Aaah the new week starts

I am, of course still very much after the idiot who decided the ratio of 5 days working to 2 days off was the best one for a good work/life balance. I've said it before but the weekend starts and you blink and Monday morning its back to work. And it may just be me, but the older I get the harder Monday mornings become. In fact the older I get the harder every morning becomes. Alarms are ignored much more easily and the idea of rising in the dark and coming home in the dark seems more daunting with each passing year. I'm a sun-child. I like daylight. I like bright sunny warm daylight. And all of that seems a very long way away.

I am quite fortunate in that The Company does make provision for remote working so that on mornings such as last Monday, when we had a rare coating of snow, I was able to follow the heed of The Authorities and not make the unnecessary journey into work but to log on from the comfort of my study. We can video conference with each other or conference call meetings. We use MSN to chat online and of course it is a mobile phone company so we can use that to keep in contact.

All very civilised. Plus you get to work in your PJ's which can't be a bad thing.

Blimey, I had something nice to say about The Company.

Is that another sign of ageing?

Today it transpires that my stupidity in oversleeping due to forgetting to set the alarm (another sign of aging?) was ultimately fortuitous as the main route along the A34 has been shut in both directions since the early hours due to an overturned lorry. Just what is it with lorry drivers that there lorries just seem to flip over periodically? The so called 'professionals' of the road seem to live under some other law of the road which allows them to pull out as they see fit or to engage in the perennially annoying game of driving side by side refusing to overtake each other and creating huge tailbacks behind them. I didn't have much time for lorry drivers before our accident, let alone afterwards. And on that note....guess what? It now transpires that because luck of the good variety rarely plays a big part in my life, Monsieur Fuckwit, the numpty lorry driver from hell was probably uninsured.

Yep, that's right - uninsured.

Somehow or another he was allowed to drive a 44 tonne juggernaut in this country without insurance. Staggering huh? Now everything has to go through something called the Motor Insurers Bureau. Apparently they MAY pay some compensation provided we have reported the incident to the police. In fact they want the name of the attending officer and the reference number. Which of course we don't have because despite calling 999 and requesting the police and an ambulance to check we were OK, it now transpires that the police only care if someone is seriously injured or dead! The Highways Agency Incident Support Unit attended at the time and closed the motorway for 10 minutes whilst they sorted things out. Despite being very helpful they only gave us a piece of paper with Monsieur Fuckwits details on them and ours. No names, no references, fuck all. I have told the solicitors dealing with our case that very simply, we did what was required and called 999. The accident was logged by an officer of HM Government and as far as I'm concerned the police didn't give a toss. We fulfilled our obligation by dialling 999 and requesting the two emergency services. The Highways Agency must have a record of attendance as must the Surrey Ambulance Service.

I've also told them this....if he was uninsured then the company operating the lorry must be liable as what were they doing allowing an uninsured driver to operate that lorry in a foreign country without ensuring he had the relevant documents? If they didn't authorise it, then he must have stolen the lorry in which case why wasn't it reported and why hasn't he been nicked?

But doesn't all of this just seem to be heading in the direction of someone getting away with it whilst we live with the consequences?

Later, GJ

Clutter

How life changes. And not necessarily for the better.

It must be a teenage thing, or a girl thing.

Or a teenage girl thing.

Kid is now almost 17, Pie is now almost 14 and both seem to have simultaneously entered a phase of their lives whereby they believe that an invisible army of worker drones is following behind them clearing up their mess and making sure there is food for them, hot water for them to shower or bath in and that anything in the house is fully available for them to use without asking.

In Pie's case, she's always been a scruffy urchin type of child. But now she's a trendy and well dressed scruffy urchin of a kid. A year or so ago I decided she'd be better off in a larger bedroom. The basis for this was that in the smaller room she possibly didn't have enough space and hence her bedroom would always be cluttered with toys and clothes. Sound male logic I think you would agree. Of course even with my experience I hadn't catered for the tender aged blooming of female logic that had already gripped her. In this case its quite simple. There would never be enough space, even if her bedroom was the size of Wembley Stadium, Women don't do minimalism when it comes to clothes, make up and perfume. Hence at any one time the bedroom floor and double bed we bought her is covered in school uniform, books, magazines, clothes, underwear, make up , handbags, perfume and all sorts of sundry 'girl' related items.

