I admit to not getting most poetry, but even so, I do try to write some of my own. As a result, two of my pieces, Fragile and Announcing the Arrival Of …, are available in, This is a Book About Alice, a book of poetry and flash fiction published by Earlyworks Press.
You can get a copy by following this link to Earlyworks Press.
Cheers.
Nick
Look, there’s a picture of a plate with far too much pasta on it …
Arrrggghh!
One of the biggest gripes people have about social networking sites is over folk, friends and family who persistently post what it is they have just had to eat. It’s annoying. We don’t care. However, when you are a celebrity, it seems your entire world falls prey to the media so when somebody like Katie Price tweets that they have had a Sunday Roast (a real one), papers like The Sun (Monday February 25 – page 11) think it’s newsworthy enough to re-tweet it in their scummy paper.
Yes, she’s a celebrity … We still don’t care. Why should we be remotely interested in what some model has just had for tea? Go and do a proper journalistic job and report on a government who discriminates against the disabled, or a Pope who covers up child abuse, or even the fact I witnessed police responding to a call by having to catch a bus (Really … it happened). We’re also not interested in what some failure of a soccer manager has been doing, or if he’s shagging some netball star (Friday – front page of The Sun). We also don’t need to know if some second-rate comedian has been sending smutty texts (Front page, Tuesday) Neither do we don’t want to know what he had for tea, either.
For Christ’s sake, report on the bloody news!
Well, if there is going to be any white papal smoke billowing in the near future, you can be sure it won’t have been ignited by the head of the British Catholic Church. As if religion could be even more discredited, you have the most senior catholic in the UK, Cardinal Keith O’Brien, accused of sex crimes. Amazing, but should we be surprised?
We do need to be careful and not judge people, as most of the church hierarchy do when denouncing homosexuality. However, Keith O’Brien is innocent until proven guilty. Anyway, he won’t be found guilty, his track record of famous friends will stand him in good stead.
Oh shit!
Karaoke boy-band, One Direction, are furious. Their fans have been fleeced and scammed by bogus con-tricksters who set up ticketing scams.
A bogus company … conning folk? Well, One Direction would know all about that. Pretending to be a music act and misleading the audience into thinking they have any talent while hoping we won’t notice their instruments are mysteriously playing themselves.
Okay, there’s a picture of the darlings, just to please the fans who I’ve just upset.
It was a fun week at the Oscars with Ben Affleck film, Argo, winning three of the awards.
Best picture, best adapted screen play and best editing. Well, they certainly edited the truth.
Once again, the British have been removed from history and painted in a bad light by making out they failed to help a group of Americans during the Iran crisis in 1979. As it happens, we are told in reality, the British Ambassador risked his life to aid the evacuees.
But it’s not the first time, is it?
Braveheart, Saving Private Ryan, then there was U-571. That load of baloney credited the Americans with bravely capturing a submarine, cracking the enigma machine and thus, winning the war. In fact, it was the British who got hold of the thing and the codes were solved by intelligence officers at Bletchley Park.
I saw a small article this week that former Doctor Who, Jon Pertwee and Bond author, Ian Fleming, both worked for Naval Intelligence during the war, training commandos. No doubt if a Hollywood version is ever made, Pertwee and Fleming will be replaced by Errol Flynn and Ken Kesey, and even though the latter was only 10 when the war ended, it wouldn’t stop them.
As for Argo, I know sometimes you have to make a fictional account for artistic purposes, but don’t try to pass it off as being the truth. It’s insulting and embarrassing.
Poor old David Compton of Darwen, Lancashire. Never been in trouble with the law and he gets into some for trying to maintain it.
A young neighbouring 11-year-old yob decided it was funny to pelt Mr Compton’s house with stones. David took exception to this, caught the kid and frogmarched him home to speak with his parents. Now if that were my son, I’d be furious. There is right and there is wrong. Some things you just don’t do. But did this pond-life of a family chastise their son? No, they reported Mr Compton to the police.
I think you can see where the kid learned his moral values from. Justice, eh!
Yes, I know it looks random but I wanted to insert a symbol of the Scales of British Justice, and these kitchen scales were the only ones I had.
Going to be starting a new job soon. Can’t do all the hours I imagine I’ll be doing and still keep up my current writing output. Some things will have to go. Don’t know … Perhaps the roast will have to either be drastically reduced in size, or go to once every few weeks. I certainly would like to write more on other stuff as well, so watch this space. Or maybe I could just pad the Roast out with pictures of everything I have eaten all week.
Cheers.
Nick
Last October, I marked the 4th anniversary edition of the Sunday Roast by reposting some older pieces which are now, unfortunately, lost in the depths of Myspace. I said, when reposting that I would make it a regular occurrence. Well, I think the time is right to do so again. Most of those posts are impossible to find on the now-useless Myspace and if you did, you’d find my pictures have been wiped by the techno-cretins who administer the thing.
