Banks

I am absolutely fuming. I am trying to pay my flat mate my rent which is impossible. 

So I rang up the bank, after trying three different numbers, one for, and I quote, deaf and blind people...why the hell would a deaf person be using a phone? "I can not hear if i am through or not". The other number was for a different bank all together, seems like in the split Lloyds got one number and TSB another. Finally I got the right one, to which I had to put in all my details and yell answers to pointless questions to get to an adviser who says "Do you have the code we sent you?" 

"Nope"

"I can't do anything then I will send you another code it will be with you in 6 days"...

"So your telling me I just gave you my account number, sort code, date of birth, full name and address as well as the three digit security number and you wont let me in because your worried about fraud. Why give me a 6 digit number if I have to give you every other bit of information to get to the point in which I have to give you the number? I mean now everyone around me has every bit of information on me anyway!"

"I'm sorry madam but you can do it online"

"oh ok"

"I will put you through" 

So then I get to go through to the dumbest German known to man kind. I'm trying to log in but cant because they haven't given me a log in name because I haven't registered. I haven't registered because it wouldn't let me last time and locked me out. So I cant get a username and password until they let me in and they wont let me in without a username and password. He comes on "Madam can I help?"

"Yes I want to make a standing order" 

"ok" he says, "I can help you" he says, "don't worry" he says...LYER!

I explained the situation "It wont let you in, oh I will send you another code. But I cant do anything else until you have it. It will be with you in 6 days" MOTHER PLUCKER

"What can I do? Pay pall are going to charge me, to get the cheque I have to go to get my book and my flat mates paying in slip, then find a Natwest to pay it in and there are no banks near me. To wire the money or do a transfer it costs me an extra fifty quid. You people wont let me use internet or telephone banking without a stupid code. How can I pay this? Its your fault, you should be more accessible to people and have more branches. I mean there are more bloody Primarks than banks now, I'm more likely to find a dildo than a bank, Its easier to buy crack than pay a bill." Silence on the other end of the line....

Finally it speaks: "You have to go in to a bank or wait 6 days." 

"Wheres the nearest bank. I'm in London Tottenham Court Road."

"What city are you in?"

"LONDON" 

"Where abouts?"

"TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD"

"There is one in Hammersmith, that's the nearest to where you live" 

"Oh thanks for that, there's only one problem. I don't live there anymore, that is why I don't have my codes, they are at my parents, which I have explained, also I'm not there now!"

"oh...................."

"You know what fucking forget it" I hung up. 

Banks...take our money and don't want to give it back. Those filthy retarded bankers just want to put it in their fat pockets...I'm so angry!

The Royal Mail Saga

Royal Mail, their prices increase as their service declines. I mean if you cant do the job, don't continue to put up prices.

I had the lovely surprise of finding a little card on my mat as I stepped through my front door last week. Of course I wanted this package and I had two weeks to get it from them, otherwise, I only assume, it will be destroyed in the fires of postal hell. So I followed the instructions on line to get it redelivered. 

Apparently you can have it delivered to a different address, 'brilliant' I thought, 'I know, I will get it delivered to my work address, that way if I'm not there it wont matter'. I merrily filled out the form smiling at my fantastic idea. Twenty minutes later I have completed the questionnaire and press 'CONTINUE' only to receive a 'NO...we cant do that!' message. Apparently a mile down the road is too far for them to deliver. Right, so, let me get this straight, you will let me change the delivery address only if it is, in fact, the same address as on the card. In other words you can't! 

I then continued to try and get my package redelivered, since I really did want it, otherwise to be honest, I wouldn't have bothered. I would have taken it to be lost to the gods of post like all those Christmas cards filled with money my nan sent, its funny how the other empty cards always managed to find their way through my letterbox. So, I went back to stage one of the redelivery programme. This time instead of choosing a different address, which you cant do anyway, I decided to choose a different day. 'I can plan to be in on Monday or Thursday' I thought, 'I can work from home and make sure I am in to collect it'. 

Turns out, after spending another twenty minuets I will never get back, on filling in the same useless form, that those days this week are fully booked. Oh I'm sorry I forgot that it all has to be on your terms Royal Mail, who are now holding my package hostage for me to take a day off work. 

But dear readers don't fear the story from here on in just shows the depths of stupidity they can achieve. After numerous attempts at filling out the same form, with the same information, finally I found a day they could deliver. It was booked for the Monday after next. But was it? Could it really be that easy? 

NO. Because on the Friday before they realised their mistake, that Monday is a bank holiday. I then received an email telling me that I should rebook the delivery or go and collect it. At this point I saw no other option than to just go and get the package myself on the notion that 'If you want something done right, do it yourself'.

Off I went after checking Google maps for directions. It took me an hour to get there and I was forced to leave work early to make this journey. When I arrived there was a que a mile long, seems like I'm not the only one that decided to do their one job of delivering mail for them. 

When I finally go to the counter (after the receptionist spent half an hour refusing to take a piece of identification from a man because the corner of it had been in his mouth forcing the man to rout through his bag for another) the receptionist told me my package was not there...

Here is how the conversation ensued:

Me: "well where is it?"

Receptionist: "I don't know"

Me: "Well I'm not leaving until I get it, I have been trying to get it redelivered for two weeks now and on every occasion which have been many either your fully booked or cant deliver it. Now this utter cock up has been down to you I have the email of you admitting to that. It said to come and collect it. So where is it?"

Receptionist: "I do apologise it must have been redelivered today, have you been home yet?"

