

Some Abbreviated Sarcastic Ramblings on Anything and

Everything that Amuses or Irritates - me.

A.D. Moreton

By A.D. Moreton

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 A.D. Moreton.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 978-0-9928150-2-8

First Edition, 2014.

CONTENTS

The Appetizer – Why?

1 - Road Junctions

8 - New Computers and Software

14 - Population Import for Todays' Pensioners

15 - Improving the Political Process

16 - Roundabouts, Red Tarmac and Chicanes

17 - Prisons – My Dad's Version

19 - The French System

24 - Global Economy

28 - Doctors and Men

35 - The Madness of Pets

Glossary

#  The Appetizer – Why?

Hi, firstly, could you just make sure you haven't picked up this book by mistake? You see this isn't just some crappy 'sh*t my dad says' written in American1. No, this is real decent sh*t written in proper ENGLISH. This is sh*t I say. Me, on 'Planet Me'; which is an extremely weird place indeed.

You just can't beat a bloody good moan. Anytime, anywhere, about anything.

Now, let's get everything nice and straight, right at the very beginning. This isn't going to be for the faint hearted. It's called Planet Me because it is my own individual take on a range of situations and circumstances that amuse me, piss me off big time, or happen to do both of these things simultaneously. It is original, because there is, thankfully, only one of me. And anybody who manages to stay on message and get to the end of this work will thank the lord that that is indeed the case.

It's about 99.999675 % certain that only blokes will be unhinged, grumpy, nasty and cynical enough to find it even remotely funny. The other approximate 50% of humanity are in all probability going to be just too nice. Too amicable. Too likely to be wanting to believe that things aren't too bad and that they can probably be improved. And that there are lots of organisations and some nice politicians ("I came into this to make a difference" – please somebody, QUICKLY, pass the sick bag) who stand a chance of making things better. Well they don't, not the faintest. Or at least not within a substantial number of centuries during which time EVERYTHING HAS TO GET A LOT, LOT, LOT WORSE.

So this isn't really for women. Not unless they shave. That is, shave their chest; and at least three times a day. Of course, I'm not saying to all the beautiful, gorgeous, charming ladies "don't buy the book". Not at all, "please do". But it's probably best if you don't read it yourself. Give it to your own grumpy moaning git for Christmas, his birthday or to take on holiday. He may find it funny and if he does you'll have some peace, quiet and quality you time. Probably while he chuckles and shouts "bloody spot on mate" at the book whilst also having a pint. If he doesn't do this and carries on pestering you, please shred this complete waste of alphanumeric characters and use it as bedding for your hamster.

Also please just note. If anybody out there, anywhere, even for 0.000001 seconds, considers the remotest possibility of buying this book, unfortunately there WILL be another. I'll come up with a new original snazzy title, like say, 'Planet Me – Take Two' or something. To balance the books a bit, I might even be tempted to have a good old rant from the opposite end of the spectrum.

I can't see how it would EVER stop. You see there is just so much material to have a go at. The extent and degree of ever increasing lunacy and crapness just seems to be infinite. I no sooner start with a grump and begin writing the issue down on paper, and why it seriously gets so under my skin, than it spirals out of control into an issue of such magnitude I never even dreamed possible.

But it's not just that. It's worse than that. Because each issue, as it spirals in magnitude, gives birth to multiple other issues that are even greater in extent and get under my skin-able. It becomes an infinite chain reaction of items that just seriously, seriously grate.

The above gentle introduction should hopefully help you understand the sort of journey you might be about to commence on. Now, don't worry too much. Remember, this is my problem not yours. You can just sit back and enjoy the ride. Sort of watch me squirm.

You see I'll declare all my cards now - just to make sure there's no moaning at the end. By way of background, I unfortunately happen to be 52 years old. So I have seen a reasonable amount of stuff and observed how things evolve (or more correctly - go round in circles2) over time. I'm really a scientist, with a degree and PhD in Chemistry, who happens to also like painting, design and art and has built a couple of extensions to his house. And invented and patented a weird back cushion that some people want to buy.

What all this means is that whilst I am not completely daft or stupid (not completely), I am a little bit off the beaten track so to speak. Or, put another way, at least partially, unhinged.

Some might consider that I make the tall geezer from the famous car programme on TV appear a mild mannered, quietly spoken, liberal moderniser. An advocate of all things environmental and green, considerate of all opinions and societal contributions.

I certainly like all the Grumpy Old Bloke type takes on life. I have read and enjoyed a good few of these sorts books and many of them I agree with and they do make me chuckle. But some of it, either I just don't get, or it just seems a bit too tame. Too gentle and too nice.

So, when I reached a point during the recession when I had a pause in my work, I decided to see if I could write a series of proper, full on, 100% rants that I at least got completely and that were undiluted. Sort of plutonium fuelled to another level of grumpiness.

Ultimately though, this book is all my Father's fault. You see, after one particular beer, wine and scotch fuelled moan and rant extravaganza we were having together, he very innocently said in passing:

"You know, if you are ever in need of any work, you should seriously become a stand-up comedian; they'd be rolling in the aisles".

And so the seed was sown.

So why a book? Well, it's quite simple. I knew there is no way I could ever be a stand-up comedian. My personality isn't good enough, my mind not quick enough, my memory is appalling and my delivery skills would never hit the spot comically. Christ, it took me 15 to 20 years to sort of master presenting dull factual science data to a dull factual scientific audience (most of whom would be asleep) with any sort of skill.

No, a live, in the spotlight comedian slot would certainly never fly. But, the basic material? Given the chance to plan, prepare, write down and polish in the form of a book? Well, I thought maybe. And you don't get if you don't try.

I can write; just. There's only 26 letters in the alphabet – not that many to jiggle around to try and create something that's not complete crap. And that bird with the wizard did alright. And the one that was into silk scarves, hand-cuffs and naughty stuff. So it can't be that difficult, can it?

Finally, throughout the following pages, please just keep on reminding yourself that this is my mind and my take on how stuff operates. And I have to live and survive here every day of the year. You can just read, have a laugh and thank the lord that you don't.

Enjoy (or at the very least, let your hamster enjoy).

Note that in the E-book version footnotes are at the END of each chapter.

All abbreviations are fully explained in a table that isn't a table near the end of the book.

This is an Abbreviated Version of the full book Planet Me:

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/407533

1. Actually a funny book. 'Sh*t My Dad Says' by Justin Halpern and published by Harper Collins.

2. "Lessons will be learned" – my arse.

#  1 - Road Junctions

A manic consideration of why road junctions are always quiet with little or no activity, until I get in my car and attempt to travel anywhere. At which point, whatever particular junction I arrive at becomes a scene of complete mayhem. Where the probability of being able to proceed on my way becomes zero, but the likelihood of a monumental obliteration of me, my vehicle and all its contents becomes an absolute certainty.

"Is it just me? Am I paranoid? Or is this all real?"

You see, I have this thing about driving, traffic in general and road junctions in particular. Especially the junctions I tend to use a lot. Like, for example, at the end of our driveway. Or, even, the end of either of our driveways.

We live in a quiet village, in a remote country-side setting, in rural Oxfordshire. My youngest son's playroom happens to overlook our front drive. A drive that is surfaced in gravel and is also very steep and narrow.

Now, I can sit in that room for minutes, hours, indeed days on end and gaze out at what will always be a completely empty road that the drive enters. I have done this many times just to make sure my observations are statistically robust and can therefore be legitimately used as the basis for this sound and reasoned argument. Rather than the following paragraphs being potentially interpreted as an ad-hoc rant by a bitter and twisted grumpy, miserable old git.

Occasionally, the odd car passes in one direction or the other, but only one at a time you understand. And the time between vehicles is measured not in minutes or hours, but on a geological timeframe. This quiet tranquillity is maintained, on and on, monotonously so.

Until, that is, until I find the (very occasional) need to go out somewhere in the car. And then, what is known, universally as the Monitor Activities and Immediately Screw Tony Up Completely (MAISTUC3 for short) system springs into action.

Now, because I work most of the time from home I never EVER, elect to venture out between 07:45 and 09:30 am, 14:30 and 15:45pm or 16:30 – 18:30pm. No, I understand to avoid these chaotic and mad sessions where the probability of not coming home with all four limbs still attached to your blobby bit in the middle approaches one.

So, instead, I do my bit for reducing congestion at peak times, easing other peoples hassle. Because I'm like that: nice, laid back and considerate. I go out at quiet times. Times when everybody else will be safely locked away in their offices and certainly long back from the school run. Times when I can ease my modern and highly efficient V8, gently along, minimising my CO2 and other pollutant emissions in my compliant, politically correct manner.

However, despite all of my detailed forethought and planning, in the time it takes me to leave the house, lock the back door, open the garage, get into the car, start the car, reverse out of the garage, close the remote garage door and drive round the front of the house and down the steep, slippery gravel drive (about 1 minute 17 seconds, approximately), the drive that happens to have ZERO visibility in EITHER direction, MAISTUC will have sprung into action.

Without fail, the great MAISTUC system will have managed to notify, demand the presence of and teleport, every mobile transportation device in south Oxfordshire, including but not limited to:

\- Bike riders.

\- Cars.

\- Vans.

\- Buses.

\- Taxis.

\- Farm tractors.

\- Delivery vehicles (including but not limited to Tesco's, Sainsbury's, all Amazon and EBay couriers, post office personnel, builders merchant delivery vans and associated plant hire vehicles).

\- Combine harvesters and other farm machinery (but only the ones you understand that are within 0.0000003mm less than the width of the road that I need to enter).

\- Portable home transporters.

\- Caravans (love them - please see the chapter between 8 and 10).

\- Ship transporters (again only those moving things for Russian billionaires that are twice the length of Oxfordshire and can carry at least three private jets and half a dozen helicopters).

Not only this, but MAISTUC will also have directed that every vehicle MUST, when passing the narrow cutting at the end of the impossibly steep and slippery drive, with ZERO visibility in EITHER direction, travel at no less than 128.7 miles an hour.

Drivers will also be required to maintain a distance from the vehicle in front of no more than 0.03 mm. MAISTUC will give each vehicle and driver the ultimate ability to be able to achieve this, including all mammal propelled bikes with big flashing lights. All mammals on two wheeled devices will also be mandated to be wearing fluorescent Lycra in either yellow green or pink.

MAISTUC will also have ensured that all powered vehicles will be fully fuelled up; completely free of charge. All manually powered vehicle riders will also have been fed on a high protein diet for at least the previous 15 months in full readiness for their contribution to the extravaganza.

As a result, the entire vehicle population of south Oxfordshire will be able to enjoy the morning sunshine and do lap after lap of a neat little circuit that takes in the outskirts of the main local town and three adjacent villages. This scenic circuit will of course include THE END OF MY DRIVE where it enters the steep narrow cutting of what in the back of beyond is supposed to constitute a road; but doesn't, not anywhere close.

Now, I can guarantee that even though every one of the vehicles in the convoy will be exceeding the speed limit through our village by a factor in excess of four, and even though I can't see them before they flash past at 128.7 miles an hour but they CAN see me, not one, not even part of one, will either slow down by 0.001% of their current speed or increase the distance from the vehicle in front.

The upshot of all this is that EVERY SINGLE TIME I want to go ANYWHERE, it will take me about 3 ¾ months to even stand the faintest chance of getting more than 77 feet from my front door.

However, every single driver in the convoy will make time to glare. A glare that says:

"Don't even start to remotely consider the possibility of allowing your arse to venture out and interrupt our 128.7 mile an hour convoy; otherwise, you, your vehicle, your missus and all your kids will subsequently need pressure water jetting off of the surface of the tarmac."