In Kids case, although never an urchin, she was gripped with a similar ailment from the age of 2, helped nicely along with huge amounts of presents on birthdays, at Christmas, after peoples holidays etc lavished on her by kindly, well meaning grandparents, Uncles, Aunts and friends. Oh and at least one of her parents for whom the phrase 'cutting back' comes out of the female logic shredder as 'buy more'.......So, Kid's bedroom, of similar size to Pie's is also a sea of clutter. As she's a tad older there are other things included here such as DVD's and college stuff. But in essence both bedrooms are the sorts of places that would give the Health and Safety Gestapo a huge panic attack. Followed by taping the room off and placing a sign saying 'Unfit for human habitation' on the door.

Of course the clutter levels in rooms also means that, according to their freshly formed female logic, the upstairs landing, the main bathroom, the downstairs hallway, the study, the living room table and even my bedside cupboard and anywhere else is a viable 'overflow' clutter park. Despite various warnings from me and from Hellsbells (who displays the same characteristics but at least has a tipping point for clutter driving her mad) that whatever we find on the floor will be binned, they just happily carry on, seemingly accepting this as just a normal hazard and that anyway, Dad will never carry it out.

Sadly they seem right. I have become ground down by this over the years. It's almost as if I've been institutionalised into accepting that this is how women live their lives.

One other aspect though that I cannot and will not accept, is the female trait of simply borrowing from anything and anyone around them. Or in some cases not borrowing, just using, taking or consuming stuff. In my case they will use my shower gel (a specific type that doesn't irritate my skin), my shampoo, my towels, my socks (thick warm ones and tiny training ones), my skin moisturiser, my headache pills and in Kid's case even my bloody razor blades. I've lost count of how many times I've got up at the ungodly hour of 6am and hobbled to the shower only to get halfway through before realising there's no shower gel or shampoo, and then on completion finding there's no towel. The carpet is stained with footprints from where I've had to leave the shower to find gel or shampoo AND then again to find a towel, usually lying in a heap somewhere on the landing. If I buy myself a treat and leave it in full view it's a guarantee they will help themselves to it. Kid will drain the filtered water from the container in the fridge and replace it ...EMPTY. Prior to being put on Statins I could safely buy grapefruit juice for my morning drink safe in the knowledge that only me and Hellsbells liked it, but now I can't have that anymore and can only drink orange juice. If we buy 5 cartons the girls will drink it as a soft drink, not just for breakfast, but at anytime. They'll pour it for their friends as well, so that when I go to the fridge bleary eyed early in the morning I can expect to find it all gone, or worse still and EMPTY carton put back in the fridge. And on the drinks front..........they will pour a diet coke or glass of squash, drink half, disappear out and leave the drink where they were. They'll even pour themselves another and leave that somewhere half full. I spend my life picking up half drunk glasses of soft drinks, usually with a tell tale sweet wrapper next to it. In their world I genuinely think they believe the fairies clear everything away. We've reached the point in the house whereby for the girls there is an invisible force field around the dishwasher which prevents them from putting their dirty plates inside it. Apparently only me and Hellsbells have the right forcefield breaking powers to open the door and load stuff in. The bin, according to their logic, and I include Hellsbells in this, has unlimited capacity. Never mind that its overflowing with rubbish, just keep on ramming stuff in because somehow the bin mysteriously manges to empty itself to the main household dustbin.

Such is this now moving beyond a mere irritation I have now started to buy stuff suffixed with 'For Men', warning them that their skin will flake off if they use it. I now hide my razor blades and keep a record of how many I have left. I even bought some Chelsea FC branded training socks to use for golf and cycling explaining that this meant they were mine, only to find a pair in Kid's room within a week. I buy Orange juice with bits because they don't like it. Any sweets or treats have to be hidden way lest they decide that as its in the house it must be fair game. Just on Tuesday this week, they went to the local shop and bought THEMSELVES a pot of Ben and Jerry's each. No thought of the poor parents in any of this. My muesli was commandeered to make a cheesecake mix with the promise of full replenishment.......guess what? Yep, never happened and never will. Next will the acquisition of some towels, maybe Chelsea ones that will be MINE and MINE only. And Hellsbells moans about me spending money.....she needs to understand why. I need to buy my own stuff to stop the girls from using/eating/drinking/wearing and borrowing it.