Me: "Do I look like I have been home today? If I had I wouldn't be standing in front of you in work clothes with a big back pack on." 

Receptionist: "Its not my fault madam."

Me: "Now I understand that this is not your fault, personally, however, you, at this point, are the face of the company and are going to have to deal with my issues with your service."

Receptionist: "They must have redelivered it today"

Me: "That's not my fault, I didn't tell them to do that, no one was at home, again."

Receptionist: "Well you will have a redelivery notice"

Me: "which will say what?"

Receptionist: "To either rebook the delivery or come here to pick it up"

Me: "Right so you want me to go home, get the note, and come back here to pick it up? when I am already here now...to pick it up. I don't have time for that"

Receptionist: "Well we are open from 7am to 7pm"

Me: "Right, and we have already established that I work. In fact I work from 8am till 7pm, which means I had to leave work early today to come here, meaning I am losing money due to your incompetence, only to be told that you tried to deliver it on a day I clearly was not in. So now I have to go home to pick up a piece of paper to come back."

Receptionist: "erm"

Me: "Right I will be putting in a formal complaint and a claim with your head office for all the hours I have had to take off work. This is ridiculous, what is your name?"

Receptionist: "I will go and check if its in today's post"

Me: "Thank you"

He came back with my post and handed it to me. 

Me: "Thank you. Do you need ID?"

Receptionist: "No, but when you get home rip up the other delivery notice please"

Me: "With pleasure, what else am I going to do with it anyway? Come here for fun?"

And that my friends is the story of the Royal Mail Saga.

No Wifi

I have no Internet here. I am writing blog after blog and can not post any. I am craving social media exploration and need to know what's going on. I want to write about the new beauty products on the market but have no way to research. oh what I wouldn't give for a quick google search. I never realised how heavily I relied on the Internet.

Is it me as a twenty first century girl or is it my journalistic nature? It's hard to know.

It's amazing how much the Internet aids our daily life. I find myself telling people to 'wattsap' or 'bbm' me instead of texting, which they can't. Then during phone calls concerning work I say, as I usually do, "ok just email it over to me", which I wont recieve in time. My social Callander is a complete mess I don't know who's birthday is when, what events are coming up, where and what time am I expected without Facebook. Don't even mention twitter, my finger hovers over that little blue bird symbol every time something slightly humorous happens or a random thought pops in to my head, all now long lost and forgotten. I have just realised I use twitter as a diary of my mental ness, every crazy thought or funny thing that happens, or is said...I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Tomorrow I have decided to go in search of some wifi. I know some places do have it but not many. How do people live out here without the internet? I mean in london you cant walk for five minuets without finding a hot spot. I have Been here for a week and not picked up one. Maybe that explains why everyone looks so relaxed, they all just mooch around slowly looking happy. Like they have no cares in the world, maybe its the lack of internet, without the non interrupted, constant white noise of online voices all fighting and screaming for attention and to be heard. I mean, I found it relaxing to begin with, the silence, the freedom. But now I'm pulling my hair out with worry on what I might be missing. What important emails have I not received, what deadlines are creeping up? what's going on in London, what events am I expected to attend upon my return?

This need of mine is causing arguments. My mother and I are having one right at this moment. "Why do you need the internets?" To get my emails mum, from work. "We'll they know your away" yes but no one expects that there will be no way to pick up emails now days, I may have a deadline. "Well your not there so do it when you get back" the deadline maybe Monday that will only give me a day to do it, but if I check my emails and know I have to do it I can start on it now. "Oh whatever, I don't see what difference it makes." GAHHH that's the problem people who have never used or had the Internet don't realise how debilitating it becomes without it. If no one used the Internet then all would be fine but the fact is you can not get ahead in today's society without conforming to the new way of contact, and at the moment it's all via the bloody Internet.

It's not just the wifi I am having problems with though. The reception out he in the middle of know where is playing havoc with my social life. I am finding myself so desperate to send and receive texts that I am holding my phone above my head like its Simba and jumping about in the hope to find just one single bar.

Anyway this is Michelle, in the middle of France, hoping you receive me loud and clear, over and out!

The French and their keys

Today has been the third day in a row where I have driven to some historic castle or chateau only to find that it is closed. I'm staring to get the impression that the whole of France is closed or they just don't want to share their history with the British.

I get an image of a French man clad in stripes with a beret with a coffee on a white fenced balcony on the look out for any Brits that may come to the village. "Lock your doors" he shouts and grannies scramble to close everything. In moments the entire place looks like a death town. I can't prove this theory of course.

But for the last three days I have found the tourist office and asked when the place of interest is open, and they always say "you have to get the key from...." The first one was from the bakery, the second was kept by the butcher and today's key, well I think she made up a word to be honest. All three were either closed or never found.

This is beside the point. The fact is I don't feel comfortable when I have the keys to a friends car or flat let alone the key to a 15th century castle. It's too much responsibility, I mean, what's their lock smith situation like? I haven't seen one since if been here and how would a locksmith deal with a historic lock?

Could you imagine it? sorry entire village I just lost the key to your most historic prized possession.

Why don't they just leave it open? It's not like people are going to steal anything and if they did I'm sure someone in the village will notice a person walking about with a 15th century massive tapestry or chair. I mean leave it open, get someone to sit there, ask for a few euros and hey presto your making money. That's better than people turning up, going on a key hunt and then leaving. You would even make money from the tourists buying stuff and eating.

Tomorrow I will try again, maybe I will get lucky and find something open. Perhaps everything closes Saturday to Monday?

