Gender spotting

See if you can correctly identify the genders from the scenarios below:

Scenario 1
Shop assistant: 'That will be £1.97 please'
Shopper: 'Here's £5, let me see if I can give you the 97p in change'

Tip contents of purse/handbag onto counter.

Shopper: '1, 2, 7, 9p. 11, 16p.....'

Some time later.

Shopper: '58, 60. Nearly there. 61p...'

More time elapses.

Shopper: '89, 91, 93p. Oh, I'm 4 pence short. Never mind'

Scenario 2
Shop assistant: 'That will be £1.97 please'
Shopper: 'Here's a fiver'

Go home and dump the change from fiver into a jar next to bed.

It was bound to happen

There has been a spate of price comparison sites emerging recently, you know, like moneysupermarket.com, uswitch.com and confused.com. Now I see there are price comparison comparison sites, like http://paler.com/price_comparison.html.

Mr Internet, please make it stop.

Tiger Tim

No more shall 'Come on Timmy' be yelled from the back row of the stand on centre court. The great man has retired. Britain's (until recently) number 1 has had a long and illustrious career, and I would like to personally thank him for all the pleasure he has given to hundreds of first year students and WI members across the country. I thought this an appropriate time to list his achievements:
-

All done. Thank you Tim, how I will miss your little rabbit punch.

An exercise in futility

I noticed on my way home last night that the council have put up 4 speed cameras on the A4 by the Natural History Museum. This could be one of the busiest stretches of road in the Milky Way. If any vehicle can get out of first gear along here, let alone break the speed limit, I will be amazed. I suspect they won't have to change the flash on these cameras very often.

20/20 hindsight

In hindsight, drinking a can of Coke and two expressos before 9:30am is not the best way to start the day.

Will the earth open up and swallow me

I was coming up the stairs in the office a few minutes ago, and a colleague of mine came out of the toilet.
'Hello' she said.
'Hey you' I responded.
There was an uncomfortable silence and it seemed that she wanted to stop for a chat. Before I could think of anything else, I said
'Been for a piss?'

Snappy dresser

I've just seen someone walking around the office wearing sandles with socks. The only defence I can offer is that he is Hungarian.

Guy who lives down the road swears he's Elvis

I've always managed to live in very dull towns. Not that it's anything to get upset about, I just seem to end up in towns where nothing much ever happens. I guess one thing that I think makes a town interesting is whether or not any famous people live or have lived there. For a short while I lived in a village in West Sussex called Steyning. It was kind of a sleepy place and not much ever used to happen there, except Roger Moore (Bond, James Bond amongst other things) would often be spotted in the Chequers Inn having a pint. And Barry from Eastenders lived nearby. Now that's pretty cool.

I was born and bred in Coventry and must say it really is not the centre of the universe. Now you would think that a city with over 300 000 people would be a hot bed for the rich and famous. Uh uh. Amongst the famous Coventrians are actors Nigel Hawthorn and Clive Owen, sportsmen Ian Bell, Danny Grewcock and Neil Back, musicians Terry Hall (he hates Coventry) and Jerry Dammers from The Specials, and Clint Mansell from PWEI, music Producer Pete Waterman (my Dad did his apprenticeship with him). That's about it really. A town with such history and such a large population should really have a bit more to offer you would think. I did, however, used to live down the road from the drummer from Dexy's Midnight Runners. I think he worked at the Peugeot factory.

I had the displeasure of living in Bracknell for 4 years. I just did a search on the web for famous people from there, and drew a blank. Not to be defeated, I tried and treid again, but the most famous person I could find associated to Bracknell was Norah Wilmot who trained horses for the Queen Mother. Nuff said.

I lived in Bath for 3 years. Lovely town (if you ignore the piles of dirty syringes lying about), but again, it's a black hole as far as fame goes. Tears for Fears are from Bath, as is Anne Widdecombe. I heard a rumour that Alicia Silverstone was as well, but that was a lie. Bath is famous for it's Spa, and apparently the Pickwick Papers was written in a room above the Saracen's Head. To me the most famous person in Bath is a guy that paints himself blue and stands outside the Pump Rooms. He calls himself a living statue. He just stands motionless and people give him money. When they do, he moves his arm really slowly. There are various imposters, one guy paints himself gold, there is a white painted women with a parasol, but the blue guy is the original and the best at standing. I was walking through the back streets one lunch time and saw him sharing a fag with the other statues.

Now I'm in Camberley and this has to be the dullest town of the lot. A list of notable Camberlians includes Rufus Brevett, Rick Wakeman and Tim Sills, who plays for the mighty Torquay United. The Spice Girls lived in Camberley for a while (pre fame). Jonny Wilkinson was born in nearby Frimley (in the same hospital as my son was born), but that's not strictly Camberley. And that's y'lot. However there are a couple of local people that I think deserve an honourable mention.