Therefore, I shall keep to my promise of bringing to life once more, those roasts of the past. Or, to put it another way, I have bugger all to write about this week so decided to recycle a load of 4-year-old junk.
I wrote the following pieces the day after my forty-fifth birthday. Now, what wouldn’t I give to be 45 again and not, as is currently the case, approaching a rather more daunting landmark. Looking back, I appear to have had a good time.
I had loads of nice stuff for my birthday, the most amusing being a Doctor Who, toy sonic screwdriver. Look, I am Doctor Who crazy and have been since I was a kid. They never had things like toy sonic screwdrivers in those days, I had to make do with a broken tyre pressure gauge and pretend. Still, all ends well. I have one now. The irony is, I spent over half an hour looking for a tiny screwdriver so that I could put the batteries into the sonic one.
Over four years later, I still have the sonic device.
Also on that birthday …
I went to see one of my favourite groups, The Stranglers at the Carling Academy in Birmingham. I go every time they are in town, which is usually once a year and I really enjoyed myself. I like to go as you never know how long they will keep going before one of them dies. It is quite amusing, however, watching a band which has been around for over thirty years and seeing the ageing audience rock the night away. It used to be that the fans all had hideous comb-overs. Now they go for the shaved look as it seems more trendy. I was there, in the mix, enjoying myself in the centre of the crowd doing the old man’s dance routine of rocking about without moving your legs. Still, I couldn’t help myself. No … you don’t understand. I really couldn’t help myself not being able to move my legs. You see, there was so much spilled beer about the place, my Dr Martens had stuck to the floor.
As the evening wore on, a crowded arena became more spacious as the majority of larger members of the audience tried to find what few seats there were in order to gasp for breath as they searched for an oxygen tank.
Still, it all went off well and even my vehicle was still there when I returned to the car park. I had unfortunately, made the mistake of leaving it in possibly the most frightening and decrepit car park I can ever remember using. However, it was cheap (for Birmingham) and it was really nice of those bums to light a bonfire next to my car so I could find it in the dark.
I got one task out of the way – The horror of cleaning the kids bedroom. This is the one my other kids who live elsewhere, stay in during the nights they are with me. Unfortunately, it had been a while since cleaning and I found some right horrors under the bed. One particular item, and I am not quite sure what it, is now in a cage and I’m feeding it.
The possibility of what you might find underneath the bed.
Arrrgggh! There is so much I want to do these days and I just haven’t got the time. And do you know why? Bloody Spider Solitaire. You know, the cheap free game which comes with windows on the PC. It is the most addictive thing I have ever played. Seven hours the other week I was bloody well on the thing. I could still see cards in my sleep. In fact, I am playing it now while typing, for Christ’s sake. King, Queen, Jack, Ten, Seven … Bugger!
Anyway, will somebody please come over to my house and remove it from my PC as soon as possible SO I CAN GET SOME FRIGGIN WORK DONE! Six, Five, Four, Ace … Damn!
I have been a bit down and tired this week. I found things a struggle and at times, ill as if I was coming down with something. However, it never transpired into a full illness. My nan used to talk about winter weariness and when I was young, I used to make fun of how she constantly went on about it. However, these days, I think I know what she was talking about.
At least two people have actually said to me that I may have SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). What this basically means, in the winter months, I turn into a right miserable bastard.
What do you mean, just in the winter months?
Great. Now I have SAD on top of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). What is this, a case of AB (Abbreviation Syndrome)? Next thing, it’ll be POWGTW (Pissed Off With Going To Work), or even OCIBTCA (Oh Christ, I Burnt The Chips Again). I’ll shut up, before I develop BYTTS (Boring You To Tears Syndrome)
Talking about OCD, I was having a meal recently and was picked up over my peculiar habits. You know the sort of thing … like the fact you there is a method to what order you should eat things off a plate. Look, if I’ve eaten all my vegetables then find one solitary pea under my rump steak, the world will end – okay!
I never actually realised how bad my OCD was until I started talking about it. However, the stupid thing is, I deliberately start doing things which aren’t OCD, just to disprove the theory. I guess what it all boils down to is that it has taken me a number of decades to finally realise, yes, I am strange.
Look, arranging your CDs in artist order, then sub-sorting them into date of release, is the only way to achieve perfect karma.
It’s interesting for me to delve into them, if I’m honest. And a bit frightening. It’s been years since I wrote them and now reading back, I’m kind of thinking … this guys on another planet.
Cheers.
Nick
I felt as if a weight had been lifted off me on Thursday as this was the first Valentine’s Day since 1986 where I didn’t have to buy one. I’d like to say I didn’t receive anything, either, but the cute bear which greeted me on my doorstep will testify, otherwise.
There he is, warm now after shivering whilst being left in a freezing porch all night. It wouldn’t be too bad and I’d be mildly curious were it not for the fact my cleaning appeared to have been done while I was out and a note left with tips as to which items of clothing somebody thought I should no longer wear and perhaps donate to charity.
