Category: Whinge

  • Late arrival? Certainly, Sir!

    Late arrival? Certainly, Sir!

    Of the last few flights I’ve taken, they all seem to have been late by a prescribed amount, around twenty minutes or so. And, like that traffic blockage ahead that we’ve all sat in and once it’s cleared there’s no accident or apparent reason for it, late flights are much the same (to this layman at least). Our recent flight back from Santorini wasn’t any different. After clearing security and reaching the departure lounge in good time, the place was virtually empty, save the odd vendor behind the counters of the horrendously overpriced shops, and a few fellow travellers awaiting the flight back to East Midlands.

    Image by Jan Vašek from Pixabay

    The departure board announced ‘Boarding at Gate 5‘. We duly walked the length of the terminal (you’re never departing from the nearest gate, are you?). Arriving at Gate 5, we are confronted by an electronic sign announcing ‘GATE CLOSED‘. Where were we supposed to be? The departure board was showing ‘5’. Gate 5 was showing ‘CLOSED‘ no officials about to ask and the Tui app was about as useless as a Baldy’s comb. So everybody was milling around looking lost. About 25 minutes before the supposed departure, three staff turn up and open Gate 6. There is a mad and disorderly rush to get to the front (I’ve never understood this, as everyone has a designated seat) and, much to my surprise, everyone has boarded and the aircraft door is closed with five minutes to spare. Looking good, eh? Er, actually no!

    We sit there for 5, 10, 15 minutes. The smarmy flight Captain comes on the tannoy: “Uuuuuum, this is the Captain speaking. We’re uuuum just waiting for the instruction to push back, and we’ll be uuuuum on our way”. WHY??? There are no other flights in frikkin’ operation at the moment! It’s like Air Control are tittering down their sleeves seeing how long they can hold the plane before the passengers are on the verge of mutiny! We eventually trundle onto the apron and stop once again for another ten minutes. “Ummmm, we’re just awaiting a departure slot from Air Control and we’ll soon be on our way”. YOU’RE TAKING THE PISS! There’s no other aircraft within sting missile range, never mind in our flight path!

    Image by JUNO KWON from Pixabay

    The uneventful flight took just under the predicted 4h:10m and by the time we landed, we had made up the 20-25 minutes. I’d cooled off a bit by now and thought we might even get our planned Skylink shuttle bus from EMA to Nottingham. Yeah, right! Immediately on stopping, everybody jumps to their feet and retrieves their bags and stand like coiled sprigs, determined to be first off and onto the terminal shuttle bus. The ground crew efficiently approached the ‘plane with the steps and the cabin doors opened. And again we waited, and waited, and waited. Another smarmy announcement: “Uuuuuum, we’re sorry about the delay, but we’re waiting for the uuuum shuttle buses to take you to Arrivals”. WHAAAT? Like they didn’t have enough feckin’ notice? Why didn’t someone ring through four hours ago when we took off? No. Too simple, and probably designed just to piss you off even more.

    So we disembark the aircraft and board the shuttle buses. Packed like sardines isn’t the phrase to use, more like a tin of mashed-up frickin’ tuna. We eventually move off and I check my watch – we may still just about have time to catch the Skylink to Nottingham. The shuttle reaches the arrivals building, but rather than drop us at the entrance door at the corner of the edifice, the driver takes us to the far end of the covered walkway, about 300 yards away, and we have to walk back along the length of the corridor. WHY? AAAAARGH!!! Again, I bet the drivers are pissing their pants with laughter watching all the passengers struggle with all their luggage for a few hundred unnecessary yards.

    Image by Joshua Woroniecki from Pixabay

    Despite ours being the only flight at the terminal at this time of night, the sheepherding tape and bollard system was in place, requiring all the passengers to walk ten times further than really necessary. Then you get to the passport scanners. The capacity of a Boeing 737 is about 210 passengers and East Midland Airport have four scanners. FOUR! They don’t need four! They need fifty frikkin’ four!!!! All designed to wazz you off to the max, I’m sure. We eventually reached the Skylink bus stop – you guessed it – about twenty minutes late and had to stand in the rain for another forty minutes.

    I understand this is the norm of flight travel now, but there has to be a better way, doesn’t there?


    Featured (header) image by Dirk Daniel Mann from Pixabay
  • Get a grip on it!