Now, it so happens that I can get round this very minor little irritation. Yes, you see we happen to have another drive. One that exit's onto an even quieter lane at the rear of the house. This rear drive is again very narrow, steep with walls on either side and meets a narrow lane which also happens to be set in a cutting. The narrow drive and the lane are at perfect right angles to one another. Thus, all the elements for MAISTUC are again present.

It would actually be no problem getting out if you could drive to the end of the drive and straight into the lane, then lift your vehicle vertically up 6 feet, turn it through 90 degrees left or right and plonk it down again facing up or down the lane. Unfortunately, the ability to do the vertical lift and turn through 90 degrees bit is normally not available. So conventional turning has to be the order of the day.

Now, turning left down the lane is not too bad. You tend to get a real good clearance of about 3.75 mm if you judge everything perfectly right. If you don't judge everything perfectly right, MAISTUC ensures that you will as a minimum rip ¾'s of the passenger side of your car down to bare metal. My wife is particularly skilled in this manoeuvre.

Being the rational, calm, collected and considered individual that I am, I normally take such events in my stride with an:

"Oh well, never mind the small scratch (again) dear".

Followed up with a considerate:

"At least nobody is injured - we can always mend the car (again) dear" for good measure.

Okay, so these might not be my exact selection of words and I might possibly be thinking:

"Jesus Christ I should take out shares in that local body shop or at least get a special reduced rate for an advanced regular schedule of 12 annual visits" \- but you get my drift.

Of course, whilst turning left is relatively easy, it does have the slight disadvantage of requiring a minor detour around the village to loop back up to the main road. That's the road with approximately 100,000 vehicles travelling at 128.7 miles an hour with the width of a cigarette paper between each one. And, when I say minor detour, although it's never been measured precisely, it must be of the order of 575 miles and at the very least requires 2 complete tank-full's of petrol to be sure you'll make it.

If you do manage to make it back to the main road, you will have the advantage that at this point the main road is straight and visibility is good in both directions. If you are attempting to turn left into the road, immediately, and I do mean IMMEDIATELY, you get onto the main road the kind souls from OCC have elected to site a pedestrian crossing there. (I can't even be bothered to explain the OCC acronym – please look at the glossary at the back). What this means is, that to be able to get out onto the main road you will need at least 420 bhp and 298 lb ft of torque to be able to propel your arse from zero to 128.7 miles an hour in 0.04 seconds, so matching your speed to that of the intergalactic convoy that is participating in the MAISTUC event. You will also require carbon ceramic disc brakes at least 4 feet in diameter that can take you back down from 128.7 miles an hour to zero again in the 2.65 feet there is from the junction to the pedestrian crossing. This is because the lights to the crossing WILL have turned to RED. Trust me, they will. They ALWAYS DO.

In the time it takes you to assess that there is a gap wider than a cigarette paper in the convoy, make sure the crossing is clear and the lights are on green, engage and dissipate launch control to get up to full speed in the necessary 0.04 seconds, what is the MAISTUC system will have ensured that at least 1500, old nearly dead people each with a minimum age of 145, will have appeared, pressed the button on the pedestrian crossing and caused the lights to go to red. I'm never sure how the 1500 people with a minimum age of 145 appear and act so quickly within that 0.04 second window, but they always do.

And so you WILL get hit from the right (since people coming from the left will have stopped at the crossing before they have reached you). Look on the bright side. This is a slight positive, because, having just ripped the left hand side of your car to pieces coming out of our rear driveway, you will now have decimated the right hand side as well. So your car will now at least look equally shitty from both sides.

Because visibility is good you'll have also had a nice clear view of the vehicle that hit you, in the driver's side (where your arse used to be located), at about 128.7 miles an hour. You will have also had a fine, slow-motion, hi-resolution Technicolor demonstration of every hand and finger expletive gesture that has ever been invented, anywhere, world-wide, in any language.

You may now need to pause and swap names and addresses with the kind intergalactic soul that took the time and effort to readjust the aesthetic styling of your pride and joy. Not to worry, you will have plenty of time.

First and foremost, the OCC lighting system that manages to react from green to red in 0.04 seconds will now take a bit longer to get back to green. Well, maybe a bit longer than a bit longer. Okay, depending on the time of day, somewhere between 117 minutes and a couple of weeks.

I think the lights like to stay on red for a couple of reasons. Firstly, the cars, now being stationary, tend to switch their engines off. OCC think this is good and helps cut CO2 emissions, as well as also pissing everybody off. Secondly, although the 1500 nearly dead personnel now using the crossing appeared and reacted so rapidly initially (to change the lights to red), this initial exertion will have now caused them to slow down a bit. Okay, quite a bit. Okay, a lot.

Again estimates vary, but typically a few of the individuals could possibly become slightly extinct in transit and the rest of the survivors should eventually make it across somewhere between the 117 minutes and fortnight that the lights are on red. (The non-survivors then have to be carted off down a narrow lane to where there's a nice grassed area where people dig deep holes to stuff ex-people in). If there happens to be a few slow coaches who need a bit longer than a fortnight to cross, it's not a problem (for them). Because there are so many nimble 145 year olds in their gang, if the lights start to change before they have all completed the 17 feet 4 inches across the road, there will still be plenty of mates at either side to press the button and make sure the lights stay on red. Stick with it and stay calm and collected like I do. Or do your nails, lipstick and mascara like my wife. Eventually you should get moving.

So, turning left out of our rear drive also has its minor disadvantages and can lead to slight delays. And a minor rearrangement of the mechanical and structural components of your entire vehicle; and your own and any passengers arses.

So, what about turning right out of our rear drive? Well, you'll just have to trust me on this. If you EVER visit our house at any time, day or night, any day of the year, including Christmas day at 04:47 in the morning, never ever, not in your wildest dreams, even think about trying to turn right.

3. Note – I'm a scientist and we like to use lots of abbreviations for lots of different types of stuff. Don't worry - there is a big list at the back of the book translating what all the different abbreviation stuff means. Including all the CO2 stuff.

#  8 - New Computers and Software

I have been fortunate enough to grow up through my later years in secondary school and subsequently in my career, during the period when the technology boom, originating from the first commercial silicon chips, has taken place. So, here I take a good long hard (cynical) look, from the very early Sinclair, Commodore and BBC computers, to the modern Personal Computers, laptops, tablets and mobile devices we have today. And consider the progress. And demonstrate unequivocally that in some ways we have gone nowhere at all.

"Isn't technology wonderful?"

I think the correct answer to such a question is sort a qualified:

"Yes, up to a point."

Thinking back, I can remember towards the end of my first year of doing A-levels, an opportunity arose to add in some supplementary learning in the new area of Computer Science in the second year. At the time, I thought about this for approximately 5 ½ seconds, realised that it was not going to contribute to my core objectives of gaining good (oh alright, acceptable grades) in the subjects Maths, Physics and Chemistry, and could even cause a distraction, and so said a polite: "thanks, but no thanks".

Do I regret it? You bet. Try undertaking any element of any project involving any of those three subjects (or any others for that matter) now without a computer and see how far you get.

So, there's no doubt that electronic developments and computer science progression have moved things forward. But, and here's the but; it can be overdone and in many areas it is being. And when that happens, rather than the technology being a useful tool to help YOU, you become the slave of the technology; and indirectly, the companies that have a vested interest in making sure you become sucked well and truly in and brainwashed to their way of thinking.

Going beyond A-Levels and on to university, Computer Science was a core first year module for the main science subjects. And so, I began to become more involved in the area. I did what I had to do, but never really got hooked. Again, my take was that it was a necessity, but definitely a side show, not part of my primary objective of securing a good degree in Chemistry.

Degree over and starting to work my way through a PhD, and slowly, computers were appearing more frequently and in more diverse places. My future father in law, one Christmas around this time, had persuaded his wife to buy him one of the new-fangled computer things as a present; a Sinclair ZX-81. My future wife and I happened to be visiting her parents that Christmas and so I inevitably got drawn into the exploration of the new device. After all, I was a proper scientist, at least according to my father in law to be. During the few days over that Christmas break, I must confess I started, for the first time, to just about get the new technology and its potential attractions.

Back at University and guess what? I actually went out and bought one (and I still have it to this day). A ZX-81 with, wait for it, all of ONE kilobyte of memory. And here is the amazing thing. I could programme on it. I could draw graphs of experimental data from my PhD work. Indeed, the university itself even purchased a ZX-81 that a post doctorate student used to log live data from fast chemical reaction experiments.

Now, try opening any modern program, Word, any email account, Excel, PowerPoint, accountancy software, image editing software, and see how far you can get with 1 kilobyte. Precisely; exactly nowhere at all.

Just to drive home the point, open up a new blank Word document. Type in a single full stop and then save the document. Then check just how big the file is. How about 13 kilobytes? That is 13 times the memory that my ZX-81 computer had in total. The one that I could programme on and log and present real data from real experiments on. And that same memory now will in the new modern improved technology let you be the proud new owner of one thirteenth of a single solitary full stop. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I call that progress.

A year or so later, I upgraded from the ZX-81 to a Commodore 64 system, complete with 64 kilobytes of memory, tape storage recorder, monitor, dot matrix and daisy wheel printer and a 5 ¼ inch floppy disk drive. A whole new world opened up. By this time, I was starting to be properly hooked, could write decent programs in the BASIC and ALGOL programming languages and even started writing computer games in machine code. And I had the small matter of a 299 page PhD thesis to write (no, I don't know why I didn't go mad and stretch it to 300 pages either). And the Commodore 64 system did the job just fine. Okay the diagrams had to be produced by hand, stuck in place and then the page photocopied, but for the 1984 – 1986 period, it was on the money.

And so, fast forward another 6 years or so into my workplace. IBM and derivative PC's were now sprouting up everywhere and Microsoft were laying the foundations to take over the globe regarding software. From my perspective, I could still write documents, do some calculations and shift data around. Image presentation was improving, yes. But there was not a great deal of difference from my viewpoint.

Add another couple of years and the availability of the internet began to spread, at the dizzy speed of 56 kilobytes per second. I could now email, and move files around. And working freelance, with people in Plymouth, the Manchester area, Kent, Cumbria and the far North of Scotland, clearly I hold my hands up, it was a major breakthrough and made all our jobs and work possible.

So, from about 1984 to 1995, just over 10 years, we went from a single kilobyte machine to an eight megabyte RAM machine complete with a national and international instant communications capability. Pretty impressive.

So, what about 1996 to 2014, call it the best part of 20 years. What's happened over that period? Bigger faster computers; yes in theory. Word has turned blue and they have moved all the icons around so you can't do anything anymore. Excel has turned green and they have moved all the icons around so you can't do anything anymore. And that's it. That's it from my perspective. Yes, we have got broadband rather than dial-up and it's a lot faster, theoretically. But in reality it isn't. Not here; in the middle of nowhere; a full fifty odd miles from London.

And the reason is simple. In 1995 there were basically me and 6 mates using the internet. So although the system was slow, there wasn't much traffic. And the files were based on just inefficient crap memory intensive Microsoft and other programmes that were written at the time. As opposed to the completely out of this stratosphere crap and memory intensive Microsoft and other programmes we have all been conned into using in 2014.

And now, in addition to me and my 6 mates doing some proper work to try and keep the lights on occasionally, there are approximately 3.5 billion spotty teenagers all Tweeting and Fat Facing and watching wacky videos on You Tube. And so all this data, that in my world is completely irrelevant to what I need to do (which is the same as it was in 1995 and even before), simply means that although I have had to upgrade my hardware and software system 5 times over the intervening period, I can do diddly squat more now, than I could do then.