Ultimately it may come down to having a cupboard with a combination lock that only I know. A system so high tech it would be easier to steal The Crown Jewels.

Either that or I move into the shed.

Later, GJ

PC Bollocks is back on the beat

And so I see my old friend PC Bollocks has been at work again in two incidents outlining the moronic and insidious nature of political correctness when taken to its extremes. Just when will the human race fucking grow up and learn the concept of CONTEXT. Words, phrases and gestures are not offensive, but HOW they are imparted can be offensive. I'll admit there are times when the recipient might misconstrue what was said and take offence. This often happens when our judgement filters are clouded by alcohol, hence the not infrequent disputes between friends over casual throw away comments.

But we now seem to have reached the point of such utter stupidity and fear being spread around by PC Bollocks and his brigade of hair shirted, sandal wearing, vegan, bleeding heart, wet liberal softie twats that anyone can be accused of racism, homophobism, sexism and any other 'ism' you care to think of because of well meant and well used phrases.

The two cases I'm thinking of are someone called Miley Cyrus (nope haven't a clue) being accused of racism by by some anal outfit called the Office of Chinese Americans. It sounds a bit jumped up anyway doesn't it? But whoever heads this pedantic group has decided he can get his name in lights, feel some of that celebrity sparkle, have his 15 minutes of fame by making out this girl is in some way oppressing Chinese people. Here’s what she did. She posed in a photograph with some friends, one or more who were 'Chinese -American' or Chinese as we usually call them. None of the group complained, after all they are friends, but some jumped up do-goody tossbag with the wit and wisdom of a dog turd decided this was unacceptable and that this girl (aged 16 for fucks sake) had grievously offended every Chinese/Chinese American....Chink around the world.

Oh...Jack....you used the word Chink........you're a racist!

Stone Jack, hang him, bang him up for life......Whatever.... you fucking morons.

Should I now apologise to morons?

I am regularly referred to as a 'Brit' in the press (well not me individually) ...should I take offence at that? Should all 'Brits' make a stand against having our nationality shortened? I'm 5' 6" tall...or short whichever way you look at it. All my life I've had the piss taken out of my height, and still people make jokes about it...."Oi Jack, does Snow White and the other 6 know you're here?" .....but you know what...I don't get offended, I don't think they're out to put me down or oppress me. I don't cry out about being 'offended' by these 'height fascists'. I laugh about it and get on with life. I see it from the positive view that at least I'm noticed by people.

Are the Irish (and I am half Irish) really worried about being called Paddy? If they are, then I've yet to meet one. I still refer to a shop in the village as a 'Paki' shop. Do I mean it offensively? No, it’s just a shortened term based on nationality. If anything it’s almost a term of endearment because genuine racists wouldn't even consider spending their money there.

The other PC Bollocks incident is the Carol Thatcher one for likening a tennis player to a Golliwog. I'm presuming he or she was black. Well, a golliwog was a toy when I was young. Just like a Teddy bear in fact. A toy that a lot of children were very attached to. A Golliwog appeared on the Robertson’s Marmalade jars for decades until someone decided it might be offensive. Why is it offensive to have a black doll? If this is the case shouldn't white people be equally offended by the caricatures of Cabbage Patch dolls? Shouldn't men be offended by the oddly lacking in genitals Action Man figures? Don't they equally stereotype and help enforce prejudices against those groups? I actually think Carol Thatcher is a rubbish TV presenter, but she was merely using the term Golliwog as a descriptive term. What should she have said? "Such and such reminds me of a black faced, wide smiled, red jacket wearing child's doll I used to have...' Is that acceptable?

