Saturday, 13 November 2010

A place to rest your head

This week I had the misfortune to stay in the Newcastle Central Travelodge.

Now, if I’d picked up some loose woman and had decided to head back to a room for a couple of quick shags, then it wouldn’t have bothered me that much. The raging urges of lust would no doubt have helped me turn a blind eye to the numerous faults in the ramshackle and poorly designed late 80’s building.

I might not have noticed the carpet, the smell or the staff.

So when Travelodge wrote to me to say “Tell us how we did!”

I told them how it was:-

Newcastle Central needs completely redecorating. Strong smells of curry and must in rooms and corridors. Carpet that has seen better days, mattress that had obviously been used as some sort of trampoline for energetic shaggers. Staff that had they smiled they might have looked like they were actually enjoying their work and a pillows that had the bulk of a rolled up handkerchief. I know it's supposed to be BUDGET, but I'd have had a cleaner and probably more comfortable stay in the car park. Oh yeah, the car park....that's a different story entirely. Nope...don't get me started on that....noooooo.....Premier Inn for me in future I'm afraid.

And you were doing SOOOO well too.

What's happened to you Travelodge? You used to be so much better.

Did you get taken over by Ryanair?

Much love


Oh and I've blogged this tell the world….just so you is your friend.

Monday, 1 November 2010

Terrorism: What to ban

The scene: A secret governmental office in some seemingly innocuous building in London. Four top executive types sit around a conference table.

Man 1: Right, the department that provide us with our funds are wanting to cut our funding back unless we can prove how valuable and useful we are to the country.

Man 2: Again?

Man 1: Yes again. So what we need to do is highlight the dangers of something…like what we did before.

Man 3: Yes like with the bottled water thing. That proved effective though unpopular with voters and as approval ratings of our existence is wavering on the low side we need to appear to be proactive but not too disruptive to society.

Woman: I get it. Ok, how about getting MI7 to create another terrorist attack?

Man 1: Too costly. We’re still paying the compensation on that one.

Man 2: Could we not create some new figure of focus like Abu Hamsa?

Man 3: That requires international agreement and at the moment we’re not that popular.

Man 1: Indeed, so what we need to do is think of something like with the bottled water thing that makes us look proactive but causes the minimal amount of disruption.

The four look around the room for inspiration…

Woman: Oooh! Ooh! How about pens? A would be terrorist could pack a pen with explosive and then detonate it aboard a plane or ferry.

Man 3: Good one…but still too disruptive. Worth remembering that one though. The airlines would probably be in agreement with that and be able to sell biros during the flight for exorbitant prices….but no…not this time…let me think…


The four look around more…

Man 1: How about spectacle cases?

Man 3: Yeah…fewer people carry those…but I don’t think the public would buy it.


More looking round and scratching of heads.

There is a knock on the door. The door opens.

Youthful IT dude: Entering room Alright…sorry…I’m from IT. I’ve been asked to change the toner cartridge on the printer in here. Would it be OK for me to do that? I’ll only be a couple of minutes.

All four: With look of universal approval and acceptance. Toner cartridges!


And that….is EXACTLY what happened.

I know this…because I was the IT dude *





*May be lies

Thursday, 7 October 2010


The youth of today. Perfect in every measure, in the eyes of their parents. Educated to the max and ne’er a want to be denied. Bliss.


The same could, no doubt, be said of the youth of my day. We were educated often beyond that which our parents had been. Needs met, fed’ and watered. Entertained for free by television and the infant home computing industry. But today’s youth have one subtle difference. They are afflicted with narcissism, an affliction which, had my studies in media been allowed to continue, could probably be attributed to social media.


It seems to me, as I walk about the educational establishment where I work, that the youth of today have this ability, or belief, that as long as they do not acknowledge your existence you do not exist and therefore their lives can continue unhindered by such inconveniences.


I should elaborate. I have noticed a phenomenon during my travels around the corridors, where youths sit, legs out stretched, oblivious to anyone else’s existence. It’s as if they believe that if they don’t acknowledge or notice you, you will simply pass through their legs with your trolley and life will continue to allow them to remain as they were undisturbed. Indeed, such is not limited to youths sat legs outstretched. Nay, for it has also been noticed that the youth of today also behave this way when they themselves are walking through the corridors too. They should not make way for you unless they acknowledge you, rather than by denying your existence you should pass straight through them ethereally else step aside yourself for their majesty and self importance out weighs any stature or presence you may hold yourself.


This does not just apply to lowly trolley pushing IT technicians, this also applies to members of teaching staff, other students and even disabled people in wheelchairs. Moreover, the same tactic is used by the youth crossing roads. As long as the car is not seen, it does not exist and will either stop or pass through you like a dose of senna. This only adds to the woe for future generations.


However, take comfort. For although will you cease to exist in your old age unless acknowledged by others, you can be sure of a perfect haircut, outstanding beauty treatment, stunning photography and advice on the holiday of your dreams. For, it seems, the most popular courses remain photography, art, music, tourism and beauty treatment.


Those that know me will probably recall a similar cry of woe from me when I worked in a Yorkshire sixth form college. There the most popular courses were tourism, media and photography. I recall feeling horrified at the realisation that instead of the doctors, nurses and care workers to look after me in my frailty; instead of the pharmacists, accountants and legal people to ensure my health, wealth and freedoms, today’s youth were going to flood the employment market with out of work photographers, beauticians and air hostesses. No engineers to fix the bridges and roads and no mathematicians to count the stars. Just beautiful hair styles, perfectly designed web pages and well performed music.


Still, it will take my mind off the disgruntled Polish male nurse force feeding me puréed parsnips in between commode visits eh?

Friday, 20 August 2010

A levels? Arse levels

A Levels were hard in 1992 When I left compulsory education back in 1992 A levels were hard. I’m sure they are still hard but back in the day, they were hard. If more than 20 people at your school got A grade A level results fingers would have been pointed and investigations into cheating conducted.

At that time we were told about the various career options open to us. Either you stayed on after GCSE and did A levels with a view to getting a job afterwards or moving on to university. Or you left school, did an apprenticeship if you could find one or joined the armed forces. Because I was bright I was told that my future lay beyond university and that I should focus on what I wanted to do.

Difficulty was, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. To some extent I still don’t know what I want to do. So it frequently amuses me how it is universally accepted that 16-19 year olds should some how decide what career they want to pursue and make life changing decisions.

Rather be a customs officer than a lumberjack I left school with basic job search skills. I had several ideas what I wanted to do, mostly become a customs officer, but the careers department at school wasn’t all that clued up on careers that didn’t involve a pack of Happy Family cards. All well and good if you considered the police, the ambulance service, being a butcher or baker or an estate agent. However, woe betide any pupil set on a non-typical career such as Customs Officer.