Not speaking French

So I'm on holiday in France. The problem is I don't speak French. It's annoying and I feel so typically English and ignorant. I keep trying to talk to people in either Spanish or English, neither work.

I'm trying to learn while I'm here, reading from a phrase book which does no bloody difference because they can't understand my god awful accent. This is the first time I have been in a country where I have no means to communicate with the locals and its killing me. How do people do it?

I have been on holidays before where everyone around me speaks no other language other than English. They just shout and point and seem to have no problems other than the odd rude look which seems to just go over their head. I have been at a bar and have someone yell "I WANT A BEER" to the bar man. They seem to think nothing of it, where as I was so embarrassed I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. But that's what I'm doing now.

It made me think, why do we have so many different languages? Why don't we all just learn one? Why did every country have to make up different sounds in which to communicate?

It would make life so much easier without the language barriers. People keep trying to talk to me, just randomly, maybe I look French? The first time was a woman in a perfume shop, she didn't work there, she was browsing and came up to me smiled and jabbered on. I smiled back and then pointed to myself and said "English" and she nodded and walked off. Then some teenage boy came up to me in the street and started talking to me so I said "pardon, no pole vou Frances" he looked confused and stood there. Then I thought saying I don't speak French in French is a little confusing. So by the third stranger I came up with a cunning new tactic. I made hand gestures and pretended I was deaf, that seemed to work. I just hope that I don't bump in to someone who knows French Sign Language!

Churches and no smiling Jesus

Why is it that people seem to become infatuated by churches when on holiday? Don't get me wrong, I like to have the odd mooch around an old church or chapel and basque in their gothic beauty, the 'odd' being the operative word. I don't want to walk around every church I see, when you have seen one, you have pretty much seen them all.

I mean apart from perhaps the pictures not much else differentiates them. They all have an organ, benches, candles, big wooden doors, and a cross and table at the front. Some are beautiful and I am interested in the way the interior has changed through history or per continent. But there are only so many times you can walk around smelling the mixture of mold and frankenscence while commenting on the beauty of it.

Today we entered one and I felt uncomfortable. This happens a lot in churches. I feel sometimes like I may combust or that I shouldn't be there. I suppose this is down to my lack of belief in religion. I feel like a fraud creeping around a 'house of god' that I don't believe in. I see people sitting in silence, some praying and feel guilt, I can't explain why. Perhaps it's the fact that religion, through history, has been used as a way to control the masses using fear. If you don't prey or live by the rules then you will burn in hell. Maybe that's it, maybe I feel hatred towards religion and so uncomfortable when entering the hub.

I mean it's not just the whole, if you follow our rules you will be rewarded in death that I don't agree with. It's the wars religion caused, the deaths it has warranted, the money it makes, the terrible things done by the very people who preach in its name and the way these bad deeds are pushed under the rug. Its so contradictory and is part of everything it preaches against.

I digress, I apologise, I shall retract to my original point. While walking around this church I noticed that in every picture of Jesus he is always Laying about dying. In every statue, he is attached to a cross dying. Why is he always dying? Why are there no pictures in churches of him smiling? What about doing some daily activities like healing leprosy, blessing people or turning water in to wine? I mean wouldn't that be nicer? If you love him so much and have so much respect for him why use the worst possible part of his life to focus on? I mean no one looks at their best when their nailed to a cross with blood dripping all over the gaff.

Another point, I may have made it before, what's all this nonsense about drinking his blood and eating his body? That's vampirism and cannibalism right there. Now I think that Jesus would have something to say about that!

Badly Made Horrors

Blood, guts and gore are not the only things that make a horror. Granted they are the first things you think of when you hear the genre, but to make a good scary movie so much more needs to be taken in to consideration.

While on holiday I came across a British made zombie film. Unfortunately I bought it. One rainy day, I decided to give the churches and castles a rest so, I lit the fire, got a packet of peanut puffs and snuggled down under a blanket ready for a good old horror.

It was a cheap film but I thought, theres not much you can get wrong with a horror, is there? The answer is 'Yes', to be honest, this film: 'Night of the living dead resurrection' got very little right, when I say very little I mean nothing at all.

I feel at this point I should stop, fearing that James Plumb, the film maker, may be upset by my criticism. But I won't, you see I am in the middle of France, it's raining, and cold, this film was meant to be today's saving grace, it made it worse. In fact, it's so bad I'm looking forward to my run to the local (mile away) village, in the rain, to get some 'lait et du pain', the most mundane groceries ever.

To start, the camera work and sound is appalling. You can hardly hear the lines through the tin sound, at one point you hear quiet talking in the background thats not even supposed to be there. The camera work is jumpy, twisty, upside down and badly angled. The overall look and sound is cheap. I wouldn't mind if it was accidental, but you could tell lots of the shots were done in an attempt to be 'artistic'. Well, it's not artistic, quite frankly it's rubbish, confusing and pointless when it's not done properly.

It's not big and it's not clever to have a follow view of someone's bottom walking up the stairs or an upside down and back to front view of someone laying on a bed. These shots need to be done at the right time, to coincide with the script, in order to create fear and anticipation within the audience. They need to have purpose not just be random, for instance, a follow view should be done when someone is spying, creeping up on, or hiding from the person in shot, usually their back. An upside down or spinning shot should be used, again, if the person in shot is feeling confused or disorientated. These convey the same emotion to the audience in order to create a bond between them and the character, usually the protagonist.

That is another thing this film didn't have, character, audience empathy. At no point did I identify with any characters. It jumped through too many. There wasn't a chance to bond with any and so, to be honest, I didn't care if any of them lived nor died, or got eaten alive. It started with a wimpy man being harassed by some welsh yobs, who i thought were in their late twenties, early thirties but later it transpired they were young teens that apparently needed someone to buy them alcohol, well I wouldn't have asked for I.D. Anyway the man enters the shop and low and behold their all zombies. At this point the film could still be good maybe this guy will man up and become a hero...NO he gets bitten.

He then turns, you know this by the ice blue contacts, blood pouring from the mouth and usual zombie slow shuffling on the side of the feet, groaning walk. He leaves the shop and bites the yobs, great more characters I didn't get time to identify with. Then another man randomly stops his car, gets out and yells "get away he has been bitten". The yobs don't heed his warning and so he gets back in to his car and drives off with us, the audience by his side. He drives down, of course, deserted country lanes and rings someone to tell them he is coming to get them. HA! you think, he is the protagonist and he is going to save someone, NO he gets his brains blown out by some welsh man through the letterbox. I should have known, he was the tocan black man in he movie, bound to die.

So now were stuck with some welsh family which in better circumstances would have been on the Jeremy Kyle show. A mum and dad, an emo Justin Bieber lookalike boy, who has been bitten, an old man spurting 'the end of the world lines' who has also been bitten, a pregnant woman and her husband who is sleeping with her teenage sister.

The rest of the film is them, in a house, trying to survive with an emo and old man locked in rooms rattling on wooden doors while zombies approach. Ahhhh but that's not all, now a new group emerge. A group of yobs. These are fixed on devastation and destruction, killing everyone in their way, for no reason at all zombified or not, even running over the father with his own car, while spurting out game references "this is like COD" and "lets go all world of warfare on his arse". Later when the sun rises and everyone is dead yet another group appear shooting zombies and dressed in army camo. They find a survivor and end the film with the line "put her in the rape van".

One may argue that this film is trying to show the end of humanity in present day and this can be blamed on the desensitisation of children through the media? But I feel that would be giving this film to more consideration than it deserves. It's unclear just like the entire story line. There is no back story to the family or the outbreak or anything. But there is lots of badly shot, terribly lit, off colour, intestine eating.

French Toilets

When you need to go, you need to go. Usually I am not too fussy about where I urinate - oh come on we have all been desperate for a wee on a night out and had to use an alleyway. Festival toilets don't even phase me, with their poo smeared walls and giant well of pee underneath. But I have to say when I stopped at a motorway toilet in France on the way to a wolf sanctuary I was devastated by the situation.

I opened the door to the stone house and chose a metal door to enter expecting to see the usual porcelain seat, when low and behold there was simply a ditch in the floor. So what they claimed to be a toilet was nothing more than a shack with a hole.

This created a problem, how to squat in a maxi dress while gripping on to my flip flops with my toes all the while trying to avoid urinating on myself. It was a feat let me tell you. I managed to hitch my dress over my head and balance vicariously over the hole, my flip flop only slipping once, which was enough for splash back.

But the horror did not end there. No toilet roll.

Luckily my mum was at hand with a packet of tissues I now regretted berating her for. To the rescue she came like a Knight in shining armour. Except these tissues were Albus oiled. So now I am stuck with a pissy foot and a burning foof.

Thanks France!

I mean why, in this day and age have you still got holes for toilets? Sort it out for the love of god.

Strippers

Every time you go to a male strip show you inevitably end up with a cock in your face.

I have always been weary of them and nervous whenever I have been to one. It's like comedy shows, I always worry that they will pick on me and so have never really liked them.

I suppose to say I don't like them is a little harsh, it's more like I find them cringeworthy. There are always women who take it a step to far and turn in to wild beasts, crazed with the sight of a naked man dancing to 'its raining men'. They scream and leer at them, pulling at items of clothing or fighting for the chance to rub baby oil on a bum cheek. It's like they have never seen a man before, it's embarrassing. There is always that one drunk hen who yells out 'gerrem off' like a mental banshee. If your that excited to see another man naked perhaps you should rethink your marriage?

The dance routines are always to the same cheesy old music, you know at some point Barry white or the Weather Girls are going to rear their overplayed heads. I have an idea, why don't you do a provocative dance to 'I'm too sexy', or even better 'You can leave your hat on' but the twist at the end is covering your other head with the hat? Or even better dress in a white suit and do the officer and a gentleman routine to 'love lifts us up'. It's not just the music though the choreography is made up of awful steps that are nothing better that the moves made up by a teenager in their bedroom. There is always one that has no rhythm and is clearly there purely for his looks and an old one arthritic ally thrusting about.

All this animosity may have arisen at my first experience of a strip show. I was sixteen and my friends mum decided to take us to her girls night out, at a grotty old mans club. The carpets were stained with old alcohol, peanuts were strewn all over the floor, the tables thick with dirt, the whole place smelt of stale beer and don't even get me started on the toilets. As we approached you could see them hanging out of, not only their dresses, but the front doors smoking and yelling at the top of their voices, stumbling about on their stiletto heels, the drunk women. When we entered it got worse, women bashing tables and stamping their feet like a hoard of wilder beasts, tone deaf screeches resembling the words "get your cocks out, get your cocks out, get your cocks out for the girls". Maybe it was the fact we weren't drinking - not that we didn't at that age we were no angels- but we were with a mum, or maybe it was my reserved upbringing but I felt fearful for the men and utterly embarrassed.