Okay, I may have made that last bit up and you will be wondering if Nick, here, has gone soft by speaking nicely about Valentine’s Day. You know, what with his views on Christmas (Bah Humbug!) and other moans. Perhaps, you are thinking, he’s a softy when it comes to matters of the heart?
Well you’d be wrong!
Valentine’s Day. Pah! Load of marketing nonsense by the retailers yet again to get us to part with money we haven’t got. February 14! Why the hell can’t every day be special if you are with somebody you love? I’m just thankful I’ve had a year off. Restaurants double their prices, chocolates are two for the price of three and shareholders in Ann Summer’s shops receive massive dividends.
Still, there are nice gifts to be had … all for the ladies, of course. Cuddly toys, sexy lingerie, perfume, jewellery, the list goes on. You go into an Ann Summer’s shop and what is on offer for men to slip seductively into?
Before you ask … no, I didn’t model it.
Now some men don’t even like venturing into these shops. Never bothered me in the past, although it did usually get a little awkward when you cannot switch off one or ten vibrators which are hopping around on the shelves because you started messing with them whilst bored when your girlfriend was in the changing room trying on a nice matching two-piece set. Yes … it happened.
And even if the standard range of gifts doesn’t take your fancy, you can always dice with death and buy your loved one a deep fat fryer. In fact, all sorts of kitchen implements may suffice though I’d stay away from the knife sets.
Bath stuff … yes, that too. The girls love it. But what, apart from safari themed g-strings and the obligatory bottle of Blue Stratos, is there for men to receive?
Know what I was once given, as an example of what there is out there for us guys on Valentine’s Day?
A bloody nasal hair remover!
Yes, Mr Tyre Ltd, is advertising for a seven and a half ton driver. Let’s hope the suspension on his vehicle will take the strain.
This happened on an American TV network when hackers hijacked the system and broadcast a phony news report about Zombies attacking the neighborhood.
Yes, remember that one? It was Dawn of the Dead where decaying corpses spent their days shopping for fashion accessories in the mall. And some people actually believed this was happening for real as a result of the fake broadcast and thus, called the cops.
Ridiculous, as is the prospect of brain-dead folk wandering around a shopping centre.
Having said that, I haven’t been to Westfield Merry Hill, lately.
Our Welfare and Pensions Secretary was aggrieved this week when a young woman, Cait Reilly, won a landmark case which likened her working for free in Poundland, to that of being a slave. What? The audacity. Fancy her wanting money.
I agree, in principle to doing work for benefits but Poundland is a private company and they’re getting something for nothing. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was useful training and a decent job at the end of it … but Poundland!
Iain Duncan Smith says the slavery jibe was a slur and an insult to people living in oppression. Yes, that would be us under you, Iain, and the rest of your in it for themselves, Tory leeches. Insulting? What I find insulting is a millionaire politician telling people on £71 a week jobseekers allowance that they have enough to live on and they should stop moaning.
Ring any bells, Iain?
Iain Duncan Smith – The day he went to see how poor people live.
And similarly …
Bungling bank, RBS are to give their greedy fat cat chief another bonus.
Yes, there’s Stephen Hester, waiting for his tin of Whiskers Supermeat.
Last year, public pressure forced Stephen to decline his near £1million bonus through gritted teeth. Well, he’s at it again. This time it’s only a paltry £780,000.
The bankers, they really don’t understand it. Nothing more than crooks, the lot of them. Muggers and looters, only this lot hide behind spreadsheets and a suit.
So Hester reckons he deserves his bonus while lesser paid staff at the bank have their money cut to pay for the Libor fine imposed as a result of high-ups in the bank rigging the lending rate.
Nationalise the banks and let them do what they are meant to do – provide a service for the people, not make the rich, richer.
Dappy, the {C}Rap singer of alleged pop group, N-Dubz, walked free from court this week despite being found guilty of a serious assault. Funnily, his two (non-famous) co-defendants were jailed for over a year each after they did the pop ponce’s bidding by beating up some people at a petrol station.
So two unknowns are sent down while the famous one is let off with a slap on the wrist. Amazing what being a star does for you in terms of getting away with things. No doubt it will be the chat shows next, filled with his ugly mug on how he is so misunderstood.
Aww … Bless.
Dappy. Calling him a music star is simply a contradiction in terms.
I mentioned it in jest earlier on, but can you even get Blue Stratos these days, or am I showing my age?
Cheers.
Nick
I’m so blooming hungry, I could eat a horse. However, if I can’t get hold of a Findus Beef Lasagne, a bacon sandwich will have to do.
You really have to watch what you eat, these days. I like a lasagne. I do a mean one of my own, all made from scratch. However, if I felt a little lazy, I know I could always put my hands on one of those ready meals. Don’t particularly like them, but they serve a purpose. But things are not as they seem. According to mass hysteria, lasagne ready meals, in addition to containing cheese, peppers, pasta and many other unhealthy substances, now come with added, Champion the Wonder Horse.
Neigh, I kid you not. We’ve apparently been eating horse meat for ages. I never realised the reason until now why every time I trotted to the supermarket, I felt this urge to but a packet of oats.