I'm more worried about the person who overheard the comments and then like some East German Stasi thought police nark decided to go and tell someone. What a fucking society we're breeding here.... a society of thought police eagerly listening out for people to speak out of turn and use what they deem an inappropriate phrase. All so that they can either look good, or make themselves feel better. What utter wankers. What about the word 'cunt'? When I’m at football people often refer to each other as 'you daft cunt' or 'you stupid old cunt'...usually in a bar and usually between friends. Yet surely this word is the most offensive word in the English speaking language? The difference is the people saying and receiving it have understood the context. Some PC Bollocks thought police spy would undoubtedly interpret it as something far more sinister. And then tell a copper or something. There’s a big difference between ' get me a beer you tight fisted cunt' and ''you shagged my wife you cunt' ...don't you think?

So, all you PC Bollocks fans, and all you minority groups, be you black, brown, yellow, white, wheelchair bound, short, fat, tall, ugly, thick, clever, awkward, clumsy, short sighted, long sighted, deaf, blind, mute, here’s my message.

Learn the concept of context.

Walk out of the school playground.

Stop looking for things to offend you and for fucks sake grow up.

Later, GJ

Stop Press: Apparently the shop at Sandringham Royal estate has decided after 1 year to withdraw its sale of Golliwog dolls. Why? Based on that principle shouldn’t every mannequin be removed from shop windows lest they offend white people, or women? Is that the end for Barbie in case blonde women are offended? Frankly I’m now offended by all this PC Bollocks………but who do I complain to?

I've just about calmed down after Bloody Bastard Blogger decided to lose last Mondays hard grafted piece of blogging. From now on it'll be typed in good old Wordpad, saved and then published with fuck all editing being done in Blogger.


So, what happened over the week? Well first off was some physio for my neck and shoulders - yep, from the accident back in September. Against my initial judgement I decided to go ahead with a compensation claim aginst Monsieur Fuckwit, the French idiot who decided to try and kill a family of four by not bothering to check mirrors and blind spots. Since then my neck and shoulders and sides have got progressively more and more painful. Whether any money is forthcoming or not is a long way off but its a no win/no fee arrangement so I think the solicitors must be confident of getting their costs back otherwise they wouldn't have taken the case on.

The rest of the week was spent exiled to the spare bedroom as the cough was so bad. I haven't slept properly for over a week now and since the accident getting any quality sleep has been a problem anyway. Which makes me even grumpier than normal.Obviously I couldn't go to work when feeling so utterly shite, and my boss confirmed that he didn't want me in whilst I was that ill - his exact words were "if you come in and infect all the others then I'll have to punch you" which being as he's a bigger bloke than me was good enough reason to stay at home.

I went to football on Wednesday and sat there wrapped up in multi-layers of clothing, coughing, unable to shout or even converse, nose running and throat hurting. We won 2-0 but I can't say it was a wise move to go when feeling so rough. But I needed to get out of the house as I was on the brink of going stir crazy. Yes, it may well have been just a man-cold but the problem is as a man I was still fucking ill! I'm an asthmatic as well, so any chest infection suddenly ramps itself up to be a bit more serious just on that basis alone.

Mind you I did catch up on all my recorded TV programmes, including the excellent Being Human series just started on BBC Three - the premise being a vampire, werewolf and ghost sharing a house and simply trying to be normal. Funny and dark in equal amounts this has all the hallmarks of being a real cult series. I've also finally managed to watch the whole of Green Wing Series 1 and all but 2 of Series 2 - how the hell did I miss this the first time around? A truly inspired bit of hospital comedy and Dr Alan Statham is a comedy character to rival the likes of Basil Fawlty and David Brent - I can only imagine it didn't get the same level of publicity because it was tucked away on Channel 4 instead of the Beeb.

So, Thursday and Friday were days when I didn't move anywhere. Stuck under a quilt on the settee with medicine, cough sweets and hot drinks. It would have been bliss had I not been so rough.