In fact I can do even less now. Because Microsoft, in full collusion with the international MAISTUC system has moved all the icons around. And multiplied them by a factor of ten million. And how many of the new ones do I ever, even remotely, under any circumstances want to use? Zilch. Not one. Not even part of one.

So, in contrast to most of the population, I don't upgrade my computer system to the new state of the art device every 45 seconds. You see - I'm not environmentally unfriendly like you lot. No, I conserve natural resources and minimise all forms of waste (except petrol and red wine - the fluid of the god's). I eke out every last second of computing power from my existing machine before I get dragged screaming and kicking, either online, or into a computer shop, to take the plunge.

I have to be dragged screaming and kicking because, although I moan and go berserk as my 5 year old relic starts to get slower and slower, I know that at least it works and more importantly I know HOW IT WORKS. And it can do all the simple word processing, calculations, publishing and graphic stuff that I need it to do. And it can email and check stuff on the inter-web.

So I always go through a phase where everybody chastises me and emphasises that the reason my machine is slow (and I therefore increasingly moan) is because it is out of date and if I upgraded to a new modern super-duper device it would be quicker, more efficient and my entire world would be transformed.

And what irritates the tit's off me is that, even though I have been through this process 5 times and know that what they are telling me is complete and utter bollocks (sponsored by Microsoft, IBM, Dell, Google and all the rest), I keep falling for it.

I somehow always think:

"This time, they might be right. Maybe the new systems are now more efficient. Maybe they have debugged the software this time so it will be only partially crap (rather than the usual complete and utter off the radar crap). Maybe this time it will be just a simple plug and play".

And so eventually I do give in and trade up to a new super duper modern system. And every time, without fail, within 42 seconds of opening the box and switching the thing on, I realise that yet again, I have been well and truly duped under false pretences. The new system is always crapper.

It looks flash. There will be about ten billion new icons all to do ten billion things that I will never ever, even want to start to think about working out what they might do, let alone press one of the little bleeders to find out. Virtually always they open another window with a request for you to just re-programme the entire universe and click yes so they can fill 95.6% of your hard drive and all the read only and random access memory so your new super duper system will be entirely shagged and you'll need to go out and buy another one a week on Monday.

And I know that the 4 actual icons I want to use will now be buried within the depths of hell of the new machine so it will take me a minimum of 7.3 days to stand any chance of switching on Word, Excel, PowerPoint or my email system.

And now in the newest systems we have the real icing and cherry on the cake. You see, the real new devices like to make life easier for us. Oh shit! Make sure our system is right bang up to date. Running on the very latest complete pile of crap that some spotty 4 year old 8 cell organism has just finished coding. Probably on a Friday morning before he pissed off to the boozer to kick off an all weekend Stag do in Dublin.

And to make it easy for you, the machine just applies the upgrades (nice word upgrades, implies we are going UP, sort of improving), in the background. Does it ask you? Negative. It knows best. It's in bloody charge now so you just shut the f**k up and do as you're told.

The result of this helpfulness is that if by some miracle you had happened to work out how the hell to use your new super duper machine, you soon bloody won't do. The code that the spotty 4 year old 8 cell organism has just delivered seamlessly and wirelessly into your machine will make absolutely damn sure of that.

So, go on, tell me now technology really is moving me forward.

Oh I can hear the cries. What about technology on the move. Mobile phones, tablets and the like. Well that's all for another article, which should be seriously off the rant meter scale. But, suffice it to say, tablets, in my world, are small circular white things that you pop into your gob in the morning to cure any wild headaches after you misjudged the point at which you should stop in the beer and vin rouge extravaganza the previous evening.

#  14 - Population Import for Todays' Pensioners

So, the intergalactic superhuman species of deep intellectual thinkers who inhabit Westminster have started to put some serious thought into the ticking time bomb of our time. No, no, not THAT ticking time bomb. Not the '0.035% CO2 bogey man is going to turn your garden into a desert and raise sea levels by 115 metres so you all drown', time bomb. The other one. The 'pension shortfall that will result in everybody over 70 becoming exceedingly poor, seriously pissed off and going on a train to London to shoot a load of incompetent arseholes' time bomb. Well worry no longer. What you weren't worried? No, me neither. But even if you had been, you can now stop being.

So, the collective brainpower of our great and mighty have been in deep assessment. No, no, nothing to do with that MP and his Secretary bird checking out the structural integrity of his desk and topping up her fluid levels. Not that deep assessment.

A deep assessment of the pension problem, the various possible solutions and finally, the presentation of the preferred solution. Well, fortunately for you, I've had a look at their assessment. And, unsurprisingly, it is all complete bollocks. But not to worry, I have done my own re-assessment of their assessment and come up with a number of slightly simpler possible solutions that would actually work.

Well, apparently oldies, are you all listening, because it's all your fault. You see, you have all had a great time, buying new cars and stuff, eating out in all the new fancy restaurants, going on foreign holidays every five minutes. But you naughty lot, you haven't been saving enough for your retirement.

And it now turns out that all the home office great minds from the 40's to the 60's and beyond had you all pencilled in to peg it 6 months before your 68th birthday. But now it appears that most of you grumpy, selfish inconsiderate gits and gittesses are managing to keep on breathing until nearly 90 or beyond. Which, you see, is causing the poor current sod at number eleven Downing Street a bit of a headache. A bit of a hole so to speak.

A hole that needs filling - quickly. Calm down you lot in you know where; and for god's sake put your pants back on. A bit of decorum, please.

Now, our man at number eleven firstly has a little confession to make. It's in relation to the dosh he and a load of the previous lot used to nick out of your wage packets and salaries under the pretence that they were buying gold or some other useful commodity and sticking it away in a big vault stamped with "Mr and Mrs Smith's pension dosh".

So that when you retired you could come and sell bits of your gold bar or other stored valuables and go and buy Cornflakes, Horlicks and other useful stuff. You know, so you could sort of live. Carry on breathing a bit.

Well it turns out that our man at number eleven, when he moved in, found out that one or two of his predecessors (okay, ALL of his predecessors) might have been telling slight porkies. You see, 50 years is a long time, and all them gold bars and other stuff, sat there sort of just doing nothing, seemed like a bit of a waste.

And, the thing is, when somebody retires, there is always somebody else younger just starting out working. You know, starting to save for their retirement.

So you see, all that wasted stuff, sort of just sat there doing nothing was a bit surplus to requirements. So our dearly beloveds might not have kept it all. Or they sort of might not have kept any of it. Apparently, they might have spent it. Probably on fine Claret or some decent well ballasted birds in a posh hotel.

But don't worry, it's not a problem Mr and Mrs Smith. Honestly, no problem at all. They'll sort of just take young Jonny's dosh who has just started working (you know, the dosh he's saving for his retirement) and give it to you. He doesn't need it for 50 years or so, you need it now; that's fair. When Jonny comes to retire, they'll nick some other poor sod's dosh who's just started out working and give it to him. All sorted. Everyone's a winner.

Just one little point to remind you of though Mr and Mrs Smith. Only a technicality, you understand. They just need you sign here at the bottom. Oh the technicality? Well, you just have to sort of make sure you stop expelling that nasty carbon containing pollutant before you are 69 ¾. You know, just make yourself, a little bit sort of dead. Yes, both of you. Only a minor technicality you understand.

And there we have the crux of the problem identified. Dosh that should have been saved wasn't. Mr and Mrs Smith, aided and abetted by the Genii from Westminster who chuck more and more money into the NHS to keep people alive longer and longer (joined up Government thinking anybody), won't peg it quick enough. And then the icing on the cake, not enough young little Jonnies being born, growing up and starting work to hand over dosh to the nasty inconsiderate not pegged Mr and Mrs Smiths.

Now, with that being the identified problem, I must confess there are a few options for the resolution of the said problem that spring immediately to my mind:

1. Yank Mr and Mrs Smith back out of retirement and piss them seriously off. Tell them they need to keep working for another few years (ten's a nice round number). Note: this sort of involves the politicians potentially going back on a sincere political promise to Mr and Mrs Smith, something that they tend to be a bit reluctant to do. Partially because, the lying, useless incompetent bastards might get approximately nought points at the next election.

2. Save a lot of NHS dosh - don't pile more and more money in keeping the oldies breathing longer than their natural life end. Let them peg it.

3. If the oldies don't peg it quick enough, give them a nice, gentle, considerate helping hand; with real feeling.

4. Nick even more dosh off Jonny.

5. Get more people working earlier. It used to work fine. Right tool for the job. Tall narrow chimney full of soot - clearly no job for a big fat bloke from Brum. No, but perfect for a smaller younger kid, say about 10; he's a good climber and nice and light so he won't break much if he falls. This results in earlier receipts of dosh to give to Mr and Mrs Smith and reduced expenditure on college tuition fees; again it's a complete win-win.

Just get back to the basics. Concentrate on the fundamentals. Yep, clearly any of the above or a combination of the above would do. You have to quite simply either:

Stop the ongoing expenditure tail from Mr and Mrs Smiths' getting too long; or

Increase the up-front early income from Jonny and his young mates (and for the numpties in you know where here is the key bit) FROM YOUR EXISTING MANAGED POPULATION.

Now, I do have to confess, the one option that didn't spring to my mind, not under any circumstances, was:

Let's continually import more and more young Jonny foreigners and get them working, so we can nick some of their dosh to give to Mr and Mrs Smith.

Pyramid selling anybody?

Now, I wonder which strategy those in the know might be adopting? And indeed with a straight, sincere we know what's best for you face. Jesus!

#  15 - Improving the Political Process

So people, it seems most of you aren't over keen on politicians. Well, here I explain why you are indeed all correct and why most politicians are exactly what you consider them to be. But, I don't just leave it at the stone throwing stage. No, yet again, totally free of charge, I give the 650 fine specimens in SW1 two perfectly workable solutions to the problem of how they could improve the 'connection' between themselves and the general public. Only two. Nice and simple, even for them. So, which one will they not choose?

Now, there are occasional odd hints here and there throughout this book that politicians and other government officials in general, may not be exactly my cup of tea; not top of my dinner party guest list so to speak. And here, in contrast to 99.95 % of this book, where I believe I might typically be in a minority of about one, I am flushed to be able to say, confidently, that I will be in the MAJORITY. Comfortably. Probably by about 68 million to 650, at a rough, order of magnitude guess. How can this be? How, on this occasion, can you lot also be right?

Now, I like to watch, if it fits in with my work commitments, bits and pieces of political and news type programmes. It helps to keep my blood pressure topped up to around the 150 psi level. This makes life more on the edge and interesting.

So, a bit of breakfast TV in the morning, a slug of Daily Politics at lunchtime if I'm not busy, news in the evening, Question Time and Newsnight if I've been good and kept my red wine intake for the day down to less than two bottles and am still conscious. Which is very unlikely. Still, when I nod off and then subsequently wake up at 03:45 in the morning with the screen all white and fuzzy, at least I'll know I'll have been doing my bit to help the poor beleaguered UK power industry keep returning a profit. And helping to maintain my expansive carbon-footprint.

You see it really is difficult to know where to start on this one. Really, to do it justice, you need to be able to start simultaneously on 107,555 parallel rants of an intensity and ferocity that would have even the most ardent mass murderer blushing and cowering in the corner.

But it's a lot easier to stick at a nice high fundamental level that even my mates in you know where might be able to follow. Because, if you get the very top level decisions correct, everything else becomes EASY and just all falls into place. Trust me, you'll see.

So, the fundamental problem, as is always stated on every news, politics bulletin and the like, normally by a few serious I came in it to make a difference types, is this:

"Why are most people not interested in being involved in politics and why is there this ever increasing detachment between politicians and the population at large?"