It should be remembered that the Internet in those days was basic if not non-existent. There was no vast careers database available to people at home. You would have to attend at careers service offices who would shrug and tell you that there was no work and that you might as well give up and just sign on until something comes along you fancy.

My career in law began and ended here Over the years that followed, so did my career choice. Customs seemed like a nigh impossible career to break into, few vacancy adverts were placed in the local press and by 1995 my appetite for a career in Law had started to develop.
With a few months of experience in a law office I was convinced, mostly by the assurances of the adults around me, that getting an entry level job in a legal firm would be a breeze. Home printers were few and far between in those days. So all applications would have to be hand written and all vacancies sourced through either the job centre or through the local press.

Bored of life on the dole and constant rejection letters (yes, in those days companies replied to you even if it was just with a “no thanks”) I attempted to make the move into a career in law by enrolling on the only suitable course I could find in the area. That being an ILEX course based at Southport college, more than 20 miles away from my home.

Southport College It ran one day a week. Every Thursday I would travel the distance on the train and return on the last night train to leave Southport. This I did until a month from the end of the course the Job Centre told me that they would not fund the following year and besides that they had an interview for me to attend, failure to attend said interview would result in cessation of benefits.

I attended, got the job and stayed in the post for about three and a half years.
Unfortunately, it was not what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted a career in Law. “Fear not” I was told “It’ll give you relevant experience”. Desperate to escape the daily humdrum of no hope of promotion and dead end job, I bailed at the first opportunity. Following the advice that it was best to remain in employment than to leave and look again.
That was a stupid thing to do.

ICT Hell The next 10 years involved working in ICT. I never wanted to be a computer technician. Fuck, I’ve never met anyone who works in ICT that set out to work in ICT. In those days, jobs in IT were easy to get into because few people had the qualifications or experience. Thing was, every day I spent in ICT meant that I was limiting my future prospects to that of ICT related careers. Recruitment agencies would only offer call centre work. Applications for career changes would go without response. Those that did said “No relevant experience” or “Insufficient qualifications”.

Aware that the job market was flooding with graduates with far less work experience than myself I plunged into a Journalism degree on the advice of a career consultant. I now find myself struggling to compete in a shrunken jobs market despite the assurances of my tutors that my worldly experience should make me more employable than my contemporaries. I am back working in ICT. For less than before.

I guess having a career plan  helps. Problem is I am reluctant to fix on one specific career choice. The avenues that lie before me mostly involve further study. Applications to entry level graduate careers receive “No relevant experience” and “inappropriate qualifications”, responses I believe are veiled “You’re too old” replies. And that’s only those firms polite enough to reply.

Could I be blacklisted? It’s hard not to think that I’m on some employment blacklist. Even recruitment agencies do not respond. Those that do give the usual “Nothing on our books as yet”. Firing off CV after CV into cyberspace results in nothing. All the time the clock is ticking. Unable to gain relevant experience because I have insufficient experience. I’m 36. I have experience. I can manage a team of administrators and teams of media students. I can type, use HTML, instruct, use computers, communicate via telephone, email and inter-personally. But no. Nobody wants me.

It’s plain to my sight that even when you take into account the lack of jobs out there, there must be something about my CV or work experience, that puts potential employers/HR departments off. Even my companion, who was recently made redundant, gets more recruitment agencies calling than I do.
I bet it’s cos I’m ginger.

Or old.

Regardless, I am conscious of the approaching wave of 2011 graduates. The flood of students with “good” A levels (better grades than me!) up to and including 2015. The lack of industry and opportunity in the UK and the fact that each day I spend in ICT I am making myself more unemployable to my chosen career change.

Sunday, 8 August 2010

Further machinations of a job seeker

Further to my last entry here I have managed to obtain a short contract of work. Hurrah! You might say. You might even assume that I am pleased. However, I’m not.


Pic-urbis-supercity Four years ago I moved from Liverpool to Yorkshire. It was a necessary move and it held the prospect of stabilizing my three year old marriage which was facing difficulty. The job I left in Liverpool was well paid. £23k helpdesk technician. A job I wasn’t 100% happy in even though I had held the post since 2001. Prior to that I worked in a poorly paid civil servant post where my ambitions for career development were not being met.


duck At the time, there were few people with IT qualifications on the jobs market. I embraced the emerging technology with gusto and found I had a seemingly natural ability to grasp the complexities  of computer software and hardware and share my knowledge with others. It was easy in those days to get into IT roles. Hence being able to get the well paid helpdesk job.


Of course, not having anything much in the way of IT qualifications at a time when a growing number of people with IT qualifications were emerging onto the jobs market meant that well paid helpdesk jobs were few and far between. Indeed, when the move to Yorkshire became reality the only jobs recruitment agencies offered me were call centre orientated and the only job I could get on my own initiative was a very low paid one in IT at a sixth form college.


By this time I had become disillusioned with my career in IT. It seemed that all I did was wipe the bottoms of better paid people who, it appeared, should really have known better.


images I sat in the office one day and contemplated my career. Which direction was I taking? I never really wanted to work in IT. I had just fallen into the career. All the jobs I saw that I could do required a degree and my lack of which seemed to be going against me. Thus, the sensible thing to do, it seemed, was to start again from scratch, get myself a degree in an area I was interested in and try, at the age of 36, to carve a new career for myself.


And so that is what I did. Only the problem was when I graduated this year, the journalism, writing and media world was completely and radically different to the world I was tempted into by poor careers advice and traditional thinking. Competition for graduate employment these days is high regardless of which subject you study. Attempting to break into a new industry as a mature student was never going to be easy and only made even more difficult by an unpredictable recession.


property-graphics-_1070775a So back to the gist. Why am I unpleased about my new job? Simply put I have fallen back into the career I had so desperately attempted to escape. The shackles of experience heavy around my neck. Even though the position is only for four months and I have only been working there a week I already feel resentment and anger with the job, the world  and especially myself for being so desperate for work that I would prostitute myself back into my old industry sector, sullying my CV with even more IT related work instead of riding the storm and attempting to pepper my CV with experience relevant to the industry I want to enter.


I must tell myself that the job is only until either something better comes along , until the contract ends naturally or until depression hits. I must tell myself that I don’t have to put the job on my CV. I must tell myself that I can still do voluntary work to gain relevant experience. I must tell myself that I am not too old, that the employers looking at my application forms, covering letters and CVs are not thinking “We want someone younger” because, as we all know, that is illegal these days. I must tell myself that no matter what, I can convert the distaste for my current employment into energies better used in searching for and applying for jobs that I would prefer. Or maybe I should just stop trying to fool myself, bury myself into my work and accept that I am the exception to the “as you get older your salary increases” rule. Accept dissatisfaction and consider those people who are unable to get work themselves because of various circumstances, personal and external.