But rest was the order of the day, so rest I did and it was needed if I was to get through the Saturday night beano we had to honour the 65th Birthday of The Grand Master. I hadn't had any alcohol for over a week and had planned to go easy on Saturday night, but we all know what happens to the best laid plans..... To be fair it was a bloody good do and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves and after a few Guinness fresheners I even began to feel semi-human. Sunday mornings hangover combined with the cough bought me back down to earth with a shuddering crash. Back to the settee with duvet and pillows all day. I also sat through the debacle that is the current Chelsea squad as they once again succumbed to one of our nearest rivals. 1 point from 15 in all games against the other 3 members of the big 4 is utter shite and yesterday, in muted frustration, I watched our slim hopes of being Champions get flushed down the toilet by a referee who I wouldn't trust to run a bath (unless there was a live toaster balanced on the edge of it whilst he was in it), apathetic poseur footballers on hideously inflated wages (Drogba, Deco and the pile of festering dog turd that is Florent Malouda) and a tactically clueless manager who is currently making former Chelsea fuckwit Claudio Ranieri look like Albert Einstein.

And today we have snow.

Proper, cold snow.

The normal thrum from the A3 is virtually silent as people finally seem to have listened to the authorities about staying at home unless absolutely necessary. People have been seen walking to the local park with sledges. Snow is a very rare beast down here on the South Coast and settled snow even rarer. Apparently we have more to come and even as I look out of the window I can see big chunky flakes falling to earth. Pretty, yes. Disruptive? Not to me..I can work from home!

I'm off to hunt the news sites for something to moan about.

Later, GJ

Awake

My apologies for the extended Jack slumber, but the usual post Christmas lethargy has taken time to shake off this year and it does appear that my motivation levels for doing anything have dropped off.

It must be an age thing.

Anyway, to kick off the new Jack 'season' here are some thoughts....

1.) I have had a rotten rasping dry cough for a week now. Despite chucking every over the counter medicine down my throat I am still exiled to the spare room to prevent sleepless nights for Hellsbells. Pie has slipped into my place. Its the sort of cough that like a vindictive evil spirit taunts you during the day and then night decides to play havoc. Every time the eyes twitch as sleep approaches, in comes this vicious evil spirit and sets off a coughing bout that would be a great advert for not smoking. I sound like an 80 a day Woodbines person. At what point do you decide to go to the Doctors these days? It seems I'm there every 3 weeks at the moment what with various aches and pains, blood pressure checks, asthma checks, flu jabs and crap illnesses like this damn cough. Which I might add is ripping my throat apart as well. At what point does my Doctor start to think I'm stalking him?

2.) BBC's refusal to show an appeal for Gaza victims...........I tend to agree with them on this, but it does apepar they're damned if they do and damned if they don't. With the multiple guns of the press pointing at them all the time looking for any type of controversy is it any wonder they're playing it safe?

3.) I got the TV! It's a beauty - a 46" Samsung monster. It took a lot of work to persaude Hellsbells of the virtues but I think deep down even she sees the adavntage of it. I watched the Indiana Jones latest the other night on it and combined with the Home Cinema system it was as close to being at the cinema as possible. The sound was awesome, but the picture was so good I'd swear it was almost 3D at times. Oh, the joy of being able to watch without wearing my glasses........


I had written so much more but fucking Blogger has fucking lost it. Fucking pile of shite..........

GJ

Xmas greetings and Felicitations

Here we go then, heading into the final part of the year and ready to embrace the New year with renewed zeal and vigour. Allegedly. Its been a weird old year for me, with rushes of inspiration to write and then complete apathy to follow on. I promise to try harder next year as I need the practice if I'm ever going to be at a level to pen that first novel, that first play, that first TV series ro that first football match report for a Fleet Street organ. Or maybe my first blogs after becoming the breakfast show presenter on Planet Rock. Or launching my own radio station.

One can but dream. Don't laugh, every one of those features on the plan. Which will be a masterpiece when completed. Lets hope I don't need it. Or that if I do it does what I hope it will do.


So, how to sum up this year in Grocerjacks life? Odd might be a good word. Eventful would be another. Peaceful and tranquil however, do not fit the bill.