Err. Now I'll not take the well-trodden:

"Because you're all thieving bastards who spend most of your time fiddling expenses and getting seriously pissed in the cheap subsidised bars in Westminster" route that some of you others might.

Or the:

"Because you spend all your time flying around the world at our expense to exotic locations for slap up meals and quick 2 ½ minute International meetings to discuss how to reduce world-wide consumption, CO2 emissions (top-tip, from a scientist, don't bother, it's not the problem you've been conned into thinking it is) and third world poverty" route.

Err, on this latter point, how about don't get on the plane. Instead, park your arse in your constituency for that particular week (why does it always take at least a week for a 2 ½ minute International meeting?) and have a butty from the corner shop or a pasty for lunch. Oh and walk there to pick it up. Walk, as in cart your fat arse along by putting one foot in front of the other to propel your cellular structure in a lateral horizontal direction. It will be good for you. Good for you so that you might have just one single clean heart attack rather than a prolonged series of tremors that would cost the NHS dearly.

No, I won't take such a petty well-trodden path that others might take. I'll be mature. And positive. Provide sensible considered solutions.

So here it is, to the whole of Parliament. The reason for all the political and government inefficiency that always results in failures and leads to the consequential public detachment:

"There are too many of you and nobody can ever be truly in charge. The system you have collectively developed and seem to enjoy working within, guarantees that management by committee is the norm and failure always inevitable".

The plus side of this is that when the shit hits the fan (it always has, always does and always will), nobody is responsible. You can all just carry on. Business as usual. On you all go, merrily, to the next, monumental, multi-billion pound cock up.

Now, I wonder. Could this, just possibly, be ONE of the reasons why 67.9995 million UK citizens are starting to get, just ever so slightly, as in teeny-weeny slightly, pissed off and think that you might just possibly be, the biggest set of incompetent wasters that have ever been plonked on the planet?

This, together with the fact that you will collectively clearly do essentially anything to remain in power. I'm reasonably confident that if somebody could credibly make any of you the offer:

"I will ensure you remain in office for the next two terms provided you are prepared to just pop over and shit publically on your mother's grave" ,

650 sets of Y-fronts and G-strings would be around ankles in Westminster quicker than I could manage to utter the words:

"So where exactly is this Clapham Common?"

So that's the problem. And now to the solution. And just to make it interesting, I'm going to give you TWO possible, totally credible solutions. Try not to take the next 17 Parliaments to make your choice. It might get people a bit more pissed off with you and somebody might finally snap; and it might get, err, messy.

So, Option 1 for the revision to the UK democratic process. Cut the numbers down a bit from 650 to, err, six. Yep, you read that correctly. Not six hundred. Not six thousand. Not any six, other than the singular digit six that sits between one and ten.

We'll have one individual to cover Wales, one for Scotland (if they haven't decided to finally piss off and manage their own bit of wasteland north of the border and fend for themselves) one for the North of England, one for the South West and one for the South East. And finally, one, unambiguously clearly appointed IN CHARGE director of UK plc. A good one; like me. Then, we'll tell all the other 645 complete wasters to piss-off and find a proper job. In the private sector. Go on, make a real bloody difference.

And so to the details. Right, the job of the 5 area directors is to listen to the local government representatives (the half that are left, after we have electrified the useless and negative half that currently exist and all the non-job areas that we don't and never have needed) and reach their opinions on policy for their area, priorities, budgets etc.

All of this work will need to fit in with a new UK plc Development and Future Planning Strategy that myself and my 5 area directors will develop and finalise in a time period of no greater than 5 ½ hours from gaining office. And that will include 2 ¾ hours for a monumental piss up and lunch in the House of Commons bar. And the strategy will also fit onto 5 sides of A4. No more.

Once the area directors reach their opinions and priorities, these will be presented and discussed at the UK plc PAGM (Private Annual General Meeting). The AGM will be in private so we can seriously discuss and properly fight over the details of the implementation; without any pesky reporters hanging around and then insinuating that there could be some sort of split. There won't be – read on.

And then. And here's the key bit that will be different. I will take the bits that the area directors have done effectively and adopt them in full; and correct all their crappy shitty stuff. And then I will DECIDE unequivocally on exactly where the 1.7 trillion quid that constitutes the UK GDP is going to be allocated and prioritised. Got that? Comprendez? A decision; or actually, a number of decisions.

So HS2, scrapped, saving £50 billion (but with the normal BSF5 (bullshit factor five) that applies to all government projects, really £250 billion). Instead, 6 new proper tarmac arteries running from north to south, 7 lanes in both directions. Contract awarded to the chap with the rosy cheeks, red nose and green shirt with a leaf on it. Total cost, £125; all in; cash on the nail, no income tax, no VAT. Simples.

Power industry related expenditure? Green taxes based on deluded science and incompetent politics – scrapped.

Windmills? All new plans based on subsidies - scrapped.

Ditto for solar farms. (Note: farms are where you grow plants to eat and rear animals that shit discs three foot in diameter. 350 million square miles of aluminium and glass does not, under any definition, constitute a bleeding farm8. It's a bloody power station. An inefficient crappy eyesore of one, but a power station nonetheless). If these are viable in a dark miserable country where it pisses it down with rain 348 days a year, let the commercial sector build them. If not, Foxtrot Oscar.

EU? No longer an issue. We pulled out the first Tuesday after the Monday we got elected.

Closing coal fired power stations? With our power supply capacity? Jesus, are you kidding? Scrapped.

New nuclear power station – check. Do one, bring it in on time, to budget and we might do another.

Fracking - check.

Legal and prison system? See specific separate chapters for coherent economical solutions.

Get the picture?

I thought so. Too much Err, Option 1? Too effective? Might be a bit too economical and push us a bit too far up the global competiveness table?

Not to worry, try Option 2. This is a bit less radical. Okay, a lot less radical. In fact, keep on reading, I think some of you might even fancy it.

So, the current system ensures that nobody can do or change anything, virtually ever. But, if by some collective miracle the 650 of you manage to turn up, point all your arses in the same direction and a majority raise their hands at the same time and vote something through, the sure thing is the decision/change selected will always be WRONG. And it will always cost Joe Public about £165 billion.

So, let's be radical. Think outside the box so to speak. Let's just not bother. Don't touch or change anything. Don't even try. Oh, we can have the elections, just like we currently do. Keep up the pretence of democracy bit. After the elections you can even all go and have your photos taken at Westminster smiling in the sun and then have a huge great piss up at an expensive establishment in the City.

And then, completely FOC to each and every one of you, with your other half just to make sure you are getting your right to a family life under the Human Rights Act9, we will ship you all off for a 5 year, all inclusive, drink as much as you can, holiday somewhere sunny. We might not be able to afford the Caribbean, but it will be somewhere nice; maybe the Canaries (warm and sunny all year, no hurricane season, perfect).

Your responsibility will be precisely NIL10. Zilch. Nothing. Don't even think about changing anything, locally, nationally or internationally. So:

\- No new computer systems. Get Janice and Joan back with their fancy coloured cards and filing cabinets.

\- No new laws.

\- No new judges; and, as they die off don't bother replacing them.

\- No inquiries.

\- No new focus groups.

\- No new "let's get the management consultants in to fleece our arses off (again)".

No nothing.

Just some good old continuity and consistency, safe in the knowledge that you would no longer be taking any actions that would screw this country further and further down the sewer.

And I'll take a bet. The world would keep on turning. The local government stuff would trundle on with all the local government stuff; schools, roads, clamping my car and the like. The civil service would dish out the dosh. HMRC would collect the taxes. The airports would carry on flying and trying not to crash planes. They could even carry on pissing-off every poor sod in the 9 mile queue for security - just for old time's sake.

The police, health service, legal system, nothing, would as much as flinch. And because everybody would know, there was going to be no meddling, no attempt to change anything, everybody would just get on with it.

Business would have no uncertainty:

"Are they going to change this tax regime or that? Is this new allowance going to be brought in?" Nope. Negative.

"That's what it is and that's how it's staying. For ever".

No more £160 billion cock ups. No more new road systems. Use the ones you've got; Paddy will come and fill the holes in and we'll organise a resurface every 20 years or so.

Now just for once in your lives, try and make a decision. So if you could all just drag your arses out of the Dog and Duck and pop over the road into the big posh hall with puke green seats; arses towards the walls, noses to the middle. Any still capable, please try and extract your arse from the seat and adopt a vaguely vertical orientation. Ms Plenty of Ballast in the middle – please try to refrain from belching and farting.

Now, focus and concentrate and raise your hands at the appropriate time. So, is it Option 1? Or Option 2?

Simples!

8. I would just have just LOVED to be at that meeting when the WOD invented this term.

MP: "How the bloody hell are we going to swing this one through without them noticing? You know, get them to buy into the crappy in-efficient eyesores that don't work and nobody wants and we don't need."

WOD: "Err, well we could do what we normally do. You know, sort of con them and bribe them a bit."

MP: "How do you mean?"

WOD "How about we don't call the crappy eyesore power stations, power stations. What about 'farms'? After all, we are trying to 'harvest' some energy. Oh, and let's pay the silly bleeders 4 times the going rate for the odd electron they manage to squeeze out. Guaranteed for the next 25 years".

MP: "Brilliant – have a 400,000 % pay rise with immediate effect".

It must be absolutely fantastic to be able to just piss about with other people's money on such a monumental scale and not give a toss.

9. HRA – that reminds me; under option 1, scrap it in full the instant we are elected.

10. Oh go on then – drink yourselves into a coma. Just make sure you make a very quick transition to the other side. We don't want to be pissing about with loads of expensive life support machines.

#  16 - Roundabouts, Red Tarmac and Chicanes

What never ceases to amaze me is how, even when public money is supposedly extremely tight and in many places cuts are made that possibly, or even probably, shouldn't be made, you can still look around and see money just being frittered away in other areas. And the likelihood is that there will be at best very little benefit, and more often than not, no benefit or even a dis-benefit. So let's just have a casual meander around how, in our neck of the woods, money gets spent on roads, and stuff to do with roads. Like repairing potholes, new mini-roundabouts and exciting stuff like different coloured tarmac.

So, if we are strapped for cash, in my world, I think my thinking in respect of roads might have gone something like this.

"Not got much dosh. I know, what we'll basically do is stick with what we've got. But if it pisses with rain and then freezes and creates the odd pot-hole, I'll give Jim fifty quid a pop to go out, slap some tarmac in and stamp it down a bit.

Right, that's it then. So no new 500 million quid motorways on our patch. No new super duper doughnut or hamburger style roundabouts with 10 million sets of traffic lights so nobody has the faintest bloody clue which lane they need to be in. Or whether they can turn left, or right, or both, or chuck a U'ie up their own arse. No new double mini-roundabouts to make the probability of pile ups equal to one. No new idiotic red tarmac with white gates either side on the verge as you enter all 15 million towns, villages and hamlets. No new chicanes and sleeping policemen every ten yards. And no more bloody speeding, sorry 'safety', cameras."

JUST basically keep the roads we've already got, vaguely capable of enabling a metal box with 4 wheels able to travel down it, simultaneously enabling all 4 wheels to stay vaguely attached to the box. And preferably enabling the attached wheels to remain capable of a motion commonly referred to as rotation.

"There you go, Mr Chancellor. We don't need the 16.75 billion quid this year, about 17 ½ grand should keep Jim and his transit with a bit of tarmac going for the year; is that a big enough saving for you? Would you like me to have a quick look at welfare for you; see if I can knock a few quid off there as well?"

That's what any sane rational member of the human race would do. Any householder for instance:

"Cancel the new super fancy three foot thick reinforced concrete drive with fancy block paving effect plastered on top I intended having. It's going to be a bit tight for the next few years, so can I just have half a tonne of gravel instead?".