Monday, 26 July 2010

Reaching out for work


Excellent at taking the blame for stuff with having over 30 years of experience in being blamed for all manner of misfortunes from the loss of data from floppy disks to the breakdown of marriage.

Have a good golf swing. Never played golf on a proper course but have been shown the correct stance by a colleague.

Can deflect embarrassing answers with the skill and dexterity of a politician while not actually telling a mistruth or being misleading.

Have experience swanning about looking important having been a prefect at school and many years of work experience in the area of walking up and down corridors with a large bunch of keys.

From good family stock. Father has a double barrelled name and I am a member of the Masons. Yes I am!

Skilled at appearing to be busy while actually not having much to do other than attend meetings at gentlemen’s clubs for lunch.

Looking for

Any chief executive job or position within a company requiring a fall guy for any failings which, of course will naturally turn out to be entirely my own fault. Examples: Oil rig leak, employees mucking about with accounts, leaks of embarrassing financial or political misconduct. 

The position will offer excellent remuneration (but I’m willing to take a fraction of what all the other fall guys get paid) and a tasty pension and share options on successful completion of role.


If you are an employer looking for someone like this, please get in touch. I could save your company a great deal of money by undercutting your current fall guys by at least 75%.

Tuesday, 20 July 2010

Job hunting

The plan today was to look around the city of Liverpool and pop into a few recruitment agencies. I’m never sure whether this is the right thing to do as most of the time recruitment agencies just say “Email  us your CV” which to me means “Fuck off and don’t bother us with your worklessness”. Smaller scale recruitment organisations tend to be a bit more accommodating in that they’ll sit you down, get you to fill in forms, pass the time of day and get you to do a typing test before telling you that they’ll be in touch as soon as something comes in. Which again is code for Fuck off and don’t bother us with your worklessness”.

At least that’s the impression I get from recruitment agencies. Another impression I get is how that even though if you  have a million years of administrative experience but follow it by 3 years of potato farming, they end up saying “Not enough relevant experience”.  Those last three years are crucial. It’s as if all the stuff you’ve done in the past matter not and that some how your ability to function wanes depending on how long since you last did that thing. If that makes sense.

Conversely, to me at least, it appears that this rule does not apply to call centre work. You could have been a world class surgeon for the past 30 years and maybe earned a bit of pocket money for a couple of months working in a call centre back in the early nineties. However if you put that stint on your CV you are marked for life. All recruitment agencies will offer you is chuffing call centre work.

Anyway, the laws of probability mean that not registering with recruitment agencies is probably a bad idea. After all, the more walls you throw something at, the more likely something will stick.  However, some recruitment agencies will tell you to only register with one to prevent your details being circulated multiple times.

But the impression I get is that recruitment agencies tend to be ultra selective. That could just be my paranoia or it could just be true. I don’t know.

So there I was, trudging round the centre of Liverpool, rain dripping off my face, clothes sodden and hair drenched. But something has happened to Liverpool over the past 5 years. Weird stuff. Stuff like…new shops….retail palaces….bars….boutiques….where once there were offices now stand posh restaurants and stuff….

After failing to locate 5 of the 6 agencies I’d set out to find….I came home. More despondent than when I set out. Guess the old ways of walking in will no longer work if you can’t find the agencies in the first place.

Monday, 19 July 2010

Qualification:Experience Relevance Quotient

Looking for work is arduous. Filling in application forms time after time after time with the same information, slightly tweaked to promote relevance to post applied for.

jb I must have filled in more application forms during this period of unemployment than I did during the last period back in the nineties. I suppose this is because everything is online now. You fill in forms, click send, then either you get a “Thank you for your application” or you get nothing. Leaving you to wonder if you have actually just spent the past half hour filling in a form with data that has now gone into the ether or to the great spam folder in the sky.

It has been 3 months now and out of over 100 applications filled only one interview and that…well that we’ll just ignore because nobody likes bureaucracy and, as first impressions work for potential employers conversely the same applies for potential employees.

Not being restricted to looking in one geographical area should mean, according to the laws of probability, that as a job seeker I should be getting a 3:1 interview ratio. But no. This is not the case.

wood Being a new graduate? At 36? I can’t help think that this is not the boon that I needed to find further employment but the detriment in that employers look at my CV and think “36? Only just graduated? And in a subject unrelated to their existing career path? Must be some sort of mong”

And so the search continues. My email inbox, once filled with playful notes from colleagues and friends, now replete with job vacancies. A surprising number of which duplicate. Indeed, the duplication often means that you could apply for the same job several times. Something that has happened. Several times.

This week  I shall be in one of the aforementioned geographical locations in an attempt to find work by going out and meeting people. Taking Norman Tebbit’s advice and getting on my bike to look for work. Work that, I am becoming increasingly under the impression that, does not exist.

Wednesday, 23 June 2010

Job search

Probably one of the most disheartening things about looking for work is the fact you constantly fill in forms with the same information over and over again.


Ever since I’ve found out my results, in fact no, ever since April, I’ve been looking for something work like to do. It’s so hard. Everytime I fill in an application I think “OMG I’ve had such a shit career how the fuck am I to get a job doing this?". Admittedly, if I was an employer, I’d look at my CV and say “This guy?…nah”. Sometimes I think maybe I should become the employer. Other times I think teaching. Maybe even a stint at Tesco or somewhere.


Ye gads. It’s so depressing.


And the longer I spend not doing something, the more my qualifications seem like a waste of time. People say “Oh but you’ve got so much experience”. This is true. I have. I am experienced in customer services. I am experienced in IT. I am experienced in wiping people’s arse for tupence ha’penny. But those jobs pay shit these days. My needs are greater in line with aspirations and the like.


So far I have applied for 20 jobs and not a thing from any of them. I’m starting to think these jobs don’t exist. And no…I haven’t signed on yet. I can’t face signing on.

Tuesday, 15 June 2010


You may be interested to know, I now hold a 2:1 BA Hons. degree in Television and Media.


Anyone wanting to offer me a job…feel free.

Wednesday, 19 May 2010


If I fell through a hole in time and travelled back 25 years. If I then looked out of my bedroom window across the field behind the lane with no name and beyond the field behind the field behind the lane with no name, not only would I have upset Mrs Edson's daughter, but I would have seen the winch wheel of a pit stack.