On most Saturdays, outside BHS, you can witness the delights of the Dancing Man, who has to be the worst busker ever. I'll be kind to him and list his good points first. He can play the guitar and harmonica at the same time. The trouble is he can't sing, he is lousy at it. He has a voice that only deaf people can enjoy. He also doesn't do cover versions, which I think is a prerequisite for successful busking. He sings his own songs, and they really are bad. He also has a radio mike and plug for his amplifier, which gives him the freedom to hop from foot to foot and wander about amongst unsuspecting and soon to be embarrassed shoppers, and ask them 'do you like dancing?' during guitar solos. I'm sure he has a website, but I can't find it now. Next time I am in town I'll make a note of it and you can make your own minds up about his limitless talents.

There is a guy who lives down the road from me that drives a blue Honda CRV, with a big sticker on the back 'PETEISELVIS.CO.UK'. I never thought much to it until one night I was coming back from the pub and I saw him unloading a load of musical equipment from the back of it. Now this in itself is not that odd, except he was dressed in a white satin sequined jumpsuit, and had sideburns the size of a cricket strip. The intrigue was too much so I visited the website. Blimey. If Jimmy Tarbuck says he's 'The Best Elvis in the Business', then who am I to argue. I salute you Peteiselvis, you are my local hero.

Ahhhh

I was on my way home t'other night and got stuck in a bit of traffic. It was a lovely evening, I had my visor up (old helmet) and jacket unzipped to below my chest. The A316 between Richmond and Twickenham is quite busy at that time of the night, but generally moves quite quickly. I was filtering through the middle of some cars, and came across a Volvo estate to my right. It was fairly new, had a woman driver, two schoolgirls on the backseat and one of those dog cage things in the back. As I passed it, the two girls, who were about 7 or 8 years old, probably sisters, very sweet looking, saw me and started hanging out the window waving and shouting at me. The mum looked over her shoulder and laughed, I smiled to myself and waved to the girls. I got stuck behind a truck and a few minutes later, the Volvo with my new friends came alongside me again. I was about to wave and say hello when I realised that the girls were shouting 'Crash crash crash'. Little bitches.

The Greek shall inherit the earth

I was thinking about little people the other day. Forget your Corporation Chiefs, Prime Ministers, Presidents, Generals and so on, it's the little people that have the power and run the world.

We have this security guard at work who can make your life hell, and often does. At 9:30 every Friday he tests the fire alarm. It has to be the loudest sound I have ever heard, it scares the pigeons off the statues in Trafalgar Square 2 miles away. I'm sure he stands by the fire alarm with the key in his hand, waiting waiting waiting. And waits a bit longer, just to annoy people. Often there is a sign on the lift 'Out of service between 9am-11:30am' for no apparent reason (likewise on toilet doors). If you forget your door pass, there really is no point ringing the bell, he'll just ignore you. You have to wait outside until someone from the office turns up, and as you walk past him, he'll say 'Forget your pass?' You can't argue with him, because he will make sure you suffer in other ways. He has the power.

Take, for example, ticket collectors (sorry, Revenue Inspectors™) on trains. If you had to run for the train, next one only coming in 30 minutes, and didn't buy a ticket, you are in trouble. They have the power to charge you the full fare, as well as a penalty fare of £10 and upwards. If you beg, you might get let off, but more often than not they will make you feel like a criminal and embarrass you in front of the whole carriage.

I often see bus drivers closing the bus doors at stops even though they can see someone 3 steps away from boarding. Then they shake their heads slowly while they pull off as the would be passenger desperately tries to plead with them to open the doors.

At school we had a groundsman/caretaker type chap, a bit like Hagrid, only fatter and uglier. His name was Mr Forschenk, but he was affectionately known by the students as Mr Foreskin. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer and used to get the piss taken out of him by the more daring pupils. I'm not sure of his full job description, but he used to mow lawns, weed plant beds, paint window cills, put out the rubbish, that kind of thing. Anyway, one of his tasks was to unlock the school gates after school. The bell would go at 2:15pm, pupils would pile out of classrooms and head to the bike sheds, trousers already clipped, walk their bikes to the fence (it was against the law to ride on school grounds - that's something we only used to do on the last day of term), and stand there waiting for Foreskin to show up with the key to unlock the gate. Sometimes he'd make you wait 15 minutes before he showed up. Kids would be shouting at him, but he would slowly stroll over, ignoring everyone and no doubt making a mental note of all the insults and adding on a minute delay for every one he heard. Now that man had power.

Quick, quick

Quick, quick, look over there! There, by those trees. Look, quick. Oh it's gone now. You've just missed summer.

Blister/golf update

I am very happy to announce that your humble scribe and his estranged blister have now parted company, with the relationship ending amicably. The blister has agreed that Snowy can keep the golf clubs as part of the severance agreement.