Of course, we are not dealing with sane members of the human race. And so what you actually see is, Jim and his truck sent packing, let go because of the savage central cuts.

"Sorry about the pot holes, could you just all slow down to 3.75 miles per hour in order to keep your vehicle not completely knackered; only partially knackered. And no you can't have any compensation; we've no money left because of the nasty central government cuts".

Meanwhile, bloody hamburger style roundabouts with fly overs and tunnels spring up with complete abandon. And they all have at least a 156 sets of traffic lights on, each with 17 different sequence settings. And the only guaranteed deliverable in all of the changes is that the traffic, before, at and after the new roundabout will be about a 156 times worse than before it appeared.

But even neglecting the big major developments (I refuse to use the word improvements), millions are wasted on minor developments, that, but for the fact that they will screw up your journey to and from work each and every day, could easily go unnoticed.

Just fathom the logic.

"Houston we have a problem. Local yobs in Crapville are racing too fast down that long straight road between Arsehole Street and Queens Avenue at between 02:45 and 04:30 in the morning over the weekend. They keep waking up all the locals and occasionally rearranging the front of Mrs Jackson's two up two down. Also, it is upsetting for some of our officers when they have to scrape the brains of the Dimwit twins off Mrs Jackson's front wall and pick up their balls that landed in the Dog and Duck car park 3 streets away".

So, I can accept we have a problem that needs sorting. It's just their methods that baffle me a bit.

You see, here, on Planet Me, I think my solution might sort of involve nobbling a few rozzers and telling them that they are going to get paid treble money at night next weekend to plonk their arses in an unmarked V8 turbocharged Corsa fitted with 007 sub-machine guns and an automatically ejected spikey tyre deflation thingy just before Mrs Jacksons two up two down in Crapville. Then, when the Dimwit twins came screaming past they would have two discretionary options at their disposal:

Option 1 (best make this sort of the preferred one): Eject spikey tyre deflation thingy and when they grind to a halt or smack into something gently drag them out of the car by their dangly bits and cart them off to the local station. Then, humanely electrify them. Gently, with 135 megavolts. With real feeling, sentiment, consideration and respect.

Option 2 (back up option in case the spikey thing doesn't eject or they manage to avoid it): Machine gun the bastards. Then go out and pick up the bits.

Unfortunately we are not on Planet Me. We are on Planet Complete Dick Head at the Local Authority. So their solution goes a bit like this:

Ignore fundamental issue of specific timings and specific persons involved. Assess problem as cars travelling too fast down that long straight road between Arsehole Street and Queens Avenue in Crapville.

Without further ado, immediately order:

\- 228 tonnes of tarmac.

\- 575 kerb stones.

\- 75 fluorescent black and white stripy bollards with a guaranteed life expectancy of 15 ½ minutes.

\- 150 bright red reflective disks compete with bollard attachment brackets.

\- One 7 ½ tonne JCB.

\- One dumper truck.

\- Eight 6 tonne skips.

Then procure the services of the extortionate thieving Management Consultant who wrote the specification last time for the construction of the traffic calming chicanes on How Do We Fall For It Avenue. 17 ½ weeks and a fee and 1.6 million smackers seems very reasonable for the all new Specification for the construction of traffic calming chicanes on the long straight road between Arsehole Street and Queens Avenue in Crapville.

Then ring Paddy and give him the job of constructing 75 chicanes down the long straight road between Arsehole Street and Queens Avenue in Crapville. The usual reasonable payment terms of £1.35/h, payable within 6 months after the end of the month in which the final chicane is completed; all materials and equipment supplied by the Local Authority.

At the same time (to improve efficiency), award Paddy the contract to go out, not more than one week following the completion of the construction work, to pick up 75 completely shagged and demolished bollards and reflector bits, extract any of what remains of the kerbstones and raised tarmac chicanes and make good to the original road finish.

This last bit is always required, because what the idiots at central control don't seem to be able to fathom is that if you remove, in an alternating fashion, half of a roads throughput capacity two things result:

At the weekend between 02:45 and 04:30 in the morning the Dimwit Twins (they must have just had their brains popped back in and their balls stitched back on) just LOVE your new features and challenges. It's just like proper racing, all that braking, swerving and accelerating.

During the week at between 07:00 and 09:00 in the morning and 16:30 and 18:30 in the evening, when all the poor bastards that pay your wages are trying to get into work to carry on paying your wages, the queues will build up for 18 miles in both directions. After precisely one morning and one evening of this idiocy, a big fat seriously pissed off geezer in a 47 tonne HGV will go out at 02:45 in the morning and flatten 75 off of your finest vertical black and white knob ends, complete with reflectors. All ready for Paddy to get your call.

So once again another Local Authority success story:

1. You only slightly missed the main problem and then actually made it worse. The Dimwit twins managed to consume extra petrol and emit even more CO2, braking swerving and accelerating around your new features.

2. Likewise, petrol consumption and CO2 emissions were increased 145,000 % daily while the poor bastards queued to try and pay your wages.

3. UK productivity was reduced into the bargain while arses sat in your queue rather than getting on with inventing and manufacturing stuff.

4. A complete waste of 228 tonnes of tarmac, 575 kerb stones, 75 fluorescent black and white stripy bollards and 150 bright red reflective disks compete with bollard attachment brackets. Anybody up for reducing consumption, energy usage and emissions?

And it's not just chicanes, the lunacy and incompetent extravagance on minor bits and pieces of non-required crap just goes on and on. Three sets of double mini-roundabouts in 350 yards?

"Sure no problem. Slap them in - it'll be great. Make sure there are preferably only 3 roads meeting at the point where you decide to stick them. You know, the sort of junction that doesn't even really need one roundabout let alone two. Maximum of 4 roads of course and extra bonus points for anybody who can slap a double mini-roundabout in the middle of a normal single road that has no junctions at all."

"Oh and Rachel, can you just check that Kevin in purchasing did indeed put that order in for the 145,000 tonnes of nice red tarmac. If he has, just check when it arrives and then see if Jack on the 4th floor has any idea yet where we are going to stick it?"

"Sorry, Rachel, it's not a very good line - you're breaking up. Where did you say you thought we should stick it?"

Now, finally to my new novel and interesting highly technical experiment:

"What happens when 1.6 tonnes of metallic blue personal propulsion machine collides with the complete dick head at the local council who has a fetish for red tarmac and chicanes?"

# 17 - Prisons – My Dad's Version

My dad's a thoroughly nice chap. Not at all like me. I think I get my livelier, grumpier edge from his Father who I never met. Anyhow, Dad's now in his 70's, so even he, nice and calm as he is, can have his 'moments'. And he too can get a bit 'livelier' and 'edgier'. And this feature is my take, on one of his grumps that I happen to also thoroughly and utterly agree with. It's about how to make Britain's prisons economical to build and run and effective at keeping the geezers you want kept in, in.

Once again for this feature, all analysis and solutions are put forward in a pro-active way, to assist our beloved representatives, in improving efficiency, reducing waste and costs. Just make sure you are sitting down and have a large glass of CH3CH2OH containing fluid (alcoholic beverage anybody?) handy.

So, the prison problem(s) can be sort of summarised thus:

\- Not enough places.

\- Too expensive to keep people there.

\- Too many problems with drugs inside.

\- Too much re-offending when people get out.

\- Too many suicides.

\- Nasty prisoners keep burning the places down.

Well, they will very rapidly become ex-problems in me and my Dad's world. Now this really is so bloody simple, even the lot in SW1 might understand. I'll give the executive summary (short) version of the answers to the above statements in chronological order, then for completeness I'll just elaborate some of the details for final clarification.

So, to the short version:

\- Build more.

\- Build cheaper prisons that are very cheap to run.

\- See design of new prisons below.

\- Don't let them out.

\- Good.

\- See design of new prisons below.

Got that? It's a complete piece of piss. Even for you know who.

So, now to elaborate a bit. Put a bit of flesh on the bones so to speak. It all becomes, clear, once again if you focus on the big strategic issues. This, I am good at. It is also clearer, if we deal with the fundamental issue first, because then, all the rest just slots naturally into place.

So the fundamental issue? Simply, it relates to the design and construction of prisons.

So, the current (incorrect) design principles are sort of:

\- Treat people kindly.

\- Give them space.

\- Serve them nice food.

\- Provide satellite TV.

\- Let them play snooker.

\- Give them outside exercise.

\- Let them have visitors.

In a word: wrong; wrong; wrong; wrong; wrong; wrong; wrong!

So, to the new improved prison design. It's small, meets the basic requirements, is non-combustible, cheap (to build and run), makes it difficult to commit suicide (but this feature is variable according to personal preference and local conditions) and has a whole new feature. Namely, that once the specimens are deposited inside, there is no need whatsoever for any further direct contact until you need to send a nice officer in to sweep out the remains all ready for the next guest.

So what does it look like, this new prison design? Try a fenced site, of specified size surrounded by twenty foot razor wire fencing with occasional submachine gun posts. And some good lighting - so you can continue to easily shoot people even at night.

And inside the fenced area?

\- A specified number off of individual completely re-inforced concrete pens (floor, walls, slight pitched roof).

\- One reinforced concrete lockable entrance door.

\- One food entrance slot.

\- One rear, horizontally mounted circular pissing/shitting hole fed into an externally sited sewage outlet system.

\- Internal 6' 6" x 2' 6" non-flammable reinforced concrete sleeping slab.

\- One pair of bright pink boxer shorts for bloke inmates and one hessian sack with head and arm holes for any chicks.

And that is it. Total cost per unit £27.65.

Operational costs:

\- One bloke to wander round putting teddy bear picnic finger food (my youngest son loves these - they'll go down great) through the food slot three times a day.

\- One bloke and one machine gun.

And. Err, no. I think that's it. Call it £50k a year staff costs.

Additional costs? Food, 70p a meal, three times a day for a thousand prisoners per prison; say about £760k/year.

So, less than a million quid a year all in. £1000/head per ANNUM.

No visitors. No drugs. Nothing to burn. And no re-offending because everybody comes out in bits in a small tin box.

Then, Mr Home Secretary, you can run a nice big advert explaining, in words of one syllable, that you do not care how many prisons you need, you will never run out of places for all the nasty arses. And since each prison costs about 10p each, you can afford to just keep building them (right up to the 68 million inmate mark if necessary). And there'll be no satellite TV; or snooker; or sly nooky with any visitors (or fellow inmates); or drugs.

However, I do have a slight suspicion that after you had built and operated the first few, demand for your new establishments might become somewhat reduced. Reinforced concrete compact residence manufacturers might see a significant reduction in sales volumes. And vacancies for Prison Bits Sweeper Uppers, might sort of dry up.

Now, do you see just how easy it is when you focus on the fundamentals?

# 19 - The French System

Now I'm sure I must be just imagining all this - but France - how does it work? How do the numbers possibly add up? Put simply, how the hell do they get away with it? I just can't get my head around the collective suicidal way the 'French system' as a whole appears to manage things. Anything. Anywhere. Anytime. Just none of it should work the way they run things. And now it seems, the brown stuff might be just about to make close proximity contact with the large rotating circular object. Les poulet's might just be coming home to roost11.

For the first 20 years or so after leaving home for university, meeting my girlfriend (now my first wife), starting our jobs, having our first son, we went abroad on holiday. Mainly to Greek or Spanish Islands for some summer sun and different food and drink, occasionally further afield to America or Australia.

Over these years we went maybe a couple of times to France, but only for a day trip or so to top up on cheap booze. (Before the EU decided to do away with our Duty Free). On the whole, we flew straight over France to somewhere much friendlier and sunnier.