As pinched from BAPIPHad I then gone downstairs and beyond the rear door of San Tor, tootled down the lane with no name and onto the corner of Church Street and Common Road I would probably have been able to see one of the largest collieries in the UK stretching out in the distance before me. There would have been power stations, winch houses, the constant drone of colliery activity and the like.

I would probably have seen a constant pedestrian traffic of orange overalls walking down the hill into Grimethorpe wherein those wearing the overalls would probably have stepped into a cage and travelled deep below the ground for a day of mining. In fact, had I gone to any number of places around the neighbourhood I would have seen similar sights of industrial activity. Trains and lorries laden with coal bound for the steel mills and power stations that peppered the vista.

People at a market I would have seen people milling about; doing their daily business with smiles upon their faces asking after neighbours and discussing Morecambe and Wise or some such. These same people would have been unaware of the devastation they would face over the next fifteen years or so. When their livelihoods were taken away from them by a government leader bent on revenge for the winter of discontent. A way to quell the voices of discontent and the socialism which threatened their brave new world.

Spin forward through time once more and where there was employment, there is but social decay in the shape of unemployment, bigotry and drug use. Houses that once were grand now look tatty and unkempt. Parades of shops that once boasted green grocers, fishmongers and butchers now stand boarded up and empty or populated by takeaways and offices of antidrug and employment building social enterprise groups. The contrast is vast.

2863774968_178f84e4be Travel to Liverpool 30 years ago and similar sights would have been seen, instead of coal miners you would have seen dock workers. Sheffield and Doncaster, steel workers. Newcastle, ship builders. The Midlands, motor industry.  An industrial past so memorable yet so long gone.  All gone. Thanks to the brave new world instigated by the Thatcher and perpetuated by the Blair governments.

Sure, industry would have struggled to compete with low cost foreign imports. It was a natural shift from production to service industries. However the speed in which the transition took place was so swift that few were prepared for the following years. This wasn't 100 years ago, this was twenty to thirty years ago. Heck, even during my education traditional jobs such as butcher, baker, factory worker and the like were still discussed. Now, most of these jobs don't exist.

Who to blame? The governments? They were the ones that set this passage in motion. The people? Reluctant to pay more for goods produced on home ground they would prefer cheaper imports to paying to maintain other peoples lives. Nobody? A natural transition that occurred as predicted by Marx? I can only speculate.

But what is clear is that since the industry was taken away very little has been put in place since. Sure Liverpool's main industry now is education and tourism. Sheffield's it could be argued is sport and culture. But places like the Midlands and Barnsley remain places difficult to find work in. Even the brief respite of call centres which have since been outsourced overseas only provided negligible difference.

As the population continues to grow unsustainably. The economy will continue to falter. Socialist ideals such as national health care and education  now too expensive at current prices will require more and more funding. The future is bleak, the future is most certainly not orange. Taxes need to increase. With increases in taxes, salaries will need to be increased. As salaries increase so will the drain on GDP. Inflation increases, held off artificially by government backing supermarkets and industry will surge and rocket, things will be bad.

Let's think about a pie. Mmmmm pie. It is a nice pie. We all want a slice of this pie but some want bigger slices than others because they think they deserve a bigger slice. So to cater for the demand on pie we bake a bigger pie. But then people say that they want a piece of the pie that is comparative to the slice they think they deserve. The circle continues.

But let us go back to South Yorkshire and look around.

Think of the seaside town that is no longer popular with tourists. The once grand and splendid arcades now shuttered or populated by pound shops. The streets of dilapidated guest and boarding houses now multi occupancy dwellings inhabited by ne'er-do-wells, the down at heel and misguided immigrants. Pensioners wander the streets or sit outside once proud homes dreaming of times past when the new housing estate was once the local lido. Think of how this once popular place was alive with people happy and at peace now degraded, it's heart ripped out by cheap foreign holidays. Then consider this seaside town land locked. You might now be imagining somewhere similar to Grimethorpe, Goldsthorpe, Mexborough and the like. Once proud pit villages populated by hard working proud people with facilities to cater for them provided by the pit owners.

Take the pit away and these places become that landlocked seaside town. The streets once burgeoning with shops now boast 1001 curries, kebabs and tanning salons. The schools once constructed in an age when architects considered the art of the building design instead of functionality now empty, burnt out or demolished. The churches whose congregations once boasted over 200 parishioners per service, now guarded by razor wire and awful looking grills to protect the already damaged stained glass windows. The pit itself, long cleared away, the ancillary buildings few of which remain are but depots for reclamation yards or meeting places for drug addicts and the destitute.

This is the brave new post war post industrial England. Sure there are sleepy villages, vibrant cities and bustling market towns in well to do areas, but for every Harrogate, there are many more Grimethorpes. These deprived areas like a rot will take a lot more than money, social schemes and the like to treat. With the decline goes pride, with pride lost there is little but apathy, with apathy comes decay. The wealthy international companies know this and they feast on the decay with their burger shops, their big name brand supermarkets, their "you must buy this because you need it" attitudes. Sucking the communities dry of the wealth which is then sent south or overseas and not reinvested in the local communities. We really only have ourselves to blame.

Cross posted to my Livejournal.

Wednesday, 12 May 2010

Lovely day

It was such a lovely day today I thought I’d nip out for a walk in the delightful countryside that South Yorkshire has to offer. My destination of choice was the delightful Langsett Reservoir near Barnsley/Sheffield.


Langset near Barnsley in South Yorkshire


The sun was out, the sky was blue. I didn’t have a care and I wasn’t blue. It wasn’t raining. Raining in my heart.


Langsett Reservoir is owned by Yorkshire water and there are many permissive paths. But me not being someone to stick to the boring old main track decided to follow my nose and take a well trod side path to see where it went. And I’m bloody glad that I did.



After crossing a very busy road I was soon walking through a lovely peaceful forest. Not a soul about. Lots of little birdies and squirrels foraging about. Nature can be so inspiring sometimes.


Part of me had decided that I had to do this today because I have gotten a bit fat lately. This is partly down to having a lot of stress from finishing this bloody Media degree of mine.


Another part of me wanted to take photographs because out side the hustle and bustle of urban life, the countryside is the only place left that I feel like I am not intruding or being strange when I brandish my camera.




There was a stream running through the forest. I couldn’t see it because it was hidden under lots of undergrowth but I could hear it. As I rounded a corner I could see a bridge. I crossed this and discovered a lovely peaceful little glade where I could sit for a while and reflect on my future.



Following the stream

After a while some walkers approached from the other direction. We exchanged greetings (why is it that in the countryside people always say “hello” but in cities the same people would just ignore you?) and they told me that they were enjoying their walk especially as they had not seen anyone else all day.