I suppose the first big thing to affect me was tearing an intercostal muscle in a coughing fit one night. I have never known such excruciating pain ....a pain that has still not fully gone. I, being a good drama queen, thought it was a heart attack but was soon bought back down to earth by Hellsbells. No golf for nearly 3 months due to the incapacitating nature of the injury meant that for a while even my notorious grumpiness which lets me be President of the GoGB was pushed to the point of permanent rage. Then we had the interminable madness within The Company of re-orgs gone wrong, good people thrown out, monkey brained clowns promoted and me with a tub thumping bible bashing boss. Me, an atheist and all. But despite our theological differences she was very good and very kind. Religious nut, maybe, but she made me feel good again after the trauma of watching friends get walked off site. I actually gained strength from her, which doesn't fit easily but maybne her faith in me rubbed off. Next was the bombshell news that Hellsbells had found a lump. Yep, that sort of lump. A visit to the Doctors confirmed that even he thought it was not a good lump. Hellsbells had to wait two months for a visit to the hospital for all the relevant tests, which happily came out as negative and the lump was something else altogether and totally harmless. During that time tensions rose and she battled on stoically with just the odd lapse into crumpled heap. I was in Spain when she got the good news. We partied as hard on the Iberian coast that night as they did on the sunny South Coast of Britain.It's weird how everyone automatically assumes the worst case scenario. Maybe its human nature or maybe these days we just like to know what we're up against and as such we opt for the path of pessimism to prepare ourselves for the worst.

In August, after 2 long years I finally had the orthodontic appliances that I had fitted top and bottom removed. two long years of humiliation and physical pain had come to an end. No more mouth ulcers or wire lacerations. No more headaches as jawbones and teeth were pulled under mechanical force into new unfamiliar positions. No more smiling through closed lips and no more wondering what people thought when they saw an array of metal lining the teeth like a row of metallic robot guards. The result was damn near perfect and despite the slight flossing obsession I seem to have gained it was £4000 well spent. I smile more these days, despite what people might think. What was interesting was just how many people I know who never noticed. Hellsbells took 2 hours or more to notice, not even seeing the broad grin when collecting me at Montpellier Airport. Pie never noticed until the same time as Hellsbells, and then claimed we was still so young she couldn't remember me without braces before. She's 13 and a half the cheeky cow. Kid had to be told eventually but hey, no-one does archetypal insular teenager quite so well. And to be fair she was rather anxiously anticipating her GCSE results. She passed all 9. MiddleSis, whose transformation using cosmetic laminates was my inspiration, noticed after 15 seconds. I guess people with new teeth notice others new teeth far more quickly. LittleSis new up front as she was taking me to the orthodontists. Lucky, who works in my team also noticed immediately, but then she had 2 years of the same thing when she was younger. No-one else in the team noticed. So, the lesson is no-one really takes that much notice of how you look, no matter how paranoid you are.

After a glorious relaxing holiday at The Money Pit it was back to work in September and the brush with death we had with Monsieur French Fuckwit Lorry Driver. To this day I can honestly say it was the most terrifiyng event of my life. Far more terrifying than my motorbike crash in 1992 which gave me a 5 week stay in a state run hotel. Or hospitals as they're called. This time no hospital was needed but I still wonder how the least likely outcome became the actual outcome. If I wasn't an atheist then I'd think it was a test of my ......faith?

In October another week at The Money Pit on my own got off to a bad start with a 6 hour delay on the ferry crossing, foul sailing and driving weather and a 657 mile journey the length of France on my own in a right hand drive car with a broken rear view mirror! All this to revise for an (important) exam. and to close the Money Pit down for the winter. The revision spolied the week away for me but a rare game of golf was enjoyed but underlining that all was not well from the accident. Luckily I had been persuaded into a compensation claim but my neck, shoulders, lower back and left ankle have defiinitely suffered due to the impact and forces at play during the accident. The weather was good and all I wanted to do was laze about and sightsee, but I had to stick my head into books to revise all the stale stuff I'd read already.It was hateful and the more I read the more I resented this waste of a holiday.