I am not sure what changed this pleasant state of affairs, but change it did. In reality it was probably a combination of:

1. The fact that the aviation industry did its utmost to make sure that flying anywhere, for any duration, became the most tedious, crappiest, time consuming, godforsaken form of travel that no sensible living organism of any form, no matter how basic or simple it's cell structure may be, would ever volunteer to partake in.

2. The fact that some 11 years after we had our first son, we had our second, and this made the pure unadulterated delight of air travel even less appetizing;

3. The fact that some friends of people we know packed in working for one particular completely ill-conceived, incompetently managed heap of crap government organisation, moved to France and bought a farm house with some Gites. I call them Gits, but the frogs (not the little green squashed ones) tend to get a bit upset.

Whatever the reason, the fact is that ever since our youngest son was born 12 years ago, we have, each summer, extended our ongoing experience of France, up from an original 2.6 days for the first 40 years spent on planet earth to something exceeding a hundred times that in the last 12 years. This often involves driving down through France to our friend's farmhouse for a while and then maybe spending a week or so at a campsite on the coast somewhere.

For the avoidance of doubt all of the following is, I am absolutely sure, just my vivid imagination; a sort of wild hallucination. I am not really saying any of the following; no, not at all.

So I like FRANCE the country. The fields. The vineyards. The food. The wine. The sun (reasonable, if you go far enough south and are not unlucky). The rural spaced out-ness. The all dark clear starlit skies. The roads (as long as it is not anywhere circumnavigating any of the major cities, especially Bordeaux or Lyons, or ANYWHERE in France travelling south on the first weekend in August or travelling North in the final weekend of August/beginning of September).

I certainly don't dislike the French people, as individuals. However, what, I cannot get my head around, is the collective, suicidal way the French system as a whole seems to manage things. Things like:

\- Toll booths.

\- Restaurants that close at lunchtime or in the evening, or often both.

\- Restaurants in major tourist areas that close and put signs in their doors saying Ferme 15 Julliet – 7 Septembre, so they can sod off on holiday. For anybody not fluent in French, I think the bit in italics can be roughly translated along the lines of:

"Eff-off you bastard (mostly English) potential customers. We just aren't interested and have gone on hols. Oh, and we enjoy going out of business (annually)."

\- Restaurants that say they serve food at lunchtime until 2:30 pm, but, if you dare to even think of entering and sitting down after 1:25 pm the chef will come out with a 17 foot long knife and yours and all your family's livers and kidneys will be on the evening menu for the next three nights.

\- EC funded museums in the middle of nowhere that must have cost upwards of 1.4 billion Euros (sorry, Deutsche Marks) to construct and receive 0.76 visitors per fortnight but are staffed by about 147 tour guides, each fully multi-lingual in French and err, French.

\- Tourist attractions in any major city in France, where they know approximately half the world's population are guaranteed to visit every year, including English, Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Dutch, Finnish, Norwegian, Swedish, Turkish, Indian, Russians and the rest, but every single sign and linguistic tool available will be in any language you like, so long as it's French. The main sign giving the summary of the attraction will be about 1.4 square miles in size with 1500 detailed photographs all annotated in French. There will, of course, be a 0.35 square centimetre portion in the bottom right hand corner of the summary sign, probably written in Swahili, allegedly presented so that the Frogs could qualify for the 176 billion Euro EC grant that demanded that the facility be open and available to all, of any ethnic background or nationality. It always amazes me that the EC officials that seem to hand over the 176 billion Euro's never appear to be puzzled by the fact that on final inspection, what they have actually received for their money is a 15.6m x 17.8m tin shed keeping the rain of a few old bricks and chipped tiles that were put there, completely free of charge to the French (and the EC) by the Romans a good few centuries ago. There must also be, I imagine, a good few (at a guess, 117,500 or so) very happy, very fat, extremely drunk, French officials.

I could go on. And on. And on. But for all of the above reasons, I just can't imagine how France works. Or how it pays for itself. Or doesn't.

Just think about it. Apart from the tourist industry, that consists of:

\- A few campsites dotted around the coastline (net total economic value per annum - about 17 euros 45 cents).

\- Some dilapidated farmhouses and Gites dotted around the countryside (say a few million euros).

\- A range of hotel establishments decorated in that quaint 1960's blue vinyl flowered wallpaper style that if anybody even attempted to get away with outside of France the hotel would be out of business within about 45 seconds of the first guests arriving (and leaving) (economic value un-measurably small).

\- The restaurants that close when anybody is likely to be around and remotely wanting to eat anything (lets be positive, say 100's of millions of euro's; mainly spent on fine shellfish and Dame Blanches).

\- The vineyards (I don't know - probably in excess of 200 billion euro's).

Everything, EVERYTHING else, appears to be financed, owned, run and apparently (mis)managed, either directly or indirectly, by the French state:

\- The road system.

\- The (mainly nuclear) power industry.

\- The car industry.

\- The railways.

\- The airlines.

\- The inefficient over-subsidised farming industry.

Everything.

Now, when it comes to organising a piss up in a brewery, I would not recommend any UK government or government related organisation as being remotely up to the job. But the French system appears to be in a completely different league - a premier league of one - of incompetence compared to their equivalent UK organisations.

So, all the bureaucracy and inefficiency that comes with any state management runs virtually the entire French system. Well over 50% of the Frogs are employed by the state. Do the maths – well less than half the people work, to get taxed to the hilt, to pay 100% of the salaries of the (over) other half who line their pockets while pissing about. All allegedly cooking the books and fleecing the EU so they can pretend that it all works just fine.

They all seem to retire at 60 or less, on generous, free for all, fat pensions. They don't turn up or open for business for much of the year. They mostly start late and slope off nice and early for some quality family time.

When they are present most of them are probably pissed most of the time. At the drop of a hat, the entire country will go on strike and do their absolute utmost to make sure that anything that was working in their economy is irreversibly and completely screwed. And, if they can screw up their neighbours economy's into the bargain (think closing French airspace, blockading every port into and out of the country), so much the better.

And nobody blinks. Everybody just marches on regardless. Does anybody, ANYWHERE sit down and scratch their head and think - this just doesn't add up? The EU? The Americans? The Japanese? The Russians? The Chinese? Us? Nope. Nobody even pauses for breath.

The Frogs appear to be able to run their own little unofficial system, presumably with a good number of not so prominent French euro printing presses quietly humming away in dark barns squat up and down the countryside, while the powers that be in Paris, Brussels and Strasbourg quietly quill their latest work of artistic fiction: The Official French Accounts and Annual Reports.

Now we know how good the EU is at adding up and maffematix type stuff; having never managed to even get a set of audited accounts signed off in the last 17 years. Just take that in, the EU, PAYING huge fees to sets of auditors that in the past have waved through the great and the good including ENRON and the rest, cannot get a signature on the dotted line. It's all allegedly something to do with the entry somewhere in the small print12 that says something along the lines of: "Miscellaneous Uncategorised Expenditure: Euro 184.6 Billion." So I certainly wouldn't recommend that we got the EU's cronies in to tackle the French piss up in the vineyard, but come on. Somebody else can surely get in there and have a bloody good grope around in their French drawers.

Unless, of course, everybody else is just as bad?

"Now there is a thought".

11. Serves them bloody right for letting a left wing raving lunatic from "Holland" run the show. I mean, France and Holland - they're nothing like one another. Completely different; Holland is as flat as a pancake and France is as hilly as shit.

12. Allegedly – Jean-Claude-Willy's International Piss-up and shagging fund.

# 24 - Global Economy

Today we live and have to compete in a Global Economy. A world-wide market place. We have to be competitive. Lean, mean and effective to survive. We need to make sure we stay within that larger family that constitutes the towering epicentre of economic competence, efficiency and dynamism, the European Union (EU). OMFG! And just for good measure, we send out gangs of our politicians around the globe on jaunts to sniff out 'best practice' and point us in the direction of success. What follows is a logical, methodical dissection of where we are now, where we might be heading and where we are definitely going to end up.

Once again, it really is impossible to know where to start. Do you kill yourself laughing first? Or, do you attempt the logical, methodical dissection of where we are now, where we might be heading and where we might end up. And then slash your wrists at the end. If the latter, please remember to go down the arm, not across. It is your moral duty to do the job properly. We don't want any expensive to maintain partial survivors; only the raw material for glue.

In any event, one or two of you might decide to first take an environmentally friendly train journey into central London, let's say maybe Westminster, and create a bit of excitement inside a beautiful old building.

So, to the EU. Now why anybody with more than three brain cells can't see that if you stick with the developed consensus of that lot the chances of staying even remotely competitive with anybody, let alone the Chinese and the rest of the Far East is precisely zero, is just completely beyond me. Again, just to be clear. 'That lot' refers to the centralised political elite representatives, not the separate European populations as individuals, who I suspect are just as infuriated as us, if not more so. Either that or they just decide to simply ignore on the ground the latest set of arsehole Directives to spew out of Brussels and carry on enjoying fine wine, pasta and cheese.

Leading the way of course, and I really have been trying, with all my might, to avoid this subject, but I can contain my excitement no longer, is the latest great band wagon to do with Global Warming.

"Shit, sorry, technical mishap, slight slip, old, yesterday's terminology - I mean, Climate Change. Because we aren't warming, not any more. Even though the supposed culprit CO2 is rising. Still. But, no matter."

The new name does give a bit of a clue I suppose. Climate CHANGE. What, change, a bit like has been happening since we started out as a ball of gas, and then cooled and solidified a bit? And has been varying and changing ever since. Sometimes warmer, sometimes colder. And varying well before man appeared and long before the CO2 concentration was being increased by any of man's (and woman's) activities.

Now, I know there are thousands of scientists out there arguing the toss, for and against. It's interesting that it all used to be fairly one sided. Say about a 100,000 or so scientists and engineers as believers leading the politicians in the direction of renewables (it really is, just candy from babies – solar panel anybody? Perhaps a nice windmill?) and about two against. Me and a famous botanist off of the TV.

Now I'm a nobody and I knew in any case that you wouldn't change the mind of the 100,000 or so on the gravy train. And as for the politicians, they were just wide eyed and begging to be well and truly shafted. Again. So I typically just muttered a few expletives occasionally down the pub and left it at that. On the subject of shafting the politicians, I'm sure big business never colludes. No, they don't need to. I suspect it's more just a systematic strategic understanding that happens automatically. So, no quiet meetings in the park or phone calls are ever necessary, but Del Boy just always knows when it's his turn to hit the jackpot. And boy does he hit it.

The famous botanist of course was somebody, but the second he intimated that he might not be a complete believer and thought it might not be quite worth committing the 1.6 trillion dollars per second to the windmill/solar cause, the powers that be soon made sure he became a nobody again. Quicker in fact than an MP can say:

"Who's for a quick lap of Clapham Common" and check that his Y-fronts are clean.

Now I knew then and still know now, that I couldn't, and still can't, compete in the:

"Have you read those ten zillion articles on CO2 levels in ice samples, temperature profiles over the last 17 millennia, carbonate variations in the deep ocean etc. etc." game.

And I can't prove they are wrong about what they claim (but I believe they are13 and importantly, I don't really give a toss about trying to convince them). But I also know that they can't prove that they are right.

Oh, they'll say they can. They'll quote the ten zillion articles and witter on. But, if they are seriously trying to say something like this:

"We now fully understand the energy balance between the stuff entering the earth's atmosphere, that reaching the earth's surface, that being absorbed, re-emitted, reflected, for all wavelengths. We understand how this all varies over time and how it inter-relates with all other unspecified natural factors. We also understand how all the gaseous, aerosol and particulate constituents contribute to the different energy variations. And how these various constituents interact, deposit, dissolve in the oceans, diffuse, precipitate and mineralise, thermodynamically and kinetically. And we fully understand the fluid dynamics of the atmosphere and the oceans and how these can be impacted by all potential driving forces over both long and short term".