More trees! The path split once more. A higher one that crossed the top of a cliff face and a lower one that only went a short distance toward a wall. I took the higher one which led me through another bit of forest and onto a landscape that could have placed me in any of the wooly wild locations in England.




Scree!Nothing but trees, rolling hills, sheep and scree. Not a soul around. Perfect for reflection and soul searching.







Broken walls

Stepping over a dead sheep I realised that I was miles away from anywhere. Worse, I had very little battery left in my mobile phone. Fortunately I had thought to check the map before I left just to give me a rough idea of which direction I should head to return to my car. I had been walking by this time, for over an hour.



IMAG0057[1]The sun was beating my face and the path depressingly headed up a very steep hill. Beneath me I could see a river winding its way from the peak district bound for the sea.

At the top of the hill I could see a farm house. I was reluctant to pass through the field of bunny rabbits as it kind of looked like private property. Closer inspection revealed that this was a completely abandoned farm holding. With cattle sheds, sheep dips and live stock holdings. Nobody lived there now except for the many many startled rabbits. Even so, I walked through gingerly for fear of waking a dead farmer zombie or being accosted by some inbred family of mutants bent on making me their father. But in reality I was many miles away from Grimethorpe so this was unlikely to happen.



Once through the farm I headed up the path which in turn headed up the most demonic gradient I’ve seen outside of Scotland. The winding path lead me to a lone standing stone. The view from around there was amazing. I could see the windmills out near Penistone. I could see the hills and forests for miles. I truely was in the middle of nowhere. But what worried me most was the fact that I did not have much battery left in my phone and in the distance, angry black clouds floated in the sky like water filled bin bags.


Wind turbines against the black clouds of doom


IMAG0060[1] I’d just taken this picture of a vividly green tree when the unthinkable happened. My battery died. Miles from anywhere, no phone. No people. "Stuff it!" I thought and I carried on walking.


I wasn’t too worried as I was so chilled out and calm. I also knew that following the path would take me straight back to my car. It took me a good hour further to walk there.


I sat in my car just in time for PM on Radio 4. The roar of civilisation zooming past me in trucks, cars and on motorcycles. Nothing to bring you back to earth than Norbert Dentrassangle hurtling past noisly at 60mph.


A good day. :-)

Saturday, 8 May 2010


Let us imagine you have a company. You are the chief executive big wig honorary grand poobah of this company but the only problem is you have no staff.

Now you need to find some staff for your company. You need a Chairman, a finance director, a security executive and other policy makers to run your company while you go about your day playing golf and wanking it off in the Maldives or Rhyl. Where ever takes your fancy.


So you advertise your vacancies don’t you?


But imagine if you couldn’t advertise and you let your customers decide who did the jobs you needed filling. Worse…they didn’t select the people individually, they selected a gang of people lead by someone with a big gob and wavy about hands. And it was this gobshite that selected the people to fill the vacancies….out of his mates.

You wouldn’t be pleased would you? And you certainly wouldn’t like it when your company goes to shit. So you kick the gobshite and his mates out after five years only for some other gobshite to do the same. So you kick them out and the first gobshite comes back and does an even worse job.


Welcome to the world of British politics. Welcome to the unique world of British Parliament. Welcome to jobs you get because you happen to be chummy with the gaffer.


Well. Hopefully that has put it into perspective.

Friday, 23 April 2010


NewspapersWell it looks like the press (Murdoch) is worried that the Lib Dems are gaining more support than the press (Murdoch) likes. Judging by yesterday's newspaper headlines Nick Clegg is a Nazi paedophilic ex-priest with sadomasochistic tendencies who would bring naught but ruin.


Interestingly, last night’s leadership debate took place on....Murdoch TV. Sorry. I mean Sky.

Mr Murdoch believes, I have been taught, that he has the power to sway elections and tip the balance to his favour. This, it seems has been the case in previous elections in the UK. His support for Thatcher during her incumbency and Major during his 1992 election seemed to show that what his newspapers said was how the voting public voted. Indeed, in 1997 when The Sun switched sides to support the Labour party it is believed that Murdoch's media empire's influence saw to Blair winning that election. Indeed, it has been suggested that his support for Obama in his American owned press helped win Obama his election.

Murdoch Murdoch's power does not stop at newspapers, FOX and SKY TV. Far from it. Murdoch controls ageing and failing social media giant MySpace something which he paid $580million for. Unfortunately, Murdoch is trapped in this mindset that as long as people consume something unquestioningly and uncritically, they desire something and it will never get tired . This belief, it seems, is why Murdoch was demanding to know why people weren't using Myspace anymore without being aware of the transient nature of social networking and the and fickleness of internet users. Today's Facebook could be tomorrows Myspace


[see Johnson, Bobbie (2010) “Turmoil at MySpace blamed on News Corporation” [On-line]

Available at: <>]

Watching TV-2 So use caution when you consume media. Especially in during the current circus that is the lead up to the election. Don't take one viewpoint, indeed even my viewpoint for that matter, as concrete. Look around. See what the other media outlets are saying and consider who controls those outlets. Notice the tricks they play like using surveys to back up what they say - were you questioned? Did you take part? Are you in the minority? Notice how they build people up then discredit them somehow when opinion doesn't go the way they would prefer.

I know some will say "Oh I don't pay any attention to media" but I'll argue that you do. Maybe not directly but the people you interact with may have. I know some will say "I don't get involved in stuff like elections or media because no matter what I believe it won't make a jot of difference. Well maybe. But think about how like shoals of fish all move in one direction but soon as the predator appears they scatter causing chaos and disturbance in their formation.
The other danger is that Murdoch strongly believes that users should pay for the content on the internet. Now while I like the idea of charging you lot 50p to view my diatribe I am an advocate of freedom of media. But then I am also an advocate of philanthropy, something which Mr Murdoch doesn't seem to believe in either.

gallery12_470x352 One thing I noticed, as a Television and Media graduate was how those in the production and direction department used dirty tricks to try and smother the Clegg message. Frequent cut-aways from Clegg when he spoke; the positioning of Clegg in the middle; etc. All pointing to the wrinkled digit of Murdoch. A dangerous man in fear of his public not following his lead.

polpot1 When one man controls the media, the media becomes his voice. When only one voice is heard; there may as well be nought silence. Indeed, when I posted this yesterday on my LJ a number of commenters drew parallels with Murdoch and Italy’s Berlesconi. Both control the media to their own end but I fear the greatest danger is not a man who controls the media and sits as the head of state but a man who pulls the strings from the sidelines. Unseen. Unelected. With dangerous ideals and a belief that the public are there to be shepherded.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010

Law for beginners – Lesson 1: The Legal Aid System

In the UK, if you are accused of financial wrong doing or fraud (and I think for that matter any criminal matter) and the case goes to court, all of your assets – your house, your bank accounts, your dealings etc are seized by the Crown.