And of course now we have the veggie brigade sitting all smug saying, ‘I told you so.’ Maybe, but I bet there are a few non-meat things which are dodgy. I don’t care. I’m meat eater and beyond redemption. I have every respect for vegetarians, it’s just not me. Mind you, there is one thing which annoys – those people who claim they are vegetarian but eat fish.
How the blooming hell is that being a vegetarian?
So finally, we know it really is Richard III who’s been issuing spiritual parking tickets in a Leicester car park for years. What I want to know is how on earth did people actually forget he was there? I mean, they know the car park was built on the site of an Abbey and presumably records showed it to be his final resting place otherwise how would they have known where to look for him in the first place.
When they decided to build a car park on top of him, was it just an oversight? You can imagine the surveyors and their checklist.
1. Excavate large hole.
2. Lay tarmac and paint white lines.
3. Remove dead King of England.
4. Install pay-by-foot ticket machines.
And why do they call them pay by foot machines? I’ve never seen anybody pay by foot. You use your hands.
Sorry, I digress, but I still don’t see the need for fuss. They spend all that money and effort excavating the site to dig him up, now they’re talking about burying him again. Make your sodding minds up. And please tell me we’re not going to have the prospect of the taxpayer funding a state funeral. Don’t we spend enough on the royal leeches who are living without throwing money at dead ones.
What I found funny was the programme the other day which showed how a specialist has reconstructed the king’s face using scientific skills and technology.
Bollocks. They’ve just looked at the portraits of him. It’s not exactly hard to make an accurate reconstruction when you have a head start, if you forgive the pun.
Poor old Richard. I bet he didn’t envisage spending 500 years in a car park. I hope they gave him a disabled bay, what with having that hump.
“A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.” If Richard said that today, somebody would hand him Findus Beef Lasagne. Still, it could have been worse. They might have built a public lavatory on top of him, then rhyming slang term would have taken on a very literal meaning.
Posh Spice, Victoria Beckham, the girl whose only talent is the ability to make millions without having any actual talent, posted an interesting tweet this week. She’s a little stressed. Referring to New York Fashion Week, she commented that it was the silly season where everybody goes a little crazy, or words to that effect as seen below.
No, Victoria, it isn’t the most stressful of times. Living in poverty under Tory Government cuts and not knowing if you’ll have a house this time next month … that’s stress.
Can’t remember where I read this but apparently, German schoolkids are studying the British seaside resort of Weston-super-Mere.
Yes, the town which has to be the worst seaside town I have ever visited, is being touted as a good indicator of British holiday fun and is now in German school textbooks.
Weston-super-Mere? I mean, the fact the town inserts the word, super into its name should be enough for them to be prosecuted under the trades description act. I went there once and that was enough for me. It has one attraction – the pier, and even that burned down and was out of action for a few years.
So why are we touting Weston as the hotbed of activity? A couple of possibilities. One, is to send the Germans somewhere nobody in the UK wants to go, and if they are there, we won’t have to worry about them nicking our deckchairs on the beaches we do like.
Second reason. They’ve waged war on us twice in the past hundred years. Promote this place as the high spot of summer activity and they’ll turn around and decide it might be better to invade Crete instead.
Just a theory.
I actually write this on a Saturday and having just finished, I realised I need to do a bit of shopping. I’m out of burgers and lasagne. Therefore, I’m going to saddle up, race to the supermarket and gallop along the meat aisle. Fear not, I won’t be there fur-long.
Sorry about the jokes. I admit, they are a bit lame. Hmmm … I think this theme may have run its course.
Cheers.
Nick
I didn’t realise the website was a year old until writing this roast.
My God, that’s one whole year of opinionated crap, Titanic film jokes and people with bad teeth from the Jeremy Kyle show.
I do have to say though, all the best to Jeremy in his battle against cancer. Let’s face it, without that show I’d have had far fewer visitors in the past year. Still, I am sticking to my New Year promise of no more poking fun at the dentally challenged from the show. However, even into February, it still remains the number one search engine term used to bring traffic to me.
Jeremy Kyle, Jeremy Kyle teeth, Jeremy Kyle bad teeth and even … Ugly people with teeth on Jeremy Kyle.
Get better soon, Jezza … as they say in the Black Country.
Yes, that is where I come from. A right old run-down area in the Midlands which is called the Black Country because of the coal seam most of the land lies upon.
I know over the past year, I have taken several (modest estimation here) swipes at my local town, Walsall for being depressed and going to pot. Well, this has taken years of hard work by local businesses and the council to achieve and I was treated on Friday to a taste of what Walsall has been aspiring to in all this time – neighbouring West Bromwich.
Once a nice little shopping centre, for years West Bromwich has been nothing more than tatty pound-shops, tacky market stalls and empty premises. It is, basically – a hole.
Well, undeterred, Walsall saw West Bromwich as a shining light and have tried, with much success, to emulate it.