I'd be tempted to simply reply, in extremely complicated and technical scientific terms that you won't understand, you understand:

"Complete and utter bollocks".

And it would be. It would be a delusion of how much we know and understand and how important we (humans) are in driving the natural chemical and physical reactions that constitute planet earth and beyond. A delusion that humans could indeed shag the entire planet, irreversibly. It makes a good few people feel important and in charge for a transient period of the planet's evolution.

So for the record. Here is the point I unambiguously agree with:

"CO2 absorbs infrared radiation at a few discrete wavelengths."

That's it. All of it. That's the truly proven undisputable bit.

Now, for 1.6 trillion dollars per second:

"PROVE that the man-made CO2 is the primary driver of any positive or negative variations in climate (or both) and that these cannot be exceeded by any other natural cycles you currently haven't got the faintest clue about".

And they can't.

I honestly thought 15 or so years ago when it was 100,000 or so for and 2 against, it would take many decades if not longer before more and more people would start to doubt and think "maybe, just maybe, we've been on a wild goose chase (again)". So it's interesting that more and more people are now reaching this conclusion, much more quickly than I'd ever imagined.

One thing I am pretty sure of. They will never get worldwide agreement to substantially affect CO2 levels downwards. But even if by some miracle they did, the effect on people's living standards is likely to be so dramatic that it would last about 5 minutes and 25 seconds before there were an awful lot of ex-idiots who had thought that it was a good idea.

Anyway, back to global competiveness. Are India, Pakistan, China, Brazil and the rest going to stop building power stations, factories, cars, trains, offices, hotels and the like so they can match the 1.6 trillion dollars per second our (EU, America now14 \- the Aussies look like they've come to their senses) clowns happen to think is good policy and economics. Err, that'll be a negative then (thankfully).

Of course, the CO2 issue is just one element of why we don't stand a chance. There are probably thousands of others. Like planning for example. In China, I expect it goes a bit like:

"Few more geezers seem to have been born. We need a new nuclear power station."

Followed by a quick walk over the road by the equivalent of the mayor and a power station builder at which point the mayor probably says "stick it here". And then they'll start the cement mixers. And about 3 ½ weeks later electrons will be whistling down cables to power a new city with a population of 3.3 million that was knocked together the week before last.

Health and Safety during the construction phase might be a bit less bureaucratic than our EU derived systems as well. Something along the lines of:

"When you climb up the side of that 1.35 mile high pylon to attach the lightning conductor bit, make sure you hold on tight and don't fall off otherwise your arse might get pushed through the top of your head when you land. Oh, and while climbing, don't grab hold of one of them big un-insulated 158 Giga Watt cable thingy's – it might make your hair frizzy and your balls tingle."

So, how long will it be before we will be competitive in the global economy? Well, if I were you I wouldn't bother trying to assist too much by refraining from expelling that unmentionable carbon containing gaseous expulsion from your own gob. It might be a while.

13. Time will of course tell. And as a final note I'll record here and now that if I turned out to be wrong, I'd have no problem with this and just admit it. Real scientists know and accept they can often be wrong. That's just part of science and how it progresses.

It's a bit more difficult, however, to take this philosophical attitude for the politicians and scientists who have backed a 1.6 trillion dollar a second cause in support of "farms" where you don't grow any food or have anything waddling around that shits a lot.

14. I feel a bit sorry for the yanks. They went for years ignoring all the man-made CO2 nonsense. Then just as the tide was beginning to turn in the argument, the "Yes we Can" idiot with big ears became a fully signed up member of the let's flush loads of dollars down the drain mob.

# 28 - Doctors and Men

So, us poor blokes are continually being reprimanded for not taking up excessive amounts of time with our GP. Sorry, how does that work again? We get a bollocking for saving the NHS money by them NOT needing as many GPs. And by us dying earlier. Rather than plodding on and on into our 90's and beyond like the female half of humanity. And our politicians seem to be a bit baffled as to why we ignore their advice to push up NHS spending and visit our GP even when there is nothing wrong with us for a sort of 'MOT'. Even though probably ¾'s of politicians are male, or at least sort of male. Well, here, I let our dearly beloveds into the secret as to why us blokes do not, under any circumstances, go anywhere near a doctor's surgery.

So, us blokes are apparently, not being very good. Not being very compliant. You see, whilst the girlies, like to have a standard 3 times a week scheduled visit to the doctors, to have their bits and pieces checked out. And their blood pressure checked. And their BMI measured (nope, I've no idea what it stands for either). And to be interrogated about whether they sneak the odd ciggy or have one or two glasses of Rose at the weekend.

Us blokes don't. We don't go for any check-ups under any circumstances. Never.

There are of course, very good reasons for this. Very good reasons, that any bloke understands; fully. Clearly any bloke, except the 500 or so suspicious chaps who happen to waddle into Westminster, every now and again. If they feel like it or are in need of a cheap pint.

In fact, the don't bother going anywhere near a doctor under any but the most extreme circumstances is programmed into us non girl-types from about the age of 3. For extreme circumstances in the previous sentence, please read:

\- Head missing.

- More than one limb severed.

\- Entire blood content of body now on road; or

\- Suspiciously dead.

Anything else, in BLOKE LAND does NOT, under any circumstances, constitute extreme circumstances.

So, at the age of 3 or so, a boy will have probably started riding some sort of bike. And he will fall off. Oh I don't know, he might trap his leg in the chain resulting in a graze. Okay, a cut. Okay, a gash. Possibly about 17 feet long.

Now, mums, especially the new modern mums (yes, I know you shouldn't be reading this, but just in case you have slipped through the net), please take note. When you are NOT there, waddling behind little Jonny with the box of cotton wool, sterri-strips, germolene, and your mobile phone programmed with the number of every A&E department within a thousand miles, and Jonny falls off, gashes his leg and starts bleeding to death, do you know what happens?

Well, firstly, his mates will just ride on and he'll lie in the gutter and have a short sob. Then, when he realises that there is a 0.015 % chance that he might NOT bleed to death and his mates are ignoring him, he'll jump back on his bike and ride off after them; because he is having fun. (An odd concept I know, to most very serious modern mums who take the health and well-being of their little Jonnies very seriously indeed. No room for fun. Fun means Risk).

Then, when Jonny realises he hasn't bled to death and eventually decides to come home (probably at about 11:35 pm because he can't see where he is going any more), mummy will probably see a dried up mess on his leg about 17 feet long, and go ever so slightly apoplectic. Then 175,000 baby wipes and three tubes of antiseptic cream later, when he is tucked up in bed, little Jonny will have realised something (that both kids and parents in the 60's and 70's just knew inherently, but no modern mother in the developed world now has the faintest comprehension of):

That you do not need to go to the doctors every time you get a cut or graze (even if it is 17 foot long and will scar you for life (I'm rather fond of my scar, and not much of my leg was left embedded in the bike's chain); or sneeze, or cough, or turn a bit green and puke. Or for anything else, other than one of the most extreme circumstances.

And that is the way the initial seed is sown in a trainee blokes head. At the age of 3.

And then the original seed gets reinforced a bit further. Say little Jonny doesn't feel well and his thoroughly modern mother takes him to the doctors. Mother and Jonny will initially sit in the waiting room for about 17.65 hours. Then Mummy and Jonny will finally get in to see the doctor who will check little Jonny over for 1.67 seconds and promptly declare:

"It's a virus. There is one going around at the moment. Take him home and put him to bed (incidentally, where he was, before mummy dug him out to drag him to the doctors). Sorry I can't do anything, but he'll be fine in a couple of days."

And funnily enough, he is.

Then, another time, the re-inforced seed gets even further re-inforced. Poor little Jonny is upset. You see his Granddad isn't very well. This is very unusual, because Jonny's Granddad is virtually never ill. In fact, the last time he went to a doctors was 65 years and 2 months ago (see - a proper bloke). However, in extreme pain, he gives in and goes. And, after waiting in the waiting room (good name I always think - appropriate) for 15 months and 3 days, the nice doctor explains, kindly and considerately with compassion and real feeling:

"I'm very sorry, you've got 48 hours left and then you might be ever so slightly dead".

And then he is.

And poor little Jonny is seriously upset and pissed off; but nevertheless the message has been even further re-inforced.

And that, in a nutshell, is the reason why blokes don't ever go to the doctors. We understand that either it's a virus, and he can contribute diddlysquat. Or that you are about to become an ex-organism; and he can do diddlysquat. Apart that is, from measure you up and let you choose a nice light oak number from his catalogue.

Now once again, dear 500 slightly suspicious chaps who happen to waddle into Westminster, we can make this a win-win. You, once again sod off and stop lecturing me and other blokes about going and clogging all the doctors surgeries up (the ones, incidentally, that you haven't got anyway since the previous set of completely off the crapness scale lot went in to negotiate some new GP arrangements and contracts (candy off a baby again springs to mind)). Then, when the time comes, we'll go and die nice and quietly in a corner. It will stop pissing poor blokes off AND save the NHS a fortune.

# 35 - The Madness of Pets

What is the obsession people have in this country for pets? Is it the pleasant 'aroma' they make in every room of the house? The way they cover everything in hairs? The way they make their poor owners poor? The way they drag the poor sods outside in the freezing cold, rain and snow when they need a shit? Just exactly what is the attraction?

I've just read an article in one of the large circulation newspapers about pets and how people are spending huge sums of money on them and on weirder and weirder stuff. Like Cashmere hoody things for dogs. And taking pets out to restaurants. And buying gym style exercise equipment for them.

Well good that's what I say. It's helping with the growth in GDP and raising some taxes that the lunatics in Westminster don't have to come knocking on my door for.

But don't for one second think because I've said good to the above, that I remotely like pets. Because I don't. My wife and I are like chalk and cheese and that's the main reason we have put up with one another for so long, but on one thing we categorically agree. We both hate pets. Maybe hate is a bit of a too strong a word. Is detest less or more strong than hate?

Anyway, for sure, we both agree, we don't have anything in the house that doesn't walk through the front door on two legs, isn't predominantly hairless and doesn't know to only piss and shit in the white thing in the smallest room in the house; and flush the string that isn't a string afterwards. And this is despite (or because) of the fact that as children, both our families had pets and the fact that both our own kids would have liked them.

Every time we see some poor sod out in the pissing down rain when it's minus 23.7 oC (okay - snow then), exercising their dog, normally at about 06:30 in the morning or 10:30 at night, we both look at one another and think exactly the same thing:

"Thank Christ we don't have pets".

Or when we go to somebody's house and get out of the car at the end of their 2 ½ mile gravel drive and the aroma coming from their open kitchen door tells us: "Oh, they've got dogs". And this is confirmed when we get to the lounge and choking for breath, sit down on what was once a nice cream leather settee but is now dark shitty brown in colour and has more hair on it than an entire flock of welsh sheep in deep mid-winter.

Of course, some people go a different route. Don't want to walk a dog? Get a cat - they walk themselves. I suppose this is sort of true. They still deposit a film of hair 8 inches thick over every internal surface of the house though. And have a delightful habit of nipping out in the dead of night to snack on water voles, rats and birds. And then coming back inside to honk it all back up for you at the end of your bed.

"Oh there you are Casper, how yummy; blue tit and squirrel tonight, thank you for thinking of us".

The modern cat has also evolved. When I was a kid, cats were neat and tidy. If they needed to do their business, they'd slope off to a quiet discrete corner somewhere, dig a little neat but deep'ish hole, deposit their stomach, and then neatly fill the hole back in again with soil. Purrrrfect. You wouldn't even know little Casper had been. And he'd added some extra carbon, nitrogen and other nutrients to your herbaceous border.