    Get a grip on it!

    TV and films have got a lot to answer for, see examples in my previous posts regarding the Hollywood swallow and computer noises – to name just two. But today I’d like to bang on about the way people hold some objects on the telly. There is obviously the correct way of doing things, and the TV land way. Here is a simple visual guide of getting to grips with things.

    1. Mobile phones.

    phone-proper

     

     

     

     
     

    phone-wank

     

     

     

     
     

    2. Torches.

    torch-proper

     

     

     

     

     

     
     

    torch-wank

     

     

     

     

     

     
     

    3. Hand guns.

    gun-proper

     

     

     

     
     

    gun-wank

     

     

     

     
     

    gun-wank-2

     

     

     

     
     

    4. The popular torch/hand gun combo.

    gun-torch-double-wank

     

     

     

     
     

    Tip: There is no way to do this without looking like an utter twat.

     

  • Who the f**k are they?

    Have you noticed the abnormal amount of time the media (and, it seems to me, the BBC in particular) gives to the American Presidential election? The whole process takes about a year and has only just started.

    Expect screens to be bombarded almost weekly with ‘news’  of banal ‘candidates’ with zero charisma and cheesy grins as wide as Alaska all fighting for their 15 minutes of fame before fading back into obscurity from whence they came. Presidential ‘hopefuls’ with unfeasibly stupid names such as Newt Gingrich and Mitt Romney. Who? Exactly. Never heard of them, probably never will again.

    Why do I need to know this? We get enough bullshit politics on the news now. I don’t need the imported version as well.

    God bless America.

  • Euroshizen.

    Jedwank? Bluech? Fuck, it must be Euroshizen time again. I’m off out for a pint.

    Why is it named Eurovision anyway? Surely it should be Eurosonic or Eurosound. Bloody misleading if you ask me!

  • Personal service lives!

    Apparently I was wrong about personal service in my last post. So much so, the BBC is making a series about it – ‘Michel Roux’s Service‘. I’ve just seen a preview clip of it and OMG! does it look exciting!

    That last bit was sarcastic.

    Yet another friggin’ ‘reality’ programme (about as real as Dolly Parton‘s headlamps) with a s-l-o-w, p-a-t–r-o-n-i-s-i-n-g  n-a-r-r-a-t-o-r, about a bunch of no-hopers training to be waiters. OK, silver service waiters, but still waiters. Christ on a friggin’ bike! Where do they get the ideas for these programmes from?

    In a real attempt to make the programme exciting, one of the participants announces “If we can do this, we can do anything”. So you’ll be able to drive an F1 car will you? Or design a viable and economical solution to replace the now obsolete U.S. Space Shuttle orbital delivery system, will you?

    No, I didn’t think so. You’ll be a posh waiter.

  • Personal service is officially dead.

    And this is why…

    My oven died yesterday and I took it to the oven graveyard (well, it probably ends up in India or China somewhere, but the local dump’s just a bit nearer for me). I go to buy a new one at Currys on the way home.

    • Enter Currys for a new oven.
    • Select oven No.1 – “Sorry, that’s out of stock”.
    • Select oven No.2 – “Sorry, that’s out of stock”.
    • Select oven No.3 (getting more expensive every time)
      • Assistant: “Yes, we have 24 of those”
      • Me: “Great, I’ll take one”.
      • Assistant: “They’re at the warehouse, I’ll have to order it and get it delivered to you”.
      • Me: “Free delivery?”.
      • Assistant: “No, £22”. (Or something similar)
      • Me: “Have it delivered to the shop and I’ll pick it up, I only live ’round the corner”.
      • Assistant: “Can’t do that”.
      • Me: “Goodbye”.

    I just ordered the same oven online for £70 cheaper with free delivery. So thanks to Currys attitude today, I saved 90 quid. Cheers.

    But doesn’t that reflect the state of the big stores nowadays? For example, my disappointing recent shopping experiences include:

    • Currys – They don’t sell curries.
    • Boots – they don’t sell boots.
    • Selfridges – they don’t sell fridges.
    • Virgin Megastore – well, what a fucking let down they were!
  • Tuition fees

    So the hike in fees went through. Good. But instead of rising to £9000 they should have gone to £90,000. Nah, let’s make a round £100,000. It actually doesn’t matter what the actual figure is because hardly any of the bleeders pay the fucker back anyway.

