I like polishing shoes. I find it relaxing. Just thought I'd share.

Yay

If you are reading this, then I am a genius of the technological age. If not, I'm a failure, but you don't know, so I don't care.

Oh, and I've just arrived at Hills Road. Yay.

Preparation and a warning

Tomorrow is the induction day for Hills Road, my educational home for the next two years, and I thought it might be something of a good idea to be a bit prepared. This includes pens, a notepad, a pencil and...well, that's about it. If there's drawing to be done, and it's not of a dissected organ, then I won't be found in that subject. Therefore, colouring pencils will not be needed.

I thought that this would be relatively simple. I would just nip into W H Smith and buy them. Of course not. The lunacy of the things you can buy is astounding. Fountain pens for £65.00. And many others, for other amounts, that don't work any better but show you to be a bit of a prick who things that this pen that looks a touch snazzier than that one is worth an extra £62.00. It isn't, assure you.

Then there are notepads. This is where I got rather annoyed indeed. Quite why we need so many, I simply cannot work out. I don't give a rat's arse whether the cover has pretty multi-coloured lines, concentric circles or a picture of Mike Tyson, so long as it is full of A4 paper. And yet pads that are plain and the right size are small in number. I do not care for annoying colours. This book is going to be ripped apart and put in folders, or filled with complex formulae. There will be no unicorns or Mr. Men, so why should there be on the cover?

As you may be able to tell, I am not impressed by W H Smith. However, the final straw that made me want to shout a lot (more than usual, anyway) was a W H Smith at Waterloo Station. In fact two, maybe even three W H Smith at Waterloo Station. This is the station I travel through to visit my Dad, and I have to wait there for a bit, so I grab one of the free papers and do the crossword, or the sudoku. There was a time when I forgot my pen, so I thought, 'Oh, I'll just go and buy one.' Or not, as I later discovered. In all three, there was not a pen in sight. This is supposedly a stationery store. I was appalled. I bought my wine gums and left in disgust.

Be warned, people of the internet. W H Smith is bollocks. Patronise Rymans instead.

Dilemma

It is a problem that is spoken of fairly frequently in this post-feminist world of ours: if you're not sure whether a woman is pregnant or a fatty, should you give your seat up? I feel that the answer is obvious, and that you should give up your seat.

You cannot lose in this situation. If the person is pregnant, then you look polite and the pregnant woman is able to rest. If she's just fat, then she is a fatty, and therefore doesn't have feelings. Like ogres. Or, in the rare event that she does have feelings, then she gets upset, and perhaps loses weight, saving both her life and taxpayer's money. As I said, you can't lose.

Programming...Failed.

'Embarassing Illnesses' is a programme on Channel 4 which features, rather surprisingly, people with embarassing illnesses. I find it quite interesting, which perhaps just goes to show what sort of a person I am, but I am always left wondering why people apply to be featured on this programme.

As far as I can tell, it isn't for money, as you don't get paid, and we have a superb state-funded healthcare system in England.

It also can't be for the outstanding treatment you receive, for your bog-standard, run-of-the-mill, corduroy GP could do exactly the same.

No, the reason, I have decided, is that people are so desparate to have their 15 minutes of fame that they will happily show their multi-coloured tongues or wonky John Thomas on national television. I think that this is a hugely sorry state of affairs.

I struggle to understand this perplexing desire, and it's not for want of trying. I simply cannot get why we are so wrapped up with the celeb culture. Piers Morgan is, supposedly, a celebrity, but that doesn't stop me from thinking that he is an untillegent cock who was probably the victim of a lot of buggery at public school, out of spite.

Even the Queen - she's just a lady who happens to be on some money and stamps.

The world will improve hugely when people realise that Victoria Beckham really is a stick, all footballers do is kick a bladder, Janet Street-Porter is a weird thing consisting mainly of teeth and a stupid surname, and Ben Affleck didn't really single-handedly save the world when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour, in reality he jumped about for a bit next to a fan and then went and sat in a caravan. And I could have produced a more scintillating programme than Big Brother with a bucket of plasticine and a spoon.