Was it worth it? On December the 9th, my email notifier popped up with the title 'Open University - Exam results for AA308 now available" in the title bar. Fear struck at me like a 30amp shock from the mains. If this was a pass then I had finally got the degree. I would be a BA...or a BSc. Either way it meant the work would either be worthwhile or a monumental fuck up and misjudgement of my own capability. It would be akin to Paul McCartney thinking Heather Mills was a good choice of wife, or thinking he could ever write a good song again. I decided I couldn't face looking at the result,. After all they'd contact me with any re-sit details wouldn't they? And besides I'd made my mind up that I couldn't go through all that revision bollocks again. Fuck 'em. Fuck the OU, fuck the tutors, fuck the examiners and fuck all the idiots who write the course materials. They'd all conspired against me, the bastards. They didn't want me to pass....they didn't want a Chelsea supporting, Guinness drinking, Comprehensive School educated oik like me to be remotely academic, to be part of the 'Alumni'. See how easily the paranoia and conspiracy theorem takes control?

So I went to get a cup of tea. I returned 10 minutes later to see yet another OU email pop into the inbox. But.........this time the header said "Award of BA degree". Blimey they must have it wrong I thought, but this time I followed the link to the results page. There it was - 60% exam score, overall course score 75%. A pass. Not a distinction. Not a grade 1 pass. But a fucking pass all the same! I am now Grocerjack BA (Open). Of course I am considering the Honours extension by doing a couple of Creative Writing courses. but that's just garnish in my eyes. Am I chuffed? You bet your fucking arse I am.

And thus far that is it. I head into a different Christmas this year. One where I'm thankful to be alive. Thankful that my family is alive and well. A Christmas where despite everything I hit 2 big targets, straight teeth and a degree. Even if the golf deteriorated to a 26 handicap its been worth it. And maybe that handicap is something to improve next year. Its a Christmas day with dinner at the pub with the extended family and not worrying about seating 16 people. No worries about frictions in the kitchen about what order to serve the food in or who has what. Dinner with nobody having to attend anyone else whilst we try to eat, with adults unable to speak or settle down lest a child needs to be waited on hand and foot against the backdrop of a kitchen looking like some sort of modern day apocalyptic post-Hiroshima nightmare. A Christmas Day topped by the Christmas Night party (something I just don't get) but this time at LittleSis's Ranch in the evening where I can kick back and have a glass of wine and cuban cigar safe in the knowledge that for the first time in many years I'm not suffering from a blood pressure attack from the cacophony of noise from presents and toys competing with TV and music, whilst watching kids and adults unwittingly trash my house. I could actually enjoy this one! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.


Later, GJ

Politicians and Idiots - Any diffrence?

Idiot MP's are complaining about the recent arrest of Damien green and the search of his parliamentary office by Police, presumably looking for evidence. Most of the complaints do seem to be coming from the Tories, which may be unsurprising considering Green himself is a Tory MP.

My issues with this complaining are........

a.) Do the disgruntled MP's think that they are above the law?
b.) Do they think that the police should need explicit permission from the Home Secretary to search an office?
c.) If the answer to b.) is yes, then shouldn't that apply to searches on company offices or even private homes?
d.) If a shadow MP receives information of a sensitive or classified nature from a civil servant, shouldn't he/she, as a matter of duty, then report that rather than just talk to the press?
e.) I didn't hear much complaining when people were being arrested in the 'cash for honours' scandal - from whcih of course not a single person was charged.

As I say, idiot MP's, a title that suits them all.

Another little gripe as well. Sir Michael Wright, the coroner in the Jean Charles de Menezes inquest has ruled out 'unlawful killing' as a verdict that the jury can return. So, the family have walked out in apparent protest. Hmmm....does this mean they would only accept one verdict as being right? That of 'unlawful killing' seems to be the only acceptable option to them. Which renders an inquest a bit pointless doesn't it?

Weeks , if not months have been spent on this in order to analyse the evidence. If only one verdict was right or possible then why bother with the cost and trauma of a very public inquest. I'm no judge, or even very au fait with the law but it seems on reading the coroners statement that he has based his summing up on a solid understanding and explanation of UK law rather than any emotional criteria that might come into play. Isn't that the right basis for any decision the jury may reach?

Later, GJ