If you have no assets you are, by right, assigned legal representation by the Crown funded by a system known as Legal Aid.

Legal tender in some parts of the UK This is regardless of whether you have a billion quid in property and shares or 50p and a packet of cigarette papers.

It is a right afforded to all ever since the Legal Aid and Advice Act of 1949.

If you lose your case, your assets become Crown property and the proceeds of your assets go towards paying your legal costs and any fine or financial penalty you receive.

If you win your case, the prosecuting body – ie the Crown Prosecution Service (or in the case of civil matters - the Plaintiff) pay the court costs.

A legal lemonade The only type of law where legal aid is not afforded to the accused is in cases of defamation or libel.

Such it is, such it has been. Hopefully, in case I get wrongly accused of financial wrongdoing at some point in my life, it will remain that way.

Now. It has come to my attention that a number of MPs have been accused of financial wrong doing in a matter that is going to court at present.

Spot the difference It seems on the back of this,  there is currently a really terrible case of “bad journalism” going on. Twatter is alight with people saying “Onoes! This is disgusting! People like that should pay themselves” without a regard for how the legal aid system actually works and I’m certain that the low quality press and their columnists will be making similar noises. Worse, the leader of the Conservative party seems oblivious to this point and I’m sure if it was he who was being prosecuted with no funds for him to obtain legal council, he would be the first to cry “Oh no! Woe is me!”

Remember, law is there to protect you. The legal system in the UK, while often flawed and misapplied, is there to protect the key facet in all of British sovereign law. Something which the powers that be seem really keen to remove, something which the media would like to see removed. That facet is in the United Kingdom – you are innocent until proven guilty by a court of law.

These crisps might be stolen So even if you see Billy Blogs pinching a bag of crisps from the off licence and your convinced he stole the crisps, unless a court of law, presided over by a judge and jury or magistrate, finds Billy Blogs guilty he is innocent. Regardless of what you say.

This is something which people, often fuelled by media and moral panic, forget. They also forget that the easiest way to remove ancient rights and freedoms is to whip up such a fuss about a technicality so that ancient freedoms are swept away nought but the flourish of a pen. How many times have we, and I include myself in this, heard about people going to court and we say “They did it, they must have” when we know nothing about the situation behind the case or the evidence. This is often more the case when the death of a child is part of the matter.

Pointing at you We point fingers. The media guides our hands. Trials go to court and people do get locked away because of prejudicial matters.

Think Colin Stagg. Yeah I was one who went “He bloody must have done it” naively fuelled the media who also said “He bloody must have done it” and yep….he went down. Convicted by a jury. Then…he gets acquitted. Absolved of all wrong. How foolish I felt when I found out that actually, no…he hadn’t done it.

So to bring our legal lesson back onto track – two points

  • in the UK you are innocent until proven guilty by a court of law


  • if you have no assets, either because they have been seized by the Crown as a bond (including your duck house) just in case you do a runner or because you genuinely do only have 50p (and a packet of green Rizlas) to your name – You are afforded, as is your right, to legal counsel funded by the Legal Aid system.

Such is the law in the UK. Daft it may be. But think…if it was you…and you were innocent….and you had no money…because your government had seized it all…or maybe you only had 50p and a packet of green Rizlas. Wouldn’t you be a teeny bit…well…miffed if you were not allowed someone to give you legal guidance on the matter at hand purely because you had no means to pay for it?

I know I would.

So bear that in mind as you cast your stones and eggs and laugh and point at the ignorant fools, who are having their basic rights wilfully eroded away because they didn’t know they actually had them in the first place…

Thursday, 8 April 2010

Empee Empee

Jeff Ennis goes this year. He used to live next door to Mrs Edson you know.

I live in Barnsley East. I’ve never been canvassed by an MP and shoving your tatty bit of paper through my letterbox just makes the cats and the recycle bin happy.

Currently the potential MPs for my area are (in no particular order) -


jb John Brown - Lib Dem: Beardy gent

Former lecturer, former manager of a plastics company.

Been about a bit. Lived in places such as St Helens, Congleton, Barnsley, Sheffield, Doncaster and Loughborough.

Has a degree in Metallurgy.



cavenvinesCaven Vines - UKIP: Shifty looking beardy gent

Seems to be based in Rotherham which isn’t all that far from Barnsley East but still.

Has a bee in his bonnet about immigrants, muslims and Britain being British.

Says “We need representation by MPs who are not afraid to speak out for what the people of Britain want” – Well I want a new car and £10000 please :D







barnsleyeast5 Colin Porter – BNP: Odious sounding shouty pointy man

Other than a leaflet buried on some nationalist website and a couple of news clippings about him being all shouty and pointy. The only  other reference I could find about this gent is this Youtube video -

Curious really. Considering he’s putting himself forward for election. Furthermore, he seems to be stuck on issues that have no weight on the global or national scheme of things. I’m sure people living in Warrington would be furious to know that truck drivers are driving along B roads in Barnsley…..




main-1607 James Hockney - Conservatives: Slimey looking toff


This guy seems to have a career covering the south. Cambridgeshire, Ely and the like. Apart from kindly “helping to get a Learner Centre up and running in South Yorkshire”. I doubt he’s even looked at Barnsley except on a map.

Oh wait…it appears he went to a brewery….in a different part of Barnsley. Bless him.




dugher Michael Dugher - Labour: The ungoogleable man.


Seems like this chap has been floating round the country like an unflushed turd. I doubt he even lives in Barnsley...or for that matter knows where it is.

However he does seem to already have some parliamentary connections so even if he doesn’t get the job he can still make tea and advise on whatever it is he advises on.





This, it seems, is the motley band of chaps that want my vote. Now apart from virtually no web presence, these guys seem to think that they can tell me what they stand for  by telepathy…or maybe some sort of osmosis or something. However, because I’ve lived my life wrong, I am unable to receive messages through the ether due to my fat head being somehow defective.

So, like last time there was an election my offer still stands. It even applies to the horrid shouty pointy man. Let us go for a pint at the Three Horseshoes and discuss why I should vote for you because unless you do…I won’t have any idea why it is I should give you my vote.

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

Escape from the Toilet of Doom

Universities_clip_image001_0000In the West Building of uni, there is a small gents toilet. It is, as I said, a small toilet. It is fitted only with two cubicles and, unusually, there are no urinals.

This morning on my arrival on campus I made my way to the loo to clear out my cup of tea from breakfast. The long  drive from Brierley to Huddersfield makes me want to wee more than a running tap so that loo is often my first port of call.