Out they came, like the characters from YMCA, all in some form of uniform. The women turned in to creatures of the night frothing at the mouth grabbing, leering, screaming, jumping about, I was half expecting them to rub themselves across the floor leaving snail trails. But this wasn't the worst bit. The strippers, one called 'warrior' with the biggest penis I have ever seen started whacking the women across the face with their bits and rubbing themselves on them like stray dogs leaving their scent. To my surprise instead of the women being appalled by having a strangers shlong shoved in their face, seemed to revel in it some grabbing it, some trying to milk it and others trying to eat it.

As if this want bad enough during every break I snuck out for a sneaky ciggi and every time I did I noticed a car, the same one every time, with steamed up windows bouncing about. Each time a different woman got out pulling down their skirts followed by the 'warrior'. Well done ladies, you just got, at best, ghonoreah! This made the whole experience worse I feared him coming near me knowing where it had been.

'The warrior' was in his late fourties, even early fifties, his muscles clearly still defined were starting to look sinewy and stringy. His face was haggard and skin looked like old boot leather even when covered in oil and the colour of a mahogany table. The limp shaggy hair that fell to his shoulders was thinning at the top and the black dye was growing out showing shades of grey. He wore a constant smarmy, greasy smile and walked around with his chest puffed out like a pigeon as well as a constant hard on. The only way I can think that he could have 'pleasured' all those women was with a serious dose of Viagra and a lot of fake orgasms - I do have a male mate who fully admitted to faking orgasms so it does happen.

When I got older I went to a friends gay hen night and so of course we went to a female strip show. It was the seediest place I think I have ever been. There were seats all around a stage, dirty old men sitting in the back rows in the darkness licking their lips at the sight of a girl completely naked rubbing her vagina on a pole and opening her legs and pointing it at them. I decided to foursquare my location to shock my followers and noticed the stripper pointing at me. Then I got berated by a bouncer for 'taking photos' "I'm foursquaring" I yelled and showed him my phone, bloody vain woman, why would I want her picture on my phone? Ok maybe I took one to send to a guy I was sort of seeing...but it's not like I'm going to Facebook a vagina is it?

Anyway about three minuets in I decided I needed the toilet and as it was a mans establishment the only female toilets were those in the strippers changing rooms. So off I went to be faced with a crying stripper, coked out of her head, who was yelling about how awful her life was. I got her some tissue from the side and sat there comforting her, she repaid the favour when I realised there was no toilet roll. Later when I made my way back to my seat I must have taken the wrong turn in my drunken stupor because as I went through the doors I found myself on the stage. To my horror the music started playing so I slowly and as seductively as I could, backed up back through the doors and was escorted off the property.

The last two I went to were better. One was a straight hen night and the other a surprise birthday party. I had fun at both, I suppose they were more, well, classy with a drag act. Both were still attended by crazy drunk women but there was fencing protecting the men. The only things that I didn't like was firstly the singer coming up to me and singing in my face and the last act flinging his cock about close enough to my face for my to get baby oil splash back. Both of these nights turned in to a club after and of course we stayed to party. What I didn't like was the way the strippers came out like they were gods gift and the women flocked to them. They surrounded them like a pack of hungry wolves eating their prey and it annoyed me that they acted like putty in their hands. One girl followed one of the strippers around and cried when he left her side, she acted like a needy clingy little girl throwing herself at him and it made me feel physically sick.

Anyway I like magic mike so I can't totally hate them all right? Bit less of Matthew Mcghona-putitaway though next time...thanks.

Bloody Snow!

Snow, you know about it by reading all the social networking sites before the first icy flake has even hit the floor. Every tweet and facebook status informs you of its arrival, just to let you know in case you do not possess a window. Everyone puts the same crappy pictures up online, you know the ones of snow angels, a white road or garden or worse a snowman. That’s right, because we don’t already know from the numerous warnings on the news and weather reports.

I never understand the yearly anticipation and excitement about it. Inevitably the two inches of slush we end up with never really lives up to the expectation anyway. As soon as that first drop settles on the floor London turns in to chaos. Trains stop working, busses are scarce, and warnings about driving around on ice ridden roads are never ending. People go crazy, it’s like an apocalypse every time. You would think we would have gotten used to it by now.

I mean it’s not like this isn’t a yearly comeuppance and we never get epic proportions do we? Heaven forbid we got a Canadian amount of snow, all hell would break loose. How do they deal with it? Life doesn’t just stop there does it? People don’t just give up and decide they can’t get in to work, schools don’t just shut down, cars don’t just crash in to each other on ice ridden roads, traffic jams don’t just happen. No it doesn’t, but it does here! Yet people get all happy about its disastrous return.    

I do understand that the roads get icy here, funny how much salt we have stored and it’s never enough. The salt bin at the end of my road is empty within an hour as everyone scrambles to salt their front paths in case some falls and sews them. Because, you know, it’s your fault if some moron can’t seem to take care when walking on a slippery surface on your property. It doesn’t matter that they have been walking in the same conditions to get to your house, all of a sudden it is now your fault.

You can tell where that nasty cheap government salt has been thrown because the roads look like...well for better sense of the word, diarrhea. I never understood why their salt is brown. Funnily enough I saw a salt truck the other day. I had never seen one and got quite excited to see what it actually did. That was until I realised, a little too late, that it was hurling towards me at 60 mph, salt aggressively spewing from the back all over the road, cars, motorbikes, cyclists and me. I ended up with diarreah salt down my top, in my mouth and burning the crap out of my eyes as I blindly stumbled away from the monstrosity.

The pandemonium on the streets however, does not stop there. People turn in to animals, it’s like survival of the fittest. Hundreds of people waiting at bus stops and on train platforms, as soon as the mode of transport arrives there’s pushing and shoving to get on. Old men and women shoved aside, zimmer frames and walking sticks flying all over the place while people scramble to the safety of a warm sardine like contraption.

Another thing, you know it’s snowing why are you not dressed for the weather? Did you somehow miss the news, weather reports, window, and status updates? Why are you stood there in a mini skirt, ballet shoes and tiny jacket? It’s no wonder that people freeze to death in this weather walking around scantily clad. Put some tights, boots and at least a blooming jumper on for the love of god.

 Snow can be fun though I must admit. Some of my best memories are going out in the snow with friends and family. But those days were different, snow ball fights were between you and your friends. Not you and a bus! The amount of teenagers you see just throwing snow balls at busses now days is rather depressing. Do they not have friends anymore? Or is it just that they have not been educated enough to understand that a bus is an inanimate object? Or maybe they, like the commuters have reverted back to their prehistoric animal instincts with the monkey gene taking over.

Funnily enough I was talking to a friend’s little sister the other day and I was telling her about sleighing on tea trays or anything we could sit and slide on when we were little. She just laughed, and couldn’t believe it and asked why we didn’t ‘just buy a sleigh’. How times have changed, but that’s a whole other rant. The thing is that we don’t do that anymore. Why? Because now we can brake bones but still every year the A&E is full of idiots who have broken bones through snow stupidity.

Will everyone just stop getting so caught up in frozen rain, take care and just use their brain cells? 

There is train etiquette...read this and please stick to it!

The quickest way to get around London is by tube, everyone knows this. Which explains why so many bozos also use it.

As soon as you enter the train station the anger starts to mount. You get to the ticket machine to top up your oyster card, inevitably there is a que. The people in the que always take forever, what takes so long? Ill tell you what takes so long, stupidity. They fumble around for their oyster card in their bag, like why didn’t you do that while you were standing in the que? Then they fumble around for their purse. Did you think the top up was free?

By this time you have missed a train and now you have to wait for the next one. You now make your way to the escalator...that’s right another que. But this one could be avoided easily, by walking down them. You see, there are two sides to an escalator, one for the people who want to stand and one for people to walk down. That is why on one side is kept clear, for people who are moving. But here is the thing, there is always one absolute moron who stands on the moving side. WHY? Do you think people stand on one side in single file for fun? No. Its because the side your standing on is for people walking down. How can you be so unaware of your surroundings? How is that possible? You can see no one is standing on that side, you can see people walking and you must be able to realise there is now traffic mounting of tutting people behind you.   

On the platform you see people just standing around everywhere paying no attention to anything. You try to walk down the platform to get out of the mass of sheep that have formed close to the entrance. ‘Excuse me’ does not work, these zombies do not move they just stand there like the brainless bints they are. So you gently push your way through to a piece of space and stand back near the wall like a normal person, to let people pass. But there are always some idiots that walk along and stand right in front of you the dumbest of which stand on or past the yellow line. Contrary to popular belief the yellow line is there for a reason it’s not just a weird design put there for decoration. It’s saying: “don’t stand on or past me if you do you could fall or get hit by the train”. I mean to be honest your safety means nothing to me, I don’t care if you want to put your own life at risk. What I care about is if you get hit or fall on to the tracks you’re holding up my journey, your ignorance is going to me late.

The train comes, usually after a delay of some kind because some pillock fell on to the tracks. At this point the sheep start moving towards the doors before they even open, ramming each other out of the way. The doors open and instead of letting people off the train like first they push their way on forcing a jam between sheep wanting to get on the train and off it. Now we’re at a stand off. Slowly they push past each other using sheer force and determination. At this point if there is no room or the doors are closing don’t try and jump on, getting your big stupid head stuck in the closing doors. Well done, now we have to watch as the doors open and close repeatedly making us later than we already are.

Now we are all on the train packed in like sardines near the doors because some douphes don’t have the brain power to realise that if they just move down in to the carriage there will be more room for everyone. The worst people in these situations are those who lean on the poles, great you selfish twat now there is nothing to hold on to for everyone else, unless we want to touch a part of you. Tall people, You guys can reach the god damned hanging things, hold on to them. Leave the poles for us short people. Also think about short people, I always end up with some tall man who keeps backing up forcing me in to the smallest corner of the carriage and keeps leaning on me until I scream at his dumb lanky ass.

That’s another thing, personal space. I understand we have to deal with the little space we have been given. However that doesn’t mean you can put your hands wherever you want. The close vicinity we are forced to stand in does not give the right for rubbing, pinching or caressing strangers. It does not warrant a wandering hand. Keep your hands to yourself. Also I do not want your stinky arm pit in my face.  

Its not just armpits that stink though. I mean it’s inevitable that one may end up in your face on a train, for this reason you should wash and wear deodorant. Also don’t breathe your stinky breath all over the place. Breathe through your nose I don’t want you breathing on me. Don’t eat stinky food on the train or before getting on one. Why should we have to suffer? Oh and don’t forget those people who burp, cough and sneeze without putting their hand up to their face. Stop spreading your germs. It’s disgusting. Its almost as bad as those people that piss and vomit on trains, I once saw a man piss himself on a seat, then vomit as he stumbled off. It was funny though as some woman pushed an old woman out the way to sit in that seat, yes she sat in the piss ridden seat, and it served her right.

That’s another thing why do people fight for seats; it’s like survival of the laziest. Jeez you have legs use them don’t fight people to sit down. I never sit down because I usually end up standing for an old person who is upset that I thought her old enough to be offered a seat or a pregnant woman who is just fat. So to avoid this I just stand. But then I see elderly frail people get on or heavily pregnant people and no one offers them a seat. Healthy men and women will sit while someone suffers standing. It just shows the nature of mankind and how uncaring, we as a nation have become.

This is why I hate trains they makes us turn in to animals!   

HA! Hospital my backside

My last blog was on my trip to the doctors. If you haven’t read it maybe you should go and take a quick look. Near the end it developed in to a rant on hospitals so I decided to continue but in a different blog.

If you don’t have time to check that one out the doctor said that if my temperature lasts more than three days I should go to the hospital...No Way!

My Nan went in to hospital for an operation that ‘rid her of cancer’ a week after the op she died...of cancer. The funny thing is she kept saying “I’m dying” we were like, “no you’re not, your fine” because the doctor had said she was cured, he had got rid of all her cancer. She had bad pains so we took her back to the hospital, even then the doctor said “What are you doing here? There is nothing wrong with you.” But there was, and she knew that better than any doctor. A few days later she died and what did the autopsy find out? That she died of Cancer!

Another example is that of my neighbor's mum who went in to hospital after a fall in which she hit her head. She was ‘checked’ over and they found she had a bad liver. A few days later my neighbor noticed a strange smell coming from her mother’s room she went to look at her head and found an oozing pussy bloody smelly mess. When she questioned the nurse, she was told “Oh I didn’t know she had a bad head.” The doctor said the same thing but that’s why she was originally there, for falling and hitting her head, despite this there was nothing about her head in her medical notes. But how could it have gone unnoticed when it was oozing blood and smelly puss?

My own experiences with hospitals are very slim. I do not go to them and I have never stayed in one. But the one time I had to go they did not have the right equipment. My smear had shown abnormalities and pre-cancerous cells and I was called in for a biopsy, the first one went well although the results were abnormal so I was called back for a second one. The gynecologist had a look with a camera, as did I, as there was a TV with a massive image of my vagina on it, which was seriously off putting. Not only are you going to feel me ripping you in two with the smallest clamp I can be bothered to find but you’re going to see it too. Then she shoves a camera and cotton bud up there and puts dye in that changes colour, to which she explains “Yes you need another biopsy, the cells are abnormal. But I don’t have the right equipment for that. So we will have to call you back.” That was two months ago, I’m still waiting to hear whether they have the ‘right equipment’ yet.     

Here’s another example, my other Nan was admitted in to hospital New Years day because she fell over. They sent her back home and the next day she was readmitted with a broken leg. They took her in to operate and during the operation found out she hadn’t just broken one leg but both of them. So her operation went from one leg to two while in the operating theatre causing her to lose a lot of blood and ending up in the ICU unit. Luckily she pulled through. But that is just the beginning of my complaints about her stay. While in the ICU they said she wouldn’t eat we went in and found out that the reason for that was she hadn’t been given her false teeth. So we had to go to find her possessions which were in a plastic bag in the old ward. When she was then sent to another ward, after waiting all day to be moved, we made sure her things went with her.

In the new ward things didn’t get much better. First of all they complained that again she was not eating. We went to make sure she had her teeth in this time and we found they were simply putting the food in front of her. Which would be fine...If she could see. We were very surprised that no one had picked up on the fact that she is partially sighted. So we told them and after a few days they finally put up a sign at her bed. But guess what? It doesn’t end there. The other day we found blisters or bed sores on her heels that no one had noticed. Now this means she hasn’t been checked over, had her bed changed, been washed, asked if she feels any pain, and raises all sorts of questions. One most notably being that the physiotherapist’s advice, to get her out of bed and in to a chair daily, has not happened.

Hospitals and the NHS have been in the news for numerous mistakes just last week there was a story of a woman who went in for a bypass and died because they left a hole in her stomach. It’s not good enough. But of course their argument is ‘We are understaffed due to funding’. That does not explain why people who work for them don’t use their brains, notice simple things or do what they are supposed to. No wonder so many accidents happen and there are so many unexplained deaths. 

There is no fury like a sick woman in a Doctors surgery.

Going to the doctors is a complete farce now days, in fact, in my opinion, it’s completely pointless. That’s why, if I go to one, believe me, I am sick. I’m talking mind numbingly, wheezy breathing, fainting, high fevered in agonising pain, sick. Even then I don’t know why I bothered.

Is it any wonder people don’t bother going to see a doctor? Many of us simply don’t have the time. I usually leave for work at 7.30am and get home at 8ish pm. Since the surgery opens at 8 and closes at 5 I don’t get time to go unless I take the day off. So I awoke Tuesday morning in absolute agony down my ear and throat and thought, ‘damn it I have got an ear infection’. I rang work and said I would be in late. I then had to wait till 8am to ring up on the extremely lucky chance they will have an emergency appointment. Luckily, on this occasion they did.

Usually you try and get an appointment and they are fully booked. So you try and book one for the day after but their fully booked. You ask ‘When is your next appointment then?’ and they um and arr and finally respond “Next week.” So now you have to book being sick a week in advance, you have to pre-empt your illness. “Right” let’s face it, you expected nothing less than disappointment when you started to make this phone call it comes as no surprise to you. “Well can I book for next week then?” haha, no, no you can’t! Because their ‘appointment books’ don’t go that far, but guarantied when you ring up on Monday their fully booked. How, how did you get booked? Where are all these sick people? Who is booking so many appointments?

 Anyway, they give me an appointment in an hour’s time. I’m ready for work anyway, so just make my way there and arrive twenty minutes early in the vein hope that being there early may speed up the process. It didn’t.

I sat there, in the waiting room, surrounded by sick people, for an hour. An entire hour, sat there on mismatched stained seats flicking through old ripped up magazines from the nineties. But at least I’m not alone, right? No I’m surrounded by smelly, weird people. So these are the ones booking all the appointments. They all look contagious coughing, spluttering and sneezing, without even the common decency to cover their mouths spraying their dirty diseases everywhere. You see one or two of them stumble to the desk to complain but none of them have the capacity to speak English, either because they haven’t bothered to learn it or because they’re too drunk to understand. I’m not joking either, there was one woman who smelt like a farmyard, and looked like she had been dragged through a bush backwards, sitting there spinning wool. While a lanky bearded skinny, piss smelling man sat opposite her mumbling. A few teens came in and limped up to the counter, I’m surprised the boys can walk with their pants round their ankles and the girls can even move while that pregnant, to be honest. “I needs appointment innit blud?” Please? Thank you? No chance from such, clearly well educated individuals.

Also, why is there no hand sanitizer? The NHS bangs on about not spreading diseases and yet there is no hand sanitizer in most of the doctors surgeries. Is this not one of the places sick people who have contagious diseases go? Did I get that wrong? Maybe I did, it does look like the inside of a community help center!

I digress, I do apologise. I finally get called in to the Doctor who says she hasn't seen me in a long time and how am I? Oh I’m fine, just came for a chat...I’m sick stupid why else would I be here? And of course you haven’t seen me, I can’t be bothered to fight all the misfits in the waiting room, surely it’s a good thing she hasn't seen me anyway? I explain my throat and ear hurt she checks it, there’s nothing wrong with my ear so she tries to send me home. “No” I yell “there is something wrong this pain is not ‘nothing’” she looks thoughtful and checks my throat, and of course it’s a little swollen. “Oh” she exclaims and then feels the outside of my neck “aha” she mumbles before listening to my breathing through a stethoscope. “You have a respiratory infection; your glands have swollen to protect yourself that’s where the pain is coming from. You have probably had it for a while, from over exerting yourself in this cold weather. But your glands are doing a good job so I’m not going to give you medication.” Thank god, it’s like £8 for prescription medicine now days.  “Have you had a temperature?” she continued.

“I don’t know, I don’t own a thermometer” I said.

“You should get one and keep an eye on it. If you get a temperature come back and see me. Its good you came so you know and keep an eye on it” she said. No what’s good is that a second ago I didn't take your quick ear check and dismissal, that’s what’s good. “If your temperature stays for more than three days you should go to hospital” she said, as she sent me on my way, wheezing like a fat man thinking ‘hospital? Yeah right!’

Here, this rant, developed in to one on hospitals so I decided to end it and my next blog will continue in the same vein.

    

Country Roads

So I have been working and staying with my friend in high barnet. I am loving it but there is one slight hiccup, I have an hours walk to work and back again, which normally wouldn't bother me. Here, in what I call the country, it is downright dangerous especially at night.

Firstly the pavements are extremely narrow and you find yourself actually standing in the road to let other people pass. So you end up standing on a very busy road faced with dodging on coming traffic. Why are the pavements not wider? Like if I was building a pavement I would make sure there was enough room for at least two people to walk side by side down it. It's not like there isn't the room to even expand the pavement. On one side is the deadly road and on the other just bushes. Cut back the god damn bushes to save people dying, it's not rocket science.

This is a pretty dangerous during the day, but at night time becomes a fight for survival. The lighting is so bad that you can barely see a foot in front of you. The cars cant see you, they speed around bends oblivious of your presence. If you have to step in to the road now because some other person is coming in the other direction your dead. But now the cars are the least of your worries, actually they become your friend because they bring people and light. Not like those dark bushes, that take up pavement space and could easily conceal a rapist, murderer, thief or dead body. I mean its not like people clean the bushes or look through them, of that I have proof in the form of a dead fox that I have walked past, laying in one of them for a week.

At this point you are probably thinking, why not use the pavement on the other side of the road? Well I will tell you. Because there isn't one! There is one pavement that cleverly alternates sides. Note the sarcasm in 'cleverly'. It's the stupidest idea ever, whoever had it should be made to stand in that road as a lollypop man...forever. I would like to add there would be room for another pavement except for the fact that massive houses with their rich old owners need that extra foot of garden on top of the 90 foot squared one they have.

"But crossing a road is easy" you may say. No it's not. They don't even have proper lights or pavements what makes you think someone would put in a crossing.There are no pelican crossings, zebra crossings, red light crossings, or another kind of crossings because that would make sense. So now not only can the cars not see you, your trying to avoid the rapists and hoping someone doesn't want to walk past you but now you have to cross the road without a crossing or light. Even if the cars can see you they don't stop. You see the drivers look at you and just drive past. They know you want to cross and don't care. On the odd occasion someone does stop to let you cross it is usually a man in a white van. Yeah say what you want about white van men but at least they stop traffic to
let you cross.

The last bit of this rant is about this inconsiderate nobs that decide to park on the only pavement and safe walkway forcing you to walk in the road. Where the cars should be.

Some of you may say "we'll maybe these roads aren't for walking." Why is there a pavement then? Ha?