As I say, on Friday, I had the delight of going to West Bromwich and found nothing had changed since my last visit. You still feel as if you need to wash your hands on the way out and I did wonder if my car would be there when I returned to it. It was, thankfully, intact. I saw it in the distance as I listened to the piped music in the car park. Then I stopped. Puzzled. Music in the bloody car park … why?
Apologies for the picture, I have a rubbish camera on my phone.
Anyway, I approached my car and saw the speaker. It was blasting Karma Chameleon, distorted at full volume above the bonnet my Ford Focus. Can anybody offer an explanation? I don’t go to West Bromwich very much for a number of reasons but certainly not to listen to music in a filthy car park. I’m much too concerned with getting back to my vehicle before I get mugged.
Still, even though I had to spend two hours there, at 80p to park, it was good value … and at least my car was kept entertained by the music. Stopped it from getting bored.
West Bromwich Albion is actually the team I support. All my life I’ve had to suffer ridicule and abuse because basically, we’ve been shit. But no more. For the past couple of years, not a bad little team has been assembled at the Hawthorns and for the first time in over 30 years, they can lay claim to be the top team in the region.
With this in mind, you’d think players would be clamouring to be at the club. Not so, Peter Odemwinge.
The want-away striker hoped to further his career by engineering a deadline-day move to … er, bottom of the table, Queens Park Rangers. He says it was ambition and nothing to do with the huge salary on offer. Anyway, refused permission by his club, he took it upon himself to drive down to London and force his way through the door. He was, quite rightly, refused.
Cue the eggs, see the target.
Peter Odemwinge with egg on his face.
Therefore, poor old Peter had to drive back home with his tail between his legs, knowing he has to face his team mates … and the fans, who all know he has stuck two-fingers up at a club who took him in and turned his career around. Good on West Brom for not bowing to him and any other overpaid Charlie.
As for Queens Park Rangers … That name should have an apostrophe in it. Queen’s. It was named after Queen’s Park, not a collective group of queens who happened to have a picnic in the park one day.
Mobile phone app, Vine, lets you share six-second video clips on Twitter, apparently.
Six seconds! I wonder if it’s going to be like You Tube? Six seconds of crap video after having to watch a thirty second advertisement.
And the worry by watchdogs is that it will be simply used to spread porn and people will be posting clips of themselves having sex.
Come on … six seconds! Who in this country really only lasts six seconds having sex, apart from those living in … (Last piece edited out when I realised I know somebody who lives there).
As I have been saying, it is the first anniversary of starting on WordPress. I think I made the right choice in defecting from the now useless, Myspace, but do you want to know the real reason I chose WordPress, and not Blogger?
This …
Yes, those bloody irritating Captcha requests.
Don’t you just find them tedious? You can imagine the smarmy voice. ‘Please prove to us you’re not a robot.’
Arrrgghhh! Fuck off! I mean, what the hell is the one above supposed to be? Eatywipt3 or something. What the bloody hell is an eatywipt? They’re just making it up.
Then there’s this one:
What? For f….’s sake! So now you people who use Blogger and read me, know why it is I don’t often reciprocate and comment back. I’d love to but I can’t bloody do so without a degree in Mensa and a liking for doing the cryptic crossword. I mean, what do you think that second one is? Sort of, er … Drainpipe, wall of housey ntcyone. It makes no blooming sense.
There, rant over. Mind you, I suppose I could introduce it myself. How about this one to type in before making a comment?
Yes, childish, I know. But wouldn’t it be funny to get everybody to type that Iain Duncan Smith is one?
Cheers.
Nick
David is my teenage son and autistic. When first diagnosed at the age of three, the doctor told me he would never develop mentally. However, over the years he has evolved within his own world. Here, I hope to tell of some of the strange but sometimes wonderful things about him and hopefully give a little insight and understanding into living with autism.
It’s been quite a while since I did one of my autism posts. Probably too long. However, one of the reasons is that since last September, David has been at college in Wales.
He’s doing good. Learning all sorts of life skills such as looking after farm animals and gardens, plus crafts, computers and horticulture. In fact, it is the latter which he says is his favourite subject. He phones me two or three times a week, mainly to ask for stuff but whenever I enquire about his classes and which one he likes the most, he says horticulture.
At Christmas, he came home with a box full of pottery and a festive wreath he made in horticulture. I’ll save the ceramics for another post as they deserve one on their own. However, his wreath stayed on the front door all throughout Christmas and to be honest, I still have it. I can’t bear to throw it away. And why should I? The grasses may have dried but the holly, pine cones, etc. They’re all still okay. Maybe I’ll stick it on the garden fence.
There he is with it. This was taken when he came home just before Christmas. It had a note attached, one from his tutor. It said, David made this in horticulture. It is all his own work and he is very proud of it. And so he should be.