Anyway, as I entered I noticed that, as usual, the cubicle on the left was closed and engaged. It was at this point I realised that every time I’ve used that particular loo the cubicle on the left has always been engaged.

pro_sp36_1 Today was a different day from all the other times I have been to uni as I was using the editing suite a few doors down the corridor and I was expecting to be in there all day (the editing suite that is, not the toilet). So I thought to myself I’d check throughout the day and prove to myself that surely people must come and go to that toilet and I’ve obviously just been a victim of bad timing.

So by 12pm I was in need of the loo again. I popped in and sure enough the door was closed and the smells emanating from the locked cubicle indicated that there was either someone definitely in there or there was a problem with the drains.

By 2pm I’d finished faffing and it was time for my third visit of the day. Sure enough the door was closed. This time the smells were accompanied by rustlings of toilet paper and shuffling about. At this point I was thinking to myself “Hmmm this chap has been in there all day. I hope he is ok”.

toilet-paper-toiletBy 4:30pm, it was time to go home. Rather than face the entire journey from Huddersfield to Brierley with an increasingly filled bladder, I thought I’d nip into the gents and prepare myself for the journey.

As I approached the main door to the toilet, I thought about the day and the year and how everytime I’d been to that toilet someone, perhaps the same someone, had been engaged in the left cubicle.

Was it some sort of toilet monster? Was it just some errant academic of faecal studies? Could it be some weird gateway to Poo Narnia? Or maybe there was someone who lived in the cubicle…after all…there was a Chinese student in Liverpool Uni who lived in the 24hr computer centre (Troofax).

I opened the door gingerly and there….to my abject horror…and utter terror….the toilet cubicle door………was……..

**insert dramatic music here**


Toilet door


Rather than risk death by poo monster, asphyxiation by noxious gases or being sucked into some faecal version of Middle Earth I still opted for the right hand cubicle. I made my business fast and swift doing up my fly zipper as I left the room to save time.

Who knows what horrors might have befallen me had I lingered?

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

My Neighbour’s Cock

My Neighbour's Cock from stegzy gnomepants on Vimeo.

My neighbour is always getting his cock out at the back of my house. So I went and filmed it so I can prove it to you unbelievers. Disgusting behaviour.

Sunday, 21 March 2010

Geocaching 2010


So this weekend saw the start of the Geocaching season for me. Ok, technically it was a few weeks ago when I went mooching round Wooley Edge and bagged two caches while trying out new software. Zoe and I decided to start out with some easy ones to get us back into the swing of things.

The first trip took us to a disused railway bridge out at Hunningham near Leamington Spa. As I say, it’s been a while but it’s the little things like spotting good places to park, working out that the direct path is not always the best and if at first you can’t find the cache – look in the most obvious place.

So on getting there it became apparent that there was no easy way to get up to where I needed to be. Short of taking a good 4 mile walk to get to the cache the only other option was to scramble through undergrowth and up some rubble.

Further adventures were had trying to navigate a field of potatoes. We could either take the direct path across the crops or round the edge of the field adding about 30 minutes onto the trip. The crops were safe as we opted for the indirect approach which, fortunately, took in another cache on the way.

The glorious sunshine which graced the midlands today meant that rather than the usual slobbing out on the couch, Zoe and I would do some more geocaching. Today’s trip reminded me of why I really enjoy the hobby.

The UK is a beautiful picturesque land. There’s so much to see but often we ignore places because, on maps, there doesn’t seem to be anything there.

However Geocaching takes you to some of the most interesting places that you wouldn’t ordinarily visit.  So today’s trip took us to the lovely sleepy village of Weston Under Wetherley.

I mean look at it. It’s just gorgeous. Makes you feel British. I can just imagine poncing about the place in my blazer with service medals and being called Major or something. So this has reignited the desire to mooch about the countryside looking for bits of concealed tupperware while armed only with my HTC HD2.

Anyway, the glorious weather seems to have awoken other cachers as the travel bug – the Stegzy Gnomepants’ Badger’s Coastal Tour Travel Bug has also been on the move. So it seems the season has begun, work permitting, I intend to do many more caches this year. Maybe actually getting to places outside of the West Midlands and Yorkshire. 

And yet I still find myself wishing there was something like this when I was younger….

Saturday, 20 March 2010

Are you safe?

Easily mistaken for smarties The news that a school is banning ties and the news that stepping stones might be bad for your health has really got my blood pressure up of late. I blame the litigious society we now live in. I hold my hand up now and confess that in the mid 1990's I helped to propagate this terrible affliction upon the British public by working in a solicitors office that mainly dealt with tripping incidents.

This is where your money goes People living in the UK pay a tax which helps pay for the upkeep of the area in which they live. This tax is called the Council tax [Incidentally, this year Barnsley council have levied residents a £1095 annual charge for the privilege of living in Band B houses within the district] and is paid annually. The tax funds the local services such as police and fire and coastguard (if you live in a coastal area),Derek Hatton's new car refuse collection, holidays for the councillors and general maintenance of street furniture (signs, lamp posts, bins), pavements and public areas.

My job as a legal clerk was to gather evidence against Liverpool council for "Breach of duty of care". Usually this would involve Joe Scrotum calling into the office, all bandaged up, to say that he had tripped over a raised paving slab and caused distress and discomfort to his person. I would then get Mr Scrotum (or his brother or his cousin or some bloke that knew his Aunt once on a Friday afternoon in June) to sign a "Green Form" which allowed Mr Scrotum to claim legal aid and allowed the firm to earn some healthy dosh to pay its employees with.

Mr Scrotum yesterdayIn reality, Mr Scrotum had probably gotten beaten up in the pub for shagging Mr Knutfukker's wife up the bum; and on the way home from the pub notices a pavement slab which happened to be a bit sticky uppy. Of course some of the clients were obviously genuine, some had actually fallen or had had some kind of truly accident with a piece of council furniture. But the majority were scam artists.

A good 60% of these people put claims in as a supplement to their unemployment benefit and often the solicitor that dealt with these cases would be heard to say "Oh Mr Scrotum? Again? He is a clumsy clopper". Anyone else probably would have taken a bit more care walking down the road but because the compensation available was sometimes in the £1000's (Yeah your Honour. Falling down that manhole has put me off sex) there was a healthy income to be made. Indeed some of the injuries certainly didn't look like they were caused by "sticky up pavements".

Lethal Unless, of course, these people had been travelling along a super sonic speed and the pavement slab levitated and twatted them across the head and limbs several times. Of course the compensation had to come from somewhere. Liverpool, at the time, had one of the highest council tax charges in Britain and possibly some of the most unsafe streets in the whole North West. Not because of gun toting dudes in blacked out cars but because of the actual potholes and broken pavements. However, the money to fix the pavements was being swallowed up by Mr Scrotum and his kin, who didn't actually pay any council tax anyway because of their employment status.