I went out to the driving range at sparrow's fart yesterday a.m. to hit a some balls. I thought I would start with a few short irons to get myself in the mood, so whipped out my trusty 8 iron. I tapped the ball off the tee onto the Astroturf, addressed the ball, did the bendy knee bit and started my swing. About 1/2 second later as the backswing turned into a swing, a pain shot through my right knee and ankle. A brief moment later as the swing turned into a shot, a pain shot through my right hand and wrist. A short time later, as the shot turned into the follow through, a pain shot through my back and left ring finger. There were 55 balls in the bucket, and I can confirm that the same thing happened for each an every one of them. I have reached a number of conclusions:
- I am grossly unfit,
- if I want to turn up to my 40th birthday without the aid of a walking stick/wheelchair, my swing needs urgent attention,
- I am crap at golf,
- golf is painful,
- I hate golf.

At least I didn't get another blister.

Ooo nurse, me helmet

I'm having helmet problems, and it's causing me a great deal of distress. Last weekend I popped into Hein Gericke to pick up a new Foggy mask. The old one had collpased in on itself, and the nose clip had come off. I can't ride without my trusted Foggy. Not only does it keep the visor and my sunglasses mist free, it also serves as a comfort factor. If I don't have my nose squashed, it just don't feel right. There were a few people at the counter so I browsed around the helmets a bit waiting for a gap. I noticed that the stripey helmet I have had my eyes on for some time was still on the shelf, and had been reduced (again) from £119.99 to £89.99. As I've done many times before, I picked it up, had a good look, and put it back on the shelf.

As I did, this rather attractive young shop assistant approached and started to chat to me about the helmet. 'Why don't you try it on?' she suggested. I rejected her kind offer, mumbling something about not having enough money, the wife will kill me etc. Note to self: try not to mention the wife so early in the conversation next time. She said 'Oh come on, it won't harm to try it on, and I bet it will really suit you'. Now normally I hate hard sell by shop staff, but I gave her another quick once over and decided that in this case, I would make an exception. She saw the chink in my armour and started getting quite flirty. Of course she fancied me, I mean, what gorgeous teen babe could resist an overweight, balding (late) thirty-something loser like me? That or she sniffed a sale and the impending departure of 8999 new pence from my wallet. So I left the shop with the helmet (and Foggy) and felt a little better with life.

I've had my old helmet since I've been riding, that's about 3 years now. It's well knackered, the visor is warped letting in wind and insects, the padding inside has degraded and my head rattles about like a marble in an oil drum and it stinks, so I really did need a new one.

I love the new one, I think it's a great design. I read up about it on that internet thing. It's actually a Rossi design. He designed it as a mark of respect for Barry Sheene who died of cancer in 2003, and wore it in the Barcelona GP of that year. The number 7 is Sheene's old number, and the stripes are the Peace flag that Italians are fond of. So it's got a bit of history and made me like it even more (being a Rossi and Sheene fan). That's where the fondness ended.

Now I don't know if anyone out there is a biker, but if you are, you will know that a helmet moulds itself around your head after a period of time. I feel like I have lost an old friend, the helmet which I have just disgarded fitted my oddly shaped head perfectly. This new one doesn't.
- it feels to small and tight,
- the foggy mask doesn't fit properly and the front velcro bit keeps coming off the front of the helmet. When I breathe in it gets stuck to my face and I have to exhale quickly or else I will get suffocated,
- the side walls are too high so when I check to my right or left, instead of seeing vehicular activity alongside me, I see the insides of the helmet,
- it leaves big dent marks on my cheeks, and I have two stripes down my hair when I take it off,
- the mouth piece is too high, so I have to tilt my head downwards if I want to see the dials on my bike,
- my old helmet had two 'd' rings that I fed the strap through to secure it on my head. This one has some clasp thing, that is impossible to release quickly. The first time I wore it, I was halfway between my parking spot and the office before I got the helmet off. I had visions of sitting at my desk with it on,
- My sunglasses don't fit in it properly. Think of a stuffy bookshop proprieter. You know the way his glasses hang off the tip of his nose? Well it's the same for me, except they sit on the bridge of my nose and hang up.

To cap it all, I've just found out that the Peace flag has been adopted by Gay Pride. My helmet is a gay homosexual.

The next time some fit babe tries to sell me something, I must repeat in my head 'remember the gay helmet, remember the gay helmet'.

QED

The phone rang at about 10:45 last night awakening me from about a half hour into my troubled Sunday night slumber. The missus is suffering from a cold at the moment so I did the decent thing and answered it.
'Hello mother-in-law' I said.
'Hello, how did you know it was me? Do you have call recognition on your home phone now?'
'No, you are the only idiot I know that rings in the middle of the night'.

Skin diet

A very random thought: I wonder how much skin a person eats every day? I've always got a bit of rough skin in my mouth that needs some tongue action. I reckon I get through a good kilogram a month.

A polite request

Would the girl in finance who sits across from me please stop whining. You are giving my balls a headache.

Thanks in advance.

Tango. Black. Currant.

Yahoo for YouTube. Come on Sebastian!

When I'm-a walkin I strut my stuff

The wife has been nagging me to do some exercise for as long as I care to remember. Now, exercise is really against my religion, and being a holy man, I stick to the scripture, er, religiously. This is probably why I look like Jabba the Hutt's stunt double. A few beers into a good session a couple of weeks ago, