Where have I been?

Lazy-itis again, plus a period of utter uninspiration due to the crap at work I'm taking at the moment. A few days in Nice on business seemed like a good idea as well, in order to take the bastards for every penny I can and have a jolly, but really Nice is a place to go to relax and enjoy French city life and not for trudging around Olympia sized exhibition halls listening to sad little corporate puppets spouting arsebollocks talk about their exciting (sic) new products and developments in the "dynamic" and "challenging" emerging worlds of Wireless Technology.....yawn.......double yawn.


Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Later, BlankJack

How things change

Go back 15 years to when I was a spritely 29 year old.....

Hmmmm....Scrub that........

Go back 20 years to when I was a spritely rebellious 24 year old "Jack the lad" who's hobbies consisted of drinking lager, pulling women, watching football, going to the pub, smoking, driving my Cortina Mk IV 2.0, smoking the odd spliff, fighting after the Friday night out "clubbing" (and the press thinks this all new?) and doing fuck all exercise because age hadn't undermined the regenerative powers of abuse and copious sleeping.

Imagine you're a time traveller, say Doctor Who for example and you pitch up outside The Carpenters Arms in Hayes End on a sunny Saturday afternoon as Jack and the boys tuck into a boozy afternoon/evening/night session.

"Jack" you say " in 20 years time you'll be a different person"

"Whatever you wanker" comes the stock reply from young Jack

"No you will" says The Doctor "...you'll be listening to a talk based radio station specialising in rolling news and sport..."

*intrigued but disbelieving look from Jack, scorn delivered by mates*

"You'll tune into Radio 2 for your music needs"

"Of course" I reply "knobhead"

"You'll be a golf fanatic, playing every week and going on golf holidays"

*Jack dissolves into Smash advert martian laughter*

"You'll drive a Volvo"

*convulsions of extreme laughter for Jack and mates*

"You'll be a Technical Process Manager"

*Sudden silence and looks of bemusement*

"What the fucks that? " I'd say

"One of The Mysteries of The Universe"...the time traveller would reply before continuing "....you'll no longer read The Sun but will become a Guardian reader"

"Ok you prick, you're no longer funny" Jack would have responded "....you better quit whilst you can or you'll cop an unfortunate one"

But relentlessly he carries on....

"You'll live in a tree lined road, in a detached house in a small rural village, close to the seaside but not in London"

*Silence from Jack...this doesn't sound too bad...don't let your mates see*

"You'll have a wife and two kids, girls...who you'll spoil rotten"

"You'll treat their boyfriends with contempt in much the same way you've been treated by others"

"You'll watch football but not play it"

"You'll give up lager and drink only Guinness or red wine, you'll accumulate a taste for Single Malt Whisky"

"You'll quit smoking"

*Jack and mates quieten down because this sounds like a serious malfunction and betrayal of all they stand for*

"You'll lose your extreme socialist principles and settle into soft Middle England, Middle of the Road politics"

"You'll start to enjoy gardening and DIY"

"You'll get a hankering to do projects around the house"

"You'll holiday in France and buy a mobile home there"

"You'll take your parents in law on holiday with you and enjoy their company"

*more confused looks because this really is alien thought territory*

"You'll hate Radio 1 and Top of the Pops"

"You'll enjoy being grumpy"

"You'll start to enjoy and appreciate Art, both old and modern"

"You'll do a degree in Philosophy and Art History"

"You will become Middle Class"

*palapable scorn, derision and disbelief builds slowly*

and then finally he says

......."Chelsea will win back to back League titles and England will win The Ashes"

The Doctor turns and enters his Tardis. It disappears.

Jack starts laughing out loud, his mates join in.

"What a fucking idiot" Jack says " I thought the lager had done me, or the joint".......his mates laugh loudly but nervously....."I might have believed some of that until he said that bollocks about Chelsea winning the league"

How things change indeed.

Later, GrocerJack

The Dark Night looms again

I had thought there was hope at work as things appeared to be picking up. My turn at the Corporate Bollocks off-site temporarily lifted my own self esteem even if no-one else was impressed. The dull arsed arslikhan fuckwits I deal with are so consumed with their passion for sound-bites and their obsession with getting their fat corporate snouts up the collective arse of The Company’s alleged great and good/movers and shakers (in reality wankers and arseholes) that they wouldn’t recognise a committed and intelligent individual if he pinned them down and pulled out their teeth using a rusty mole grip dipped in fresh dog turd. Such is the level of corporate cock sucking within my work environment that I swear I could fill the next 10 series of The Apprentice with highly motivated obnoxious, power hungry, cash greedy twats that the whole country would unite in hating.

Week by week, day by day I go through the charade of going into work and executing a master-class of deception in pretending to be even remotely interested, or even caring a slight jot about the crap they spout daily at us. How I don’t just snap and physically smack someone. For that alone I deserve something better.

Another small reason for the nuclear winter dark days of my work being transformed into a twilight ambience was because there seemed to be……. not so much an increased level of interesting work, but less mind numbingly dull things were being expected from me. But this was nothing more than a mirage displaying a small oasis in a parched desert of utter corporate banality and bollocks.

I had my annual review last week with The Schoolteacher. It wasn’t good. This de-motivating, uninspiring, uncommunicative moron and I ended up arguing over virtually everything. Not because I hadn’t delivered. Oh no, nothing that simple. No, he wants me to deliver more which may be fair enough, but he also now wants me to tell me HOW to deliver rather than just WHAT. And for me that’s just too much. In my 12 years with The Company I have always delivered exactly what’s been asked and usually more, all by my own fair hand, using all my own attributes. I have never ever not reached the objectives set for me. And now this twat wants to tell me HOW to do things.

Not content with that he also then decided to tell me he was unhappy with feedback from my “customers” and my team! Apparently my mask of deception is so bloody effective that no-one had any real bad things to say about me, in fact it appears only good things were said, which meant he couldn’t set any development objectives for me! The most galling thing is he sent them a questionnaire rating me from 1-10 on various “capabilities” with 6/10 set as “acceptable”. Apparently everyone gave out 7/10 and higher giving an average of 8/10 over all. And this is bad? Good is the new Bad apparently. Oh dear, poor old Schoolteacher. What a bucketful of vomit this is. So, it’s my fault my “customers” and team seem to like me, the way I work and my style? I must be one hell of an actor to be able to pull this off.

This Friday I will finally work from home and try and craft the perfect CV to either move within The Company, or hit the ejector seat button myself and find something I really want to do. Something fulfilling and challenging whilst being enjoyable that keeps the financial wolves from the door…..how hard can that be?

Quite honestly if any organization will die of asphyxiation from having its corporate head stuck up is own arse, then The Company is heading the queue. Last week it announced that it had decided on “centralized outsourcing opportunity model” for it’s Global I.T operations”. Interesting use of the word “opportunity” isn’t it? I wonder how the potential 6000 or so employees who potentially lose holidays, pensions, share schemes, possibly even jobs and other benefits feel about this “opportunity”. Although the way I feel I might prefer to be affected by this in order to take a decent pay off and do my own thing (head brimming with ideas on what business I could start).

Listed below is a small collection of the crap buzzwords and phrases I hear each day.

Capabilities

Synergies

Leadership (we don’t have Management anymore, they’re all Leaders apparently)

Performance management for our people

Optimizing resources

Business Partners – apparently we don’t have other internal departments anymore, they’re all Business Partners, so we have Supply Chain Business Partners, Finance Business Partners and yep, they’re now all abbreviated to BP’s ……… *vomits again*

Roadmaps

External market comparison

Vision statement

Mission statement

That’s enough……I can’t take any more corporate gobbledygook bollocks phrases. Remember The Office? That’s where I work.

The slide is back on, maybe its time to enjoy the ride.

Later, GrocerJack

The truth about Prescott

No arguments from me! Click to enlarge. If it still isn't clear then click the opened image once more (certainly works in Firefox) and it should be crystal.

Later, GrocerJack

Those Magnificent Men in The Chelsea Machine!

*Published on Chelseablog.com*

For the week or so between the desperately poor game against RedScouse FC and the advertised “Clash of the Titans” match against Manure FC it seemed to me that the faint hopes of the collective UK nation were slowly but surely showing their hands in favour of Manure FC giving us a bit of a drubbing and prolonging the inevitable back-to-back Premiership Title accolade. Every paper across the land was filled with knobber hacks desperately building up the slim hopes of former ABU* (Anyone but United) and ABA* (Anyone but Arsenal) groups, now reformed as ABC* (Anyone but Chelsea) into believing that with sufficient pressure applied by victory of Sir Rednose of Salford Quays resurgent team might just bring about the Devon Loch collapse of the team that had sat proudly atop of the premiership table for 18 months.

* Notice there is no ABL (Anyone but Liverpool) group there because frankly in league terms they have become so insignificant that nobody really gives them a second thought, despite the best efforts of their turd-lobbing, ambulance-toppling fans to get them noticed and to show their true depth of history and class.

For that whole week I had to read drivel written by slimy low-lives with no concept of truth or fairness writing vile pieces about a team that frankly 5 years ago they couldn’t have given a flying piece of mouldy celery about. But more on the scumbag press of our once proud nation later. This is about my recollection of the day, with caveats aplenty for any omissions or errors caused by brain cell destruction linked to an excessive intake of Guinness following the end of the game and the season, and hence my first sojourn into the heady and occasionally murky world of season ticket ownership.

To say that I was a bit nervous is like saying that John Prescott is a bit of a fat shagger, Catherine Zeta-Jones is a bit gorgeous or that the Pope is a bit Catholic. You get my drift here, don’t you? I was chewed up rotten from Wednesday onwards as the importance of the occasion grew in my subconscious. This sense of growing tension was enhanced by the fact that a so called colleague of mine at work had got Corporate tickets for the last game against Charlton and had not thought to invite me along, deeming it sufficient to send me photo’s from his mobile of the trophy celebrations post match. He may have been well intentioned, but it felt like a complete and utter smack in my face. Especially as he is a dyed in the wool Gooner. Vindictive bastard. Anyway, no matter how I tried to continue on a “business as usual” basis, it was becoming obvious that my mind was on one thing only, the game. Nothing could detract me from Thursday onwards, not even the obligatory threesome fantasy of me, Jennifer Aniston and/or any one from the aforementioned Zeta-Jones, Liz White, Billie Piper or Kate Winslet could dislodge my beloved Chelsea’s biggest game of the season from the depths of my mind. And as Saturday approached, even the pre-match Friday night drink with my mates consisted of one subject……..the game and the possible team selection/formation/outcome. It was hell.

The day itself started with a hangover from the Friday nights failed attempt to drown the subconscious voices in my head that were now occupying every living thought. My mind was running like a computer processor stuck in a program loop, running over different combinations of the same iterative equation of who would play, what would the formation be, would we play to draw, play to win, would we be glorious or would we blow it and snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and what the ramifications of such a defeat might be. Such is the mentality of a very long suffering fan whose 35 years of unswerving loyalty to Chelsea has been tainted by more pain, disappointment and humiliation than anyone should realistically have to have experienced. Such was the overriding feeling of PMT (pre-match tension) that despite hitting the 9^th pint I still felt like drilling a hole in my head to relieve the pressure. But the gang pulled up to chauffeur me to the ground where all would be revealed. Due to the early kick off and a sizeable queue outside The American Grill we decided to plump for the traditional Burger option as a pre-match meal. Then it was into the ground with a quick visit to the Megastore to spend some more money that Mrs Jack says we haven’t got. One noticeable thing was on show, both inside and outside the ground, and that was the overriding sense of tension and anticipation, a heady mixture of those fans brimming with complete self belief, and those like me who were approaching the game, not as doomsayers, but as people whose past experiences do not allow the big red button marked “Supreme Confidence” to be pushed in until the Dawn French look-alike is singing like a Friday night drunk. It was a very potent mixture and fans were either bright eyed and smiling or had faces etched with lines of worry. To some this was the day fated for the Premiership to come home, for others it was the small but undeniable fear of parties being held at Ewood or St. James – nothing could be as good as winning on your home ground and I for one knew that if it was to be won away from home then I would be watching, like most from a remote position via the TV.

And so to my seat in the Matthew Harding Lower. A seat that cost £650 and has given me such pleasure over the year, interspersed with howls of frustration, encouragement and anger (mostly at referees). Neil Barnett announced the teams and despite the awesome array of talent on display from Manure FC, when he reads out the Chelsea team consisting of names like Drogba, Cole, Terry, Lampard, Robben, Makalele and Essien you just can’t pinching yourself a little to make sure this isn’t some sort of coma based dream, or that someone hasn’t spiked your Stamford Bridge nuclear reactor heated coffee with a large tab of LSD. The group surrounding my locale greeted each other with firm handshakes and the usual “Alright mate”. I went to sit down, but it was obvious from the outset that sitting in the MHL was not the order of the day. From the minute the teams came out of the tunnel the sun seemed to shine on Stamford Bridge. And then it started and The Chelsea machine immediately clicked into action, as if Patrick Head and Adrian Newey in their Ferrari heyday had tuned the machine themselves. The team battled for every ball, harassed every United player whenever they got within a sniff of the ball. We passed sublimely and every area of the field seemed to contain a hungry blue shirted footballing aristocrat. Reviews of the game in depth are available all over the place so I won’t witter on too much about the game….it was very much there for all to see just how big a gulf exist between these teams. Every Chelsea player deserved a 10 rating in my view, but if we set the standard rating at 8 then the following players deserved a full 10.

Drogba – magnificent and a real handful that worryingly for England seemed to disturb Ferdinand big time. Since he stopped the theatrical diving he is now showing a real class and showing why he cost so much money. Long may it continue!

Carvalho – “Percy” as he seems to becoming known as may be off to real, and has often been the culprit this season of silly shirt tugs and giving away free kicks in dangerous positions but on this day he was truly supreme. Great tackling, marvellous blocking and a wonder goal to make virtually every striker in the world sit up and applaud.

Terry – need I really say anything about a true Captain Marvel

Cole – The single most influential player on the pitch who scored a wonder goal leaving 3 Manure players for dead. Whilst the Rooney situation is indeed sad for England then surely we have a ready made and equally talented solution in Joey Cole?

This is not to denigrate any other player on such a glorious day, all are worthy of mentions but these 4 players were for me truly outstanding. And let’s face it, 3-0 is a real panning for Manure.

On the final whistle the tears welled up and the emotional release from me was all too obvious to those around me. The big fat foulmouth drunk behind me even gave me a kiss. And do you know what. I didn’t mind no matter how rank he smelt. I think that was the first time my arse actually touched my seat as I sank down for a few minutes as all the thoughts and worries were released. To be honest the pressure valve had loosened substantially on the second goal, and bit more on the third. But the final whistle had mimicked the sound of a proverbial kettle in my head reaching boiling point and finally releasing the steam. I stayed for an hour until the ground emptied, shaking stranger’s hands, and high fiving with people I’ve never seen before and may never see again. I saw grown men wiping their eyes (no doubt protesting that something had flown in there). I saw more shiny happy people that day than I’ve ever encountered or Michael Stipe could even imagine. Stamford Bridge was smiling and from above it must have looked like the worlds biggest collective smiley icon. Even when I left the ground clutching my bag and goodies desperately close, tripping through the hawkers selling their “back-to-back” flags and t-shirts (for a bloody tenner, the robbers), past an impromptu communal game of football echoing the advert on TV, past the singing in the SO bar and the smiling mounted police. This was party time Chelsea style. If the Kings Road has a swagger normally then today it was positively hip gyrating. We sang as we walked up the road, cars sounding their horns and non footballing people looked on in bewildered amusement. The journey home was almost serene as we sat in the car smiling like a collective of Bonnie Langford’s after sampling the best Skunk money can buy.

It was paradise. If heaven exists then I hope it is very much like this.

Finally, some bouquets and brickbats to finish on. Brickbats first I think so that I can finish on a happy note. Brickbats to the Press who got a rousing reception when they walked onto the pitch, but not of the nice kind. Personally the afternoon could only have been capped by getting the reporters from the East Stand into the pen as well and then inviting us all onto the pitch to give them a well deserved kicking. A brickbat to the referee and his assistants, Mike Dean, our friend from the Fulham game…the one with indecisive mind who seemed determined to kill an enthralling and competitive game with a display of breathtaking pedantism and fussiness. A brickbat to the FA because of their treatment of us this year and their blatant disregard for the fans with the poxy brown-nosing to the lords of TV and stupid 17:15 kick offs miles from home. The idiots also get another one for the England manager fiasco. A brickbat to the very few fans who booed Rooney off the pitch. Some people really do not have any class. Brickbats to the fans who booed Drogba at the Man City game. No matter what I can never boo anyone wearing the Chelsea shirt. Voice your disapproval in the pub or on this blog but do you really think you’re going to help the player by vilifying him whilst he’s out there playing. Besides, a lot of us knew how good he was from the start and kept faith. We told you so! And the final brickbat goes to RedScouse FC. When you emulate this then please come and comment here. Until then, keep remaining a “cup” team. Enjoy the qualifying round of the CL.

Bouquets to the Manure fans that applauded the team at the end, some even stayed for the presentation. Some I met after the game were dignified and gracious in defeat. Bouquets to the Blues fans that applauded Rooney and chanted his name as he left the pitch, face twisted in pain and despair. Bouquets to JM for ensuring every person on the Manure bench got a handshake in the spirit of the game and NOT as the sewer rat Richard Williams implied in his poisonous Guardian article (an extra brickbat to him personally for this mean spirited and vile column tainting the souvenir pages of the Guardian report). Bouquets to the Stewards who allowed the single fan to dance on the pitch and greet every one of his hero’s in front of the MHL and then allowed him back in the crowd without getting all Jobsworth and ejecting him or getting him arrested. A bouquet to Gary Neville who, despite getting loads of stick from us, then had the dignity to graciously hug Super Frank at the end and then seek out EVERY Chelsea player and shake their hand. A bouquet for Wayne Rooney who despite a bad tackle on Terry was one of the few Manure players to show constant fire in their belly, and also because no player deserves to have their World Cup hopes dashed so cruelly and via such an innocuous route. A bouquet for Hernan Crespo for whom the emotion of the whole thing was screened for all to see. For someone whose heart for Chelsea has been questioned this seemed an extraordinary reaction. I’d love him to stay with us. A class player and a class person. A bouquet for the MHL who in my opinion are the best fans anywhere.

And the final bouquet to the team who have bought more joy to my life than I can remember outside of my immediate family.

You are all my heroes.

Later ChelseaJack

Fair Warning I think!

A message to wives and girlfriends,

Please read the following....

List Of Rules.

1. From 9 June to 9 July 2006, you should read the sports section of the newspaper so that you are aware of what is going on regarding the World Cup, and that way you will be permitted to join in the conversations. If you fail to do this, then this will be viewed very dimly, or you will be totally ignored. DO NOT complain about not receiving any attention during this critical period.

2. During the World Cup, the television is mine, at all times, without any exceptions. You will only be allowed use of the remote control with prior written permission gained upon receipt of a written request to do so.

3. If you have to pass by in front of the TV during a game, I don't mind, as long as you do it by crawling on the floor and without distracting me. If you decide to stand nude in front of the TV, make sure you put clothes on right after because if you catch a cold, I won’t have time to take you to the doctor or look after you during the World Cup month.

4. During the games I will be effectively blind, deaf and mute, unless I require a refill of my drink or something to eat. Please don’t expect me to listen to you, answer the door, answer the telephone, collect or deliver any children or converse with any of your friends or relatives (fellow male relatives aside………you should not have any male friends!).

5. It would be a good idea for you to keep at least 2 six packs in the fridge at all times, as well as plenty of things to nibble on, and please do not make any funny faces or comments to my friends when they come over to watch the games. In return, and as a sign of my goodwill, you will be allowed to use the TV between 12am and 6am*.

*Unless they replay a good game that I missed during the day.

6. Please, please, please!! If you see me upset because one of my teams is losing, DO NOT say "never mind, it’s only a game", or "don't worry, they’ll win next time". If you say these things, you will only make me angrier and I will love you less. Remember, you will never ever know more about football than me and your so called "words of encouragement" will only lead to a break up or divorce.

7. You are welcome to sit with me to watch one game and you can talk to me during half-time but only when the commercials are on, and only if the half-time score is pleasing me. In addition, please note I am saying "one" game; hence do not attempt to use the World Cup as a covert excuse to "spend time together".

8. The replays of the goals are very important. I don't care if I have seen them or I haven't seen them, I want to see them again. Many times.

9. Tell your friends NOT to have any babies, or any other child
related parties or gatherings that requires my attendance because:
a) I will not go,
b) I will not go, and
c) I will not go.

10. But, if a friend of mine invites us to his house on a Sunday to watch a game, we will be there in a flash. Therefore you must stay sober at all times in order to carry out your additional function of nominated driver. Be aware that some transit may be required during half time periods depending on the thrill level of the game, or on the basis of who has enough remaining beer. Be prepared for similar incursions into our living room from fellow watchers.

11. The daily World Cup highlights show on TV every night is just as important as the games themselves. Do not even think about saying "but you have already seen this...why don't you change the channel to something we can all watch??", the reply will be: "Refer to Rule #2 of this list".

12. Please do not ask for explanations of the offside rule again, nor any other rules – it is incumbent upon you to read the rules of football prior to the tournament and email any questions you may have for me to answer at my leisure. Also note that refereeing decisions are not open to explanation from me, as most of the time the refs themselves do not understand their own decisions.