    The majority of so-called students go to ‘learn’ unusable subjects  such as Marine Biology or Theology or some such crap and just toss it off for three years and spend their grant on fags and booze in the Students Union bar or Wetherspoons. Most of those who actually get their degrees end up doing bar work or waitressing. Let’s face it, when’s the last time you opened the job pages in the local paper and saw ‘Wanted: Marine Biologist’ or ‘Thoeologist urgently required’. Nope. Sorry kids, if you’ve got a degree like that, you’re going to spend the rest of your life doing minimum waged jobs. Just like me.

    It does mean, though, that you won’t have to pay the grant back. Which brings me back to my original point. Anyway, everyone has a free education until the age of 16. Then if you stay on for another couple of years you get PAID 30 quid a week TO GO TO SCHOOL!!! What the fuck is all that about?

    No mateys, you’ve had enough out of the system. If you want a University education, be prepared to pay for the fucker (or let mummy and daddy, more like).

  • BB’s Shit List, Pt.5

    • Toilet RollPeople who use the phrase “Listen up”. What the fuck does that mean?.
    • People who say “Can I get” when the really mean “Can I have”. No, you can’t. Fuck off.
    • People who call the well-known pub chain ‘Witherspoons’. It’s Wetherspoons. Always has been. Get it right.
    • People who pay a premium for washed vegetables and then still peel them.
    • People who hang washing out on the line to dry and then put them in the tumble drier after to ‘air off’. WTF?
    • People who choose an email address such as joe.blogs1976@… because they can’t be arsed to think of a more inventive name other than the ones offered.
    • Seeded buns. All the little bleeders fall off before they get to your gob anyway. What’s the point?
    • Alan Carr. Nob.
    • Christmas. Pah!
  • Feeling old?

    Now I may be 52 years old, but I can tell you that every morning I wake up feeling like an 18 year-old

    The trouble is, there’s never one there.

  • Child benefit

    There has been a lot in the news at the moment about the rights and wrongs of withdrawing child benefit from the better-off. What nobody has brought up and what I would like to know is why anyone gets child benefit? Why should I, as a childless taxpayer, contribute towards the upkeep of anyone’s children? If you have kids, take responsibilty for them and look after the fuckers yourself.

  • Like Ikea?

    I’m 52 in a couple of week’s time and, up until last Sunday, I was very proud to say I was an Ikea virgin. Yep, I had managed OK, thank you very much, without going to Ikea all of my life.

    However, last weekend I was persuaded that there was something there ‘we needed’, so I couldn’t get out of  it. Now our nearest Ikea store is  advertised as being in Nottingham. It’s not. It is about 8 miles away and closer to Kimberley. It is in the middle of nowhere, close to the arsehole of the universe, which unfortunately isn’t indicated on SatNav.

    So I drove for about an hour in 27 degrees of heat, which was nice, and eventually arrived, complete with sweaty scrotum, at the vast, characterless hanger that was ‘Ikea’. But, despite the outward appearance, once I was inside, I loved it! By that, I mean I FUCKING HATED IT! Masses of people wandering around (you all have to walk in the same direction, following the arrows) like mindless sheep, all looking at cheaply-made tat that they have been persuaded is fashionable or indispensible and then queueing up for hours to pay for it.

    I almost panicked when we couldn’t find the exit. It was a bit like that episode of Father Ted where they get lost in the lingerie section of the clothes shop. When we finally found the door, there was a loading bay the size of  Terminal 5 at Heathrow. Hoards of people loading boxes and boxes of  god-knows-what into cars and vans like ants tending to the Queen’s eggs. I stumbled out of there into the sunlight, gasping for breath. And we didn’t even buy anything.

    I considered keeping this sordid episode to myself, but I knew someone would find out. So I decided to ‘fess up here. I am not proud of this episode, dear readers. My Ikea cherry has been popped.

  • Open wide!

    Open wide!

    I went to the dentist for a check-up today. There’s a clock on the wall of the surgery and I noted the length of time I was sat in the dentist’s chair. It was just 63 seconds.

    Back at the reception, I was asked for £16.50. Sixteen chuffin’ fifty. That equates to £942.86 an hour! No wonder the dentist had a grin on his friggin’ face.