Not now though. Not the 2014 fully evolved cat:

"Why bother walking all the way over to a quiet discrete corner, burning all those extra calories? How many extra birds would I need to mutilate and murder to get them back? And why all this digging bloody holes and then filling them back in again? What's the point of all that nonsense? No, I'll just crouch down here in the middle of his lawn and dump a load about twice as high as the pyramids. Yep, that looks just fine".

And so, just as long as they can make it taste like chicken, I'm with the Chinese restaurants and Kebab houses. It keeps the price of takeaways down during the recession and keeps our parks and my lawn largely turd free.

#  Glossary (What Stuff Means)

AD: Anno Domini. Designates years after the JC bloke was born. The one who wasn't as economical with ingredients as my mother.

A&E: Accident and Emergency (department of a hospital). Place where yummy mummies (who shouldn't be reading this) take little Jonny if he falls over. Blokes – don't worry, you don't go here under any circumstances, not even extreme ones.

A4: Paper size. Any Politician needs at least 127,689 sheets to put together an act to specify that axe murderers possibly need some minor degree of punishment (unless there are acceptable mitigating circumstances).

ALGOL: Can't remember what it stands for. It was a computer language early in the development of computers in the 1650's.

ASOARS: Automated Speed of Arse Reduction System.

A new natty little device some politicians invented for racing cars following the Nationalisation of Formula Fast. Followed shortly afterwards by the most lucrative international sporting business entering receivership. Another success story for the WODs in SW1.

BASIC: Beginner's All-Purpose Symbolic Instruction Code.

Another computer language that came in after the 1650's. I actually used and programmed in this rather than just copying lines of ALGOL code that some other geezer had originally sorted out.

BBQ: Barbecue. Still none the wiser? It's for burning shit that used to be food on a fire. Don't worry though. There's lots of Fosters and red wine at all our events.

BC: Before Christ – see JC.

bhp: Brake Horse Power.

A measure of how many horse's arses it would take to stop my car. The answer is lots and lots and lots.

BMI: Body Mass Index. A measure of how fat a woman's arse is.

BSF5: Bull Shit Factor (5). Usually applies when a politician comes up with any sort of budget. You know the budget will be low by at least the bull shit factor. All BSFs are a minimum of 5 with no maximum. The average historically has been 1007.

BSP: British Standard Pipe. Don't worry about it, everybody hates plumbing.

oC: Degrees Centigrade. A unit of temperature. Certain deluded scientists and incompetent politicians think that the world temperature is going to increase by about 10,000 of these units partly because your dog farts too much. The solution: BBQ and eat him.

CO2: Carbon dioxide. A gaseous chemical that certain deluded scientists and incompetent politicians think might be causing the degrees centigrade of your back yard to increase. It's a different gas. Your dog doesn't fart this one. But, you still have to stop him breathing - so BBQ and eat him anyway.

Commodore 64: The second best computer in the whole known universe. It relied on not having the biggest bunch of complete arseholes to programme the operating system software that ran it.

CPS: Crown Prosecution Service. Shortly to be rebranded as: 'The Crown let them all do what they bleeding well like and get away with it service'. I think it's catchy.

DIY: Do-it-Yourself. Or, screw it up big time so your house will never be habitable again.

DNA: Deoxyribonucleic acid. A big chemical that is important in all organisms. Goes a bit wrong in WODs.

EC or EU: Bunch of WODs in Brussels or Strasbourg, or Luxembourg or somewhere. Nobody knows the details of what or where or why. The only bit you need to understand in 27 languages and counting is WODs in the plural.

E = MC2: Energy equals Mass x the speed of light squared. A frizzy grey haired German yank thought it up.

Enron: A company that might, allegedly, have not been able to add up and liked conning grannies.

Excel: A big hall in London where people can fight and exhibit stuff.

Or, a pile of crap software for doing calculations on a computer.

Fat face: Facebook. Still none the wiser? Either the greatest thing since sliced bread or the latest Year 2000 or internet bubble about to go tits up.

FIFA: Fédération Internationale de Football Association. They know bugger all about football and even less about organising a piss up in a brewery.

FOC: Free of Charge. The polite version my wife lets me use. See FOFC.

FOFC: Free of Flipping (or alternative) Charge. Special present from me, to one or more WODs.

Foxtrot Oscar: Go away, probably rapidly.

HS2: High Speed 2. Some sort of two hundred year old crappy technology that the WODs think is going to be "state of the art" in 3063 years' time when they eventually get their arses into gear and decide to do something. Thankfully, they won't. Ever.

IKEA: Ingvar Kamprad Elmtaryd Agunnaryd. Don't worry about trying to work out what the bloody hell this means. You don't need to go there. Putting anything together that they might sell to you will be at least a thousand times harder than working out what the f**k their name means.

IOC: International Olympic Committee. They know bugger all about running round in circles and chucking stuff and even less about organising a piss up in a brewery.

4G: Fourth Generation. It's something to do with mobile phones. By now I expect there'll be 5G. All you need to know is that 5G will be crapper than 4G, which was crapper than 3G which was crapper than 2G which was a lot crapper than the original G. Buy 0G and NEVER upgrade it. Whatever the bastards tell you.

GDP: Gross Domestic Product. Something to do with how many £'s we chuck about in Great Britain each year. The only thing you need to know is that after the thieving bastards in SW1 have done their stuff, it will always be less next year than this year.

GP: General Practitioner. A jack of all trades who pretends to be a doctor. Knows nothing and can do nothing. Apart from measuring you up for a nice light oak number from their catalogue. Unless, you are none male. In which case they can flush out all your bits up to six times a day.

HGV: Heavy Good's Vehicle. A special machine for re-adjusting OCC's crappy bollards and chicanes.

HMRC: Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. They collect dosh from citizens. They also get run ragged continually trying to keep up with ever changing rules brought in by Westminster WODs.

JC: Bloke with long hair and a beard who died and then un-died a couple of thousand years ago.

Not as good as my mother at feeding lots of people very cheaply.

JCB: A big digger thing for taking apart stuff.

JFDI: Just Flipping Do It. Politicians don't have any concept.

lb ft: Pound foot (of torque). Lots and lots is the only answer. It means the box with your arse in can go a lot quicker.

La Mer: The Sea. But only in Frog Land.

LPG: Liquid Petroleum Gas. A fuel that's not as good as proper petrol.

MAISTUC: Monitor Activities and Immediately Screw Tony Up Completely. "Look, I am NOT bloody paranoid".

M20, M25 etc.: Motorway twenty, twenty five etc.

For motorway please read car park. As in box with four wheels stationary, going nowhere.

However, following the 2020 UK elections with the new strategic plan for UK plc in place (minus the crappy little patch of waste land just north of an old historic wall), the car parks will once again become motorways. With all numbers between M1 and M333,786 fully allocated and operational by the 1st January 2021.

MOT: Ministry of Transport. A government organisation that tries to make sure crappy cars get blown up.

Used as a generic term for testing stuff - either cars or bodies.

MP: Member of Parliament. See OMFG and WOD. Best BBQ'd.

NASA: National Aeronautics and Space Administration. An American organisation that understands the concept of priorities. So, of course it's essential to dish out 1.7 trillion dollars a second so that a few thousand scientists can fart around looking at white dots in the night sky.

Africa? "Oh, to hell with that lot - they need to keep starving to keep CO2 emissions down and save the planet."

NHS: National Health Service. Some nice doctors and nurses trying to do some stuff to do with mending bodies.

And 8.37 million WODs making absolutely sure they can't.

NOBPUKS: Number of Bums per Unit Kilometre Squared.

A highly technical measure that allows you to calculate how many arses want to use the M1 to M333,786 in the new UK; the WODs in Westminster haven't got the faintest idea.

NOKIA: A mobile phone manufacturer that used to be good.

OCC: Oxfordshire Complete Cock-ups. Oh, go on then, Oxfordshire County Council. A bit like WODs at Westminster, but there's a lot, lot more of them.

Some have a strange fetish for chicanes, mini-roundabouts and red tarmac.

O2 : Oxygen; or a phone company that shafted some WODs to get a big tent on the cheap. Not difficult.

OMFG: Oh My Flipping God. Statement – needs to be made regularly when you don't know what to do: fall about laughing; slash your wrists; or potentially make deceased vast numbers of WODs. There is an alternative to flipping but my wife won't let me use it in a public manuscript; and my mum might read it as well.

Oz: Australia. A big nice warm country with a posh opera house and lots of people that can unfortunately play cricket.

PAGM: Private Annual General Meeting. A big fight in private.

PC: Parish Council. I simply can't remember; please read chapter 21.

PC : Personal Computer. Electronic box with some keys and a screen that is meant to make your life easier but doesn't.

Perudo: A game. The only one I play. Ever.

plc: Public Limited Company. A company that is managed by a committee that then let's about ten zillion people say what it should do and how it should do it. All plc companies are guaranteed to go tits up eventually.

PPI: Payment Protection Insurance. A complete con that lots of people fell for.

Psi: Pounds per square inch. A measurement of pressure. Often blood pressure. Normally extremely high after a WOD has opened their gob and allowed sound waves to emanate.

PTFE: Poly Tetra Fluoro Ethylene. Don't worry about it, everybody hates plumbing.

PVC: Poly Vinyl Chloride. Don't worry about it, everybody hates plumbing. Also see www.eezisit.com.

3 R's: Reading, writing and arithmetic. 'Jane goes into the park' and '1 + 7 = 8'.

RON: Research Octane Number. It's to do with petrol. The higher the number the faster your car goes. Just buy the biggest number there is.

Rozzer: Policeman. Used to go and catch robbers and murderers but these days can't be arsed because the CPS is a WOD.

Rpm: Revolutions per minute. Engine speed. Make sure you only buy cars that can go to 10,500 rpm or higher.

TPBSG: The Poor Bastard Scape Goat. An essential member on any committee, especially one involving political or other official WODs, for when the shit hits the fan.

Having been given free tea and biscuits for accepting the role of TPBSG, when the shit hits the fan the TPBSG will never work again and be dragged off to some dark woods to be persuaded to become deceased.

All other members of the committee will change the name of the committee and receive 10,000% salary rises.

SDS: A drill. Not one that the nice dentist uses, one for demolishing your house and electrocuting yourself when drilling into walls.

SIM: Subscriber Identification Module. A little piece of electronic crap that allows you to access and use a slightly bigger piece of electronic crap.

T-Mobile: A mobile phone company that makes precisely 10.7 pence per decade out of my mobile phone contract that isn't a contract.

Twithead: Twitter. A completely useless pile of shit software for your computer.

TV: Television. A visual box that used to have loads of interesting stuff on it that doesn't any more.

UK: United Kingdom. Where our arses reside unless we are on holiday.

UN: Bunch of WODs in a part of New York that's not part of New York.

V8: A proper engine for moving a proper bit of machinery for transporting arses very quickly and effectively.

VAT: Value Added Tax.

The first two words are complete bollocks. It has no Value (to you) and nothing gets Added (to you) only taken away by the thieving incompetent bastards in the big posh building with a clock in London.

The third word is correct. It's a tax.

Vodafone: A mobile phone company that about a thousand years ago used to get my 10.7 pence per decade until I decided it was complete crap.

WOD: Waste of DNA. Basically a person who might not be very good at their job.

WTF: What the Flipping-heck.

X-ray: A small squiggly wave thing that can look in your bag without opening it.

ZX-81: The world's greatest personal computer ever.

ZZY / ZZZ: Locations at the Channel Tunnel where people get arrested and don't go on holiday.

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