13. And finally, please save your expressions such as "Thank God the World Cup is only on every 4 years". You should note that I am immune to this type of message because after this comes Serie A, La Liga, The premiership, The Championship, The FA Cup, The Carling Cup and the Euro 2008 qualifying rounds.

With thanks, and on behalf of all the proper Men of The World

With thanks to Audrey for sending this to me for editing.

Later, GrocerJack

Lazy Git

Lazy Git? Moi?

Yep.

And thats why the posts have been a bit thin on the ground since my return. Nothing has annoyed me or interested me enough to deem it worthwhile writing about. See the pic? That's just about how I feel toward everything at the moment, particularly the Dungeon of Dullness that is work . Every day is filled with utter banality and crap.

If I took drugs then life at work would currently be a drug induced collage of utterly fucked up bollocks.

So, things to force out a comment on

1.) Charles Clarke and the freed prisoners: What a complete knob this bloke is. Forget Blunketts misdemeanours, this bloke is a complete arrogant imbecile. Perfect for this Nanny Government then I suppose.

2.) NHS crisis. The NHS has more money than ever as promised and for once delivered by the Nanny Government. Patient lists are increasing but waiting times are falling. And then the admin numpties overspend their budget and jobs are lost. How is that the Nanny Governments fault? They give more, someone else spends more. Sad fact of life that it is the NHS would be a bottomless pit for money and all the GDP of the UK would never satisfy its hunger for cash. The problem is simple, recruit people from real businesses who know how to manage budgets and sack the idiots who have overspent and caused the crisis.

3.) Liverpool beating Chelsea. Bastards.

4.) A Brazilian for England! At first I thought this meant some serious pubic topiary for the country under some sort of Nanny Government Nether Regions Development Scheme. But no, of course its the apparent fact that thanks to the Chairman of the only non-English club in the Premiership, Arse FC, we are now to be saddled with a manager whose English is as good as my French. What a bunch of Arse (the real kind). And what a damning indictment of the most corrupt and inefficient organisation, the FA, that runs our beautiful game that we aaparently don't have anyone of our own nationality capable of doing the job. Even a cumbersome dinosaur like Lambeth Council could do better. Hell, even the Nanny Government might make a better fist of it.......

5.) ......nah, in light of their green light to the Russians to control the production and delivery of one of our most vital energy sources by allowing a bid for Craptica, the owners of British Gas, the Nanny Government shouldn't be trusted to run a bath on its own. Can anyone else see where this might end up? Maybe the proverbial gun being held to our heads one day.? Don't forget that no gas means no electricity because a large number of our power stations are fired by gas, which also means no food production, no oil production, nothing. Now, if you had a plan to restore yourself as a Superpower, what's the better way. Military War or Financial War. Ask the US what made them the worlds (current) only Superpower!

6.) Doctor Who (series 2, or 27 depending on your level of pedantism) - another fillip for the BBC with the second series very much following on from where the last one finished. The BBC seems to have cracked the former issue of not hiring very good actors to fill the part of The Doctor (Colin Baker, Sly McCoy anyone?), whereas David tennant seems to have encapsulated some of the eccentricities of former Doctors whilst bringing new facets to the role. Two episodes in, one quite brave and the other quite scary, especially I imagine for young children. The Werewolf transformation scene was as good as the Gas Mask transformation from last years Empty Child/Doctor Dances two parter. So far so good, lets hope the BBC and the saviour of Doctor Who , Russell T Davies keep raising the bar.

7.) Fuel prices - ridiculous as we know. At what point does the economy get affected by people not being able to afford to drive to work? Say what you like about the French, but they'd be on the streets now on strike or on massive displays of civil disobedience. Of course, we don't do that do we? No, we just grease our arses ready for next shafting. How spineless. How sad.

8.) John Prescott having an affair - hmmmm, who cares about his infidelity. People have affairs, shit happens, get over it. No, whats more interesting about this is how the woman, Tracey Temple could even consider sleeping with WalrusMan. I mean come on, he really did fall out of the Ugly Tree and hit everyone branch on the way down. Or in other words he has a face like a box of fireworks has exploded in it and someone put out the fire with a shovel.

Oh yeah...of course...she loved him....of course she did. No career ladder climbing involved then?

Toodlepip, GrocerJack