In no paricular ordure.
1. Trackpads on laptops. Why? Everyone accursed enough not to have a Trackpoint uses a mouse instead which utterly defeats the object of HOTAS. This is why Nick rolls with a Thinkpad – well one of the reasons. And why are they – especially on larger – 15.6″+ – machines always so far to the left?
2. Sleeves. Now don’t get me wrong because a well executed tattoo by a talented artist can be a thing of beauty but a bog-standard design in that “fading Bic” colour is a travesty. This goes especially for forearm tattoos – the “sleeves” I mentioned. It is not a statement of individuality, it is not beautiful and just cheap and tacky. Put it this way. I buy T-shirts from Primark but a T-shirt isn’t for life. The worst I have seen is a bloke who has a tat of an olde fashioned pocket watch on his lower left arm. Roughly where I wear my Casio or Omega. Looks Magic-The-fucking-Gathering with forearm hair growing through it. A close second belongs to a morbidly obese woman who frequents the Co-op qv) and has in faux gothic script tatted on the back of her neck (at the exact aim point for the axeman) the names of her children. I assume they are her children – Bernadette and Jake. God help them. I didb’t because they were shop-lifting at the time and I’d be an accessory and I don’t mean a set of cuff-links but rather linked cuffs if you catch my drift. The mama (who just killed a man – would’ve done it with ease by reverse Asian cowgirl) in question (who was squired by a bloke who made a whippet look like a Pignoramus wrecked but don’t they always – I suspect in his youth he was never allowed on bouncy castles or something – that’s Freud that is). She also had a cartoon dog paw print behind her right ear. I leave that as a puzzle for the reader.
3. MSM reportage on anything to do with aviation. Things like this happen all the time. Prince Harry was never an Apache pilot. He was a WSO. Prince William didn’t go solo within his first week with the RAF but don’t let the facts interfere with the story! He had his first flight but it was clear as the light of day there was someone (by which I mean an RAF instructor) with him. Tell that to Dick Witchery of the BBC (the Royal Arse-Cleaner Pursuivent – who even manages to be gracious to Our King-in-Wanting). Of course getting these dull “nerd” things wrong doesn’t really matter. Yes. It. Does. To me anyway. I should have a clip-book of such tumescent aerial-reportage cock-ups but don’t because I just lose the will to anything when I see or read them.
4. Going tie-free. Like Elsa or Fletch or something. This is trending (and has been for some time). If you wear a suit and a formal type shirt then wear a bloody tie otherwise you look like a Greek politician. I know where it comes from. It’s desperately trying to say I’m one of you and I’m going to weally, weally work on this. By which, in the case of Greek politicians, means attempting to dig upwards. And if the mardy, hairy-backed, fuckers think they are getting the Elgin Marbles back they can field soldiers in pleated skirts with pom-poms on their shoes. Oh, they do that already. Job done!
5. Hipster beards. You might have a top job in the “creative stuff”* and a flat in Hoxton increasing in bubble “value” faster than the Central Bank in Harare can print
toilet paper bank notes but you shall always be a bell-end to to. To me, you shall always be a bell-end to me… to me… to me… When the crash comes they’ll have a MacBook and no way to power it and I’ll have a lump hammer. And a Gillette.
6. Russell Brand. This is almost like firing a GAU-8 at a hamster that pissed on the mat. Well, he won’t do it again. People take Brand seriously. He is apparently a recovering “sex-addict”. How? He looks like a tramp’s mate. He looks like he needs a tick bath and a carstrion (not an sp – I have yet to work the details but it involves his syphilitic area and a V8 (not the vegetable drink) – but he is apparently “cool with the kids”). He’s allegedly a comedian. Never made me laugh – not once – but he did make me reach for two spoons and a rusty agricultural implement and… [legals!]. I would like to take his “Booky Wook” and do something interesting** with it. It would not be over quickly and, alas, he would probably enjoy it (the dirty, dirty trumpster (Or Trumpster) he truly is. The obvious Crapocalypse Now for Brand could only be avoided with enough Corbynite***.
7. The last tine I saw Blondie I was told to sit down. I could have a drink but only in the bar and having a fag was verboten. As was standing-up. It was at The Manchester Apollo in the C21st. Clearly not at CBGB in the 1970s. Just a couple of years earlier I’d seen Blondie at the exact same venue and I was down in the mosh pit gyrating like an antic with a pint and a fag about 3m from Debbie who had a voice like a siren (air-raid – in the best way – Gods she still had it) and she was giving it utter welly with Destri, Stein and Burke et al kicking in. There was no agro (indeed a very jolly time was had by all) but second time around… Well, fun cannot be allowed. So I must sit and watch and applaud at the designated points like it was the Royal Opera in Convent Garden (not an sp) rather than watching a punk/new wave band. I sentence the idiots behind this to ten years cleaning the toilets at CBGB in NYC. Starting in 1976 and continuing until the arse-end of never. I got told to sit down by a twat in a high viz jacket. The only bugger who ought to have been seated was Clem Burke – the drummer.
8. UK immigration. Oh, where to start! We make perfectly qualified, English speaking folk jump through unmitigated (and very expensive) hoops to live here whilst giving jihadi nutters free-reign and a council house for their spawn of evil (I think that is TM for the Daily Mail). My brother’s girlfriend is having antics with the Home Orifice over whether she can live in Sunderland (have you ever been to Sunderland? Just don’t). She’s from Tokyo (odd that seeing as Nissan has a huge factory near Sunderland but monies changed hands), is self-employed (she is an extremely good glass artist) and has a PhD. You might think she’d be automatic but nyet! Meanwhile, Makem-land fills with the arse-end of Bedlamites for whom shoes are an innovation. They send them to Sunderland because no other person in anywhere close to their right mind wants to live there. She does because it is home to the National Glass Centre which of course makes sense for her. Sunderland is still a shite-pit of the second water (Hartlepool beats it by a whisker to the first water) and then there is Siloth which is beyond any rational desciption. If not exactly the arsehole of the Universe it is well within farting distance.
9. Airports. Regular readers will know I love ‘planes. For my birthday my wife got me a flying lesson in a Tiger Moth. That was cooler than a polar bear’s nadge sack. Now I had to empty my pockets but just so (in case of jiggery-pokery) my loose change, keys, whatever fell onto some Cambridgeshire bumpkin (or future Tory MP – though they tend to do PPE at the other place) so fair enough in an open cockpit aircraft. It was great but I’m not talking about that now. No, getting on board was dead straightforward. Getting on the Jet2 757 from Manchester to Paphos was a frigmarole as it always is. Do you feel safer because they X-ray your belt? I am never flying Jet2 again. They were delayed both ends and the landings were “interesting” (much more so than in an 80 year old biplane on a grass strip). My wife complained about lack of leg-room and she’s 5’1″. They didn’t even manage to seat us together on the outbound so we couldn’t even bitch about it. And a can of Coke was three quid. It was like a tenner to buy a model 757 in Jet2 colours, “To commemorate (should that be “commiserate”) your unforgettable flight”. There were asylum-seekers in the undercart bays who had a better time of it. And they didn’t have their belt’s X-rayed. At Manchester, Terminal 1 (I think it was T1 – I was past caring by the time of the Security Opera), they have something that looks like an Orgasmatron (I’m not making this up) from the Woody Allen movie “Sleeper”. That is for trans-Atlantic flights, apparently. The DHS insists. Land of the Free and Home of the Brave indeed. The sum total of the camel-fuckers achievement in aerospace is kite-flying and the Taliban banned even that so I guess a flight of B-52s came as a bit of shock. I tell a lie. The Iranians have built the Q-313 which is essentially a warmed-over F-5 of 1950s vintage. The Israeli Airforce F-16 jocks must be defecating in mirth.
10. The Co-op. Now I know we have a “free market” and all but alas, where I live, there is no walking distance alternative. It is more sh’ite than an Ayatollah. I walk down there a few days ago for some dried oregano. A normal thing you might think. “There is no call for it so it has been discontinued”. The staff are rude to the verge of surly, the produce is past “use by” by the time you get to the door, the cash machine insists on telling you that they are, “Here for you for life!” shortly before telling you it ain’t got any tenners and just after, as part of the “Here for you for life!” schtick offering Co-op funeral services. Irony is not something they do. Or herbs. Or sometimes beef, or lettuce, or cucumbers or aubergines or bread. You know – the true exotica. The sooner they bite the dust the better and Sainsburys or someone who knows a thing about retail moves in the better. Truly they are the dog in the manger and not a cute pup at that.
So, that is my rant over. Sorry I haven’t been with you for a bit but I have been playing with Sid. Sid Meier that is and not a euphemism for going to Wankershire on the one-armed bus. Once I get Mind/Machine Interface sorted (‘copters!) I am going to give that utter villain Chairman Yang of the Human Hive a beating he shall not forget. He shall be captured and placed in the Sphere of Doom. It will not be over quickly and he will not enjoy it (I will though – Yin and Yang – he won’t find it amusing though – frankly that joke is below even me). He can even have oregano on his final pizza (for that was what I wanted to make – Skeletor’s Gran (aka Mary Berry) be at peace). I have orbital hydroponics on a laptop. Unlike the Co-op where they are still at “finding your own arse with both hands” foundation level GCSE. I have seen GCSE maths papers for basic level. They were (I am not making this up), “Jane, Abdul and Simon are looking at a clock because they must get on a train and wondering what time it is?” This is accompanied by a picture of the heroic trio looking at a clock. 11 years of neducation and they are still trying to teach kids how to use an analogue clock. Hell’s Teeth! I was 15 when I saw that and was coding fractals in Amiga Basic from some stuff I found in an old copy of Sci Am (back when it was still worth reading).
*Always reminds me of a quip from Philip Marlowe who remarks (I forget what about or in which book by Chandler but it is there) that he had, “Never seen so much misuse of intelligence outside of an advertising agency”.
**In the Chinese sense.
***A rare metal ore that is only found under the sociology departments of places of higher neducation. That makes no fracking sense of course. But it doesn’t need to For it is true. I wasted so many years study on science when I could simply have defined my own parameter of what is true and than merely make it so.