But thats a tangent I didn't really intend going off on. Instead, today I got thinking about the numerous things that I probably wouldnt have experienced had I been a cotton wool wrapped child of today. Such as:-


Pipes like this can disfigure kids Sitting on hot central heating pipes in the cold winter


Not only is it not like the Arctic in the winter anymore but someone might just get burnt.


Possible Reason

Oh poor little Jonny! He sat on a pipe and now has a disfiguring blister on his thigh. This has (will) cause(d) him to have a lack of  self confidence and all the other children will call him names and he'll grow up to be Charles Manson or someone.


Instead of

Stupid child. It was hot, you got burnt. Here have some Germoline and stop your whinging. You'll never do that again now will you. Hot pipes indeed!? Didn't you get up once they felt a bit hot?


Mind out they may be sharp Cutting paper with scissors


The child might cut his or her or someone elses fingers off!


Possible Reason

 Oh poor little Milly! She was cutting paper unsupervised when she cut her finger. Now she has no end of playground taunting and she'll never be able to play the Harp again. I mean fancy leaving a child with paper! That paper cut will never heal. It will go gangrenous and cause her to have some tropical infection like lassa fever or beri beri

Instead of

Stupid Child! Its only a poxy little paper cut. Just suck the blood off and you'll be alright. You're not going to die.

20080208_blackboard Chalk on the blackboard


People are allergic to all sorts of things these days: cheese, peanuts, mucky fat, aspidistras. Chalk is no exception.

Possible Reason

I had to take my little Gary out of class indefinitely because of the dust in that class room. He would come home with his eyes streaming and his face all puffy. It stressed me so much I  would have to smoke a further 20 cigarettes in disgust. How dare that school give my child an allergy! How is he going to take over the family asbestos removals company when his Dad retires?


Instead of

Oh stop your whinging. Smoke this and go out and play.

conkersPlaying conkers


Conkers are notorious for removing peoples eyes. In fact in some hospitals conkers have been used in eye removal operations. The game of conkers is no exception and only increases the risk.

Possible Reason

 That Tommy, he's normally such a nice boy. But you know the other day, after his drink of Sunny Delight, he went out with his friend Eddie to play conkers and within five minutes he was going round and punching things and kicking things and pulling the heads off puppies. I can't imagine why he would do such a thing. Must be because he was playing conkers. Thats such a violent game


Instead of

Calm down. Stop kicking that boy like that. How many times have I got to tell you. When you are kicking children go for the goolies! Do it properly or not at all!

told Being told off by an unknown adult


Strangers. Are dangers. So they say. I always thought they were a crap indie band from Preston. But it seems that any person other than a member or friend of the family that speaks to a child is a paedophile and possibly an axe murderer or nail beautician. Or all three.

Possible Reason

 That Mr Jones of number 86. He told our Jade to get off his garden today. He's a dirty shifty man. He has all those pictures of those children on his mantelpiece and wall. I just know he's watching me from behind those net curtains. He did away with his wife anorl you know? Chopped her up with an axe made out of a nail file....


Instead of

How many times do you need to be told? Stop annoying the neighbours and stop doing parkour on Mr Jones' front garden. He's old and doesn't like it. Go and apologise and ask him if there is anything I can get him from the supermarket.

303114 Sticking things with Gloy Paste


Glue as we know is bad. According to recent social studies sniffing glue is bad for you. It makes your nose all spotty, fucks your head and leads on to hard drugs like. Gloy Paste sniffing is  the precursor to glue sniffing it seems though smelling the back of a postage stamp isn't quite in the same league really is it?

Possible Reason

 I caught our Billy making a tissue paper collage last night. I was so shocked. I was passing his room on my way to get my Crystal Meth when I saw through his door...there he was all sprawled out on the floor sticking pieces of scrunched up bits of tissue paper onto a piece of card using GLOY! Things looked so promising for him. I always thought he'd be a dealer you know.


Instead of

Aww thats lovely Billy. Are you making that for your gran? Arrrey! You've got it all over the carpet. You stupid little child. Give it here!


sn Nativity


It seems that childhood is not innocent. It is guilty of offending people from other walks of life and cultures. The nativity, the seasonally traditional account of the birth of Jesus, offends not only non-Christians but the papier mache rights people get offended at the use of a papier mache sheep instead of a cardboard cut out. It might also be instrument to child pornography as it seems those people with the cameras might not actually be filming or photographing their children for family posterity but for actually more nefarious purposes.


Possible Reason


 I couldnt believe it! I was mortified! Imagine having a 6 year old talking about birth. It is obscene! Especially as I don't believe a word of all that "Christ is born" nonsense and I only had our Tanya baptised so she could get into the school (you know its fairly high up on the league tables). I find it all so offensive. Just wait until Julian sees the education minister when he plays golf on Thursday. I shall also be complaining about the use of the cameras in during the nativity. I mean I don't know any of those people. They might be axe murderers or nail beauticians or something and they have film of MY child! It's horrific!


Instead of

Aww look at them all act. Aren't they sweet. I mean I know I only got them baptised for educational reasons but still they did a damn good job of the birth. I think little Tarquin played Joseph so well. He should get an oscar lovey!! I'm so glad most parents seemed to be filming the event as, when Tarquin becomes an internationally famous filmstar, they'll all sell their films to the press and it will be excellent publicity for him darling.

stre Playing in the street


God forbid if a child ever went out on the street. There are all manner of dangers. Cars. Drug pushers. Muggers. Rabid snow leopards. Level 15 Dun Modr Dwarfs. Religious nutters. Knives. Sharp pavements. Fresh air. Pollution. Things to do. Mischief to be had.

Possible Reason

 I dare not let Jimmy out to play in case he falls over and damages his knee. I certainly don't like him talking to those other children. I mean what sort of dreadful and awful parents let their children out to wander the streets unsupervised. You see them all the time playing football, sitting around drinking Tenants Super, swearing at old ladies, running round Mr Jones' garden. I'd say something but I wouldn't want anyone to think I was a dirty paedo or something. Instead I'll just keep Jimmy here with me. I'll give him a nice PC to play with and he can go on the internet all day. Or I can get him a television and some of those Conker films he likes so much.

Instead of

Go on. Bugger off out. What do you mean you've got homework? GCSE's? What are they? You dont want them they cause nothing but trouble! Look at me do you think I've got GCSE's? Now fuck off out and let me watch me reruns of Trisha in peace...

This post originally appeared on Livejournal in 2007