I will say, it has been a bit of a change for me after ten years of being carer to an autistic teenager on a daily basis. That doesn’t mean to say I get a quiet life now. David has Facebook and boy, does he like to talk. At least once a day, my phone will beep a message and I know it’ll be him. There will be one word. A different one each time but I know what I have to do. Word association. He says something and I have to complete the sentence. He also sends messages asking for requests. Rewards. These, though, are based on behaviour.
As I have mentioned in previous posts, David has temper meltdowns. While not acceptable when they happen, he cannot help most of them. To combat and try to avert these, I operate the reward scheme. If he has the carrot dangled of getting something nice, it can act as an incentive to control his moods. I suppose it is a form of bribery but the reward is also a signpost in his mind for when for red mist rises. That he will not get his promised reward if he slips up.
But back to his messages. As well as games and requests for rewards, I get bombarded with Birthday and Christmas lists. Thank heavens there are neither of those now until November. However, before Christmas, I was getting the same list about three times a day in messages. When I replied to his private message, he’d then cut and paste my comment to his wall, the same he did when his mum promised to take him out for the day. He’s not stupid. On his wall, the evidence is there for all to see. So no backtracking allowed on any promises.
Anyway, these Christmas lists sent to me coincided with a bad spell of temper issues and I had spoken to him and the college about it. He messaged me again with his Christmas list. I replied, stating he would get nothing if he was bad. Thirty seconds later, I got a phone call.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes,’ I answered.
‘Christmas presents.’
I explained again about his anger issues and that he can’t keep having these meltdowns. He was promised at one point, fireworks and lanterns at New Year, but as I’d said these were also based on behaviour, he’d blown them. Still, there was the Christmas list at stake and apparently, it worked. He had a good final week and we had a great Christmas, too. I found out long ago that even though he can be awkward at times, he does respond the odd carrot or two.
I’m speaking to him at the minute, actually. On Facebook. I just had to log in under his name and delete some pictures. You see he keeps posting ones of other students, which is against the rules. After sorting the pictures, I’ve then had a message conversation with him, explaining what I have done and if he keeps doing it, he won’t get his latest reward.
Ah. Got to go. I hear the telephone ringing. Now I wonder who that could be?
On one of the days out since going to Wales.
Cheers.
Nick
But finally, the white stuff has all but gone. What I want to know is, how come every road in the borough appeared to have seen a sprinkle of rock salt at some point or other … except mine, that is.
That was after five days and no sign of it being cleared. Hmm … Do you think it might have a little to do with my recent criticism towards the local council? You know, the sort of thing I wrote in this blog, plus about every other Walsall blog, and finally, in a letter to my local paper where I accused the council leader of having a God Complex and failing the people who elected him.
Come on, the letter wasn’t that scathing in the end. I mean, they edited out, sycophantic wankers and total greedy bastards, so I really don’t see the reason for not clearing the snow from my road.
I didn’t mind. The exercise in walking into town did me good. I must have burned numerous calories on my way to get my Full English Breakfast, the other day.
As for the snow, I built my first snowman for nearly 40 years, last Sunday. I thought he’d stop my nosy neighbours peering through the non-existent fence they can’t be bothered to replace.
Come into my garden (ha ha!) and I’ll give you nightmares for a week.
Silliest headline of the week was this one in the Daily Mirror.
Yes, agencies worried about flooding caused by melting snow advised us all to build snowmen.
Really? I’m kind of guessing there wasn’t much going on in the news that day.
Football was overshadowed this week by a new sport called, Let’s kick the ball-boy.
Yes, 0-2 down to Swansea and with ten minutes to go, Chelsea player, Eden Hazard tried to retrieve the ball to speed the game up. However, he didn’t reckon on coming into conflict with head-case ball-boy, Charlie Morgan.
Spoilt brat, Charlie, son of a Swansea City director, reacted first in trying to get to the ball. It was ironic. You see, it was the fastest any of the biased home-based ball boys had moved all night in their attempts to stall for time and basically – cheat.
Charlie was no exception. Instead of simply picking up the ball and giving it back to the nearest player, he dived on it and tried to stop Eden Hazard from getting to it. In frustration, the player aimed a kick at the ball, freed it and tried to resume play. However, our right little Charlie rolled around like … well, like most overseas footballers do when a boot brushing their shin produces a reaction akin to as if they’d been shot.
Hazard was sent off and Charlie, escorted from the pitch for treatment and an Oscar for the best over-acting on a football pitch since Rivaldo went down clutching his head during the 2002 World Cup, despite being hit on the thigh.
Would Chelsea, with eleven men still on the field, changed the result? Probably not. Were the Swansea ball-boys a load of cheating bastards? Most definitely. Still, seeing as it happened to buy yourself a team without working hard for it, Chelsea, nobody is that bothered they lost.
As for Charlie Morgan, he just looked what he is, a right knob-end.
The Pope caused confusion this week by tweeting in the old-fashioned and outdated, traditional Latin.
Yes, Pope during the day and Sith Lord by night, Darth Ratzinger’s tweet was read by millions … and understood by none.
Mind you, it’s about par for the course with any of the other outdated and unbelievable biblical bullshit he comes out with. I took a quick look at his Twitter page and was amused to find that despite having 1.5 million idiots, I mean – followers, Ratzinger follows but eight people, and they are all himself in different languages. Nothing supercilious about that, then. Perhaps he should add a ninth to include Latin for the three people who still speak the language.
It’s common knowledge that if you base anything factual on stuff you read on Wikipedia, you are risking inaccuracy. Even so, I wasn’t, until this week, aware there were deliberate hoaxes.
Fictitious holy people, the name of Julius Caesars assassin, even imaginary wars – they are all, or were, on there.
And look at this one, taken from a current page which you can view right now …
Yes, Katie Price and the fact it states she’s an author.
See what I mean … fabrications.
Bank of England Chief, Mervin King says bailed out banks such as Lloyd’s and RBS should be allowed to return to the private sector. Great, can the public have their money back? Yes, Mervin, we know you have the title, Sir, but some folk reckon that has to be earned, not just because you’re wealthy. And so you think these banks should be privatised again. Right, because it’s not like they made a complete balls-up last time they were so.
No, I’m not on about football again. I’m talking about the BBC and their latest gaffe over the Jimmy Savile paedophile scandal. Not content to allow the man to allegedly abuse hundreds of young girls over 40 years, they re-ran, without checking, a ten-year old kids programme which featured a spoof impersonation of Savile.
The Tweenies. The only thing marginally more creepy than Jimmy Savile.
The roads are clear again. The only bad thing is, because the snow on the pavements was so compacted, it is now rock-hard ice and dangerous underfoot. Therefore, we are all walking in the road and risking getting run over by the cars now they can drive again.
Now I’ll see a council wagon down my road, when one hits me.
Cheers.
Nick
In the UK, we really are rubbish at dealing with the weather.
Did you see that picture? Exactly. That’s what it takes. The full extent of a snowfall needed in this country to bring the place to a standstill.
First thing Friday morning, I was hearing that most of the schools were open. By lunchtime, parents were being called to come and get the kids because of the snow. And it was the same elsewhere. People sent home from work early, all ending up in huge traffic jams as they left at the same time. Wouldn’t it have been better to work till late and go home when it was quieter? Just a thought.
Now I’m not going to lie, I haven’t taken my car out. You see the main reason is the roads. Even though we’ve only had a few inches of white stuff, they are terrible because very few are safe to drive on. Our council workers do a good job with the budget allowed and I was told via Twitter by our fingers on the pulse council that they had cleared the important areas on Friday. Walsall Town Centre and schools had been gritted and also, they made sure all the cemeteries were clear.
Cemeteries … really? Were they one of the most important places to keep accessible? I mean, it’s not as if the residents are going anywhere, is it.
I guess the authorities try their best. I’m just glad I’m not one of those who it took several hours to get home the other day. Even so, as professional a job as they did, those in the UK can’t beat the folk in some countries like Canada. I’ve seen this pic bandied about a few times on Facebook and Twitter … so I stole it.
Think the UK can match that? No, neither can I.
Happy Snow Days, folks.
Well these wouldn’t, because I’m talking about long division. Apparently, education ministers want to return to the old-fashioned method of dividing numbers. What a waste of time. I used to use my own method at school and I have to admit, as good as I am at simple maths, I never understood long division, whatsoever. And why should I? I can divide, and I’ve never needed it. It’s the same as algebra. Come to think of it, it’s the same as just about everything in mathematics apart from add, subtract, multiply and divide. Any other kind of sums, I’ve never used in my life.
What’s wrong with teaching the kids the basics instead of complicating things? Better still, use a bloody calculator.
Yes, the Duchess of Cambridge is still pregnant. However, I did read the other day, a rumour that the baby will be named after whichever town the royal couple were in when it was conceived.
Let’s just hope they weren’t staying there.
I was reading this week about two young sisters who have spent £5,000 between them to make their bums look bigger. Karen and Jennifer Lopez, both had bum enlargements before they were 18. This was on top of other cosmetic surgery. You have to wonder about the mentality of parents. I’d personally call it child abuse.
I won’t post a picture of the Lopez sisters. Instead, here’s the real Jennifer Lopez.
I really don’t know why the sisters spent that much and flew to Colombia to have their ass-work done. In the UK, we have a much cheaper method of achieving bum enhancement. It’s called McDonald’s and Burger King.
Former Page 3 model, Katie Price is in the news again over her love life. She married for a third time recently and of course, this was the big headline in The Sun.
Note … I didn’t buy The Sun, I stole this from a Chinese Takeaway.
What I find interesting is the headline. Apparently, Katie was told to wed by a psychic. The psychic also said she’d marry someone called Kevin. However, her new husband’s name is actually, Kieran. Okay, it begins with a k, has an i, an e and an n in it (all in the wrong order), but apart from that, the psychic got it spot on.
Katie reckons it’s close enough for her. Rather like paying somebody to write all your books then passing them off as your own, is close to being called a writer.
I know he’s not advocating a total gun ban, but it’s a start, and he’s a brave man to stand up to the ridiculous mentality of the gun lobby and all the crap about a right to bear arms.
There is only one result of carrying a gun, and that’s the fact it will be used. Get rid of the lot. Make them so hard to come by and such a crime to carry one that it would result in an immediate life sentence if you did. Let’s face it. Less guns = less gun crime.
I know it’s a slightly shorter roast this week, but I’m calling a halt due to the snow. Bye.
Cheers.
Nick
What I thought I’d do this week is what many publications or television programs put out this time of year. We’re going to have a nostalgic look back at some of the pieces which I’ve roasted about during 2012. Or to put it another way – recycle a load of crap because I can’t be arsed to write a proper blog this week.
With that in mind …
Ha! There was no January. I only started this site February 1. However, as I’ve pointed out on a number of occasions, the Sunday Roast ran for three years on Myspace. The decline of that site was the reason I decided to set up my own, but I am always thankful for Myspace, even if it is now a total bag of shite.
Okay, this has to be one of my favourites, straight from the off.
Poor Roger Medwell. Imagine the scenario. You spend 55 years working for British Aerospace and on retiring as a director, they give you this …
Smile, Roger, smile. Stop gritting those teeth. You didn’t want a new surround sound system, anyway.
If you follow my blogs, you’ll know I have a love/hate relationship with my own Walsall Council. I love to bait them, and they hate me for it. So much so, I’m told my site has been blocked, meaning council workers cannot read it while at work.
Anyway, after one of our spats, I trawled through their Twitter feed and came across this picture of their attempts to promote the town.
What exactly are they trying to attract – prostitution? I think the idea was to display a layout for planned improvement. However, all it seemed to show was a damn good place to pick up hookers.
This was a Titanic month. In fact, it was a theme which went on for quite a while. You see, I’ve always had this beef with the film, Titanic. You know, the fact that Rose is safe in the lifeboat but jumps back on board thus endangering Jack. All that, “I jump, you jump,” nonsense. If she’d stayed on the bloody lifeboat, Jack would have had that piece of wood to himself when the ship went down. Not only that, it was bloody well big enough for the both of them.
Couldn’t she have given him a turn? And then there was his last words to her. “Don’t let go, Rose, don’t you ever let go.”
So what does she do? She bloody let go. Her may not have been dead, just in cold storage for a bit. What a cow.
It was about this time I had loads of people searching for pictures of the dentally challenged when I did a bit about guests with bad teeth on the Jeremy Kyle Show.
Sorry, no dentures today. That was drilled to death in the summer. Go and search the archives.
My favourite piece this month showed the fine line between humour and tragedy, and that newspapers need to have a bloody good copy editor before they send the thing to print.
A note to anybody in the newspaper industry. Always check for inappropriate advertising placement before you run a story above it.
This was it, the month when I took the kids on their annual holiday, only for it to piss down all week. As well as getting rained on, I was kept awake with my caravan being ten feet away from a main road. I also faced financial ruin after spending all my cash in amusement arcades because I couldn’t go anywhere due to the aforementioned rain.
But did it end there? No! Not only did the machines bankrupt me, they wouldn’t pay out on the few occasions I did win.
Yes, IOU £1. That’s the first time I’ve ever been given an IOU from a machine.
And to celebrate his 94th birthday, Nelson Mandela turns into a chameleon.
And I can’t believe after many months, some people were still using their search engines to find Jeremy Kyle Teeth and ending up with me.
No – still not going to show any pics but one thing I did comment on was the evolution of man. You see, scientists reckon in a few million years, the human race will have evolved into a higher and lower species.
Millions of years? It’s already happened. Look!
Ascent of man? I bloody hope not.
Bit of a quiet month over here, but not in Haren – Holland after some silly girl posted on Facebook that she was having a party. 4000 people gatecrashed the event causing riots and thousands of pounds worth of damage.
4000 people! Imagine. That’s 4000 people without a social life.
I spent much of this month traumatised after a good friend of mine, Rich, pointed out that the picture of the smiling Aquafresh family from the 80s, seemed to suggest the mother and father were siblings and their child could be the result of an incestuous relationship.
I’m still receiving counselling.
November – I saw this strange sight.
A single seat for shoppers to sit on. All the others in Wolverhampton Centre appeared to be of a two or three seat variety. However, this one was on its own. A seat for Nobby No Mates.
Only in Wolverhampton.
Two words to sum up December.
Not sure how long I’m going to go on roasting. Could be time for a break. Like a jar of pickled onions, there’s only so much you can take before things start to repeat. I mean, how much more can I wring out of the Titanic nonsense, or talk about Gothic Girl while going on about people with bad teeth on Jeremy Kyle.
Yes, I certainly think I should leave the latter, alone.
Cheers.
Nick
Buy Finding Jessica Here
Buy Ghost Stories: Tales From the Dead of Night Here
Buy Dead Girl Stalking from Here
Antony N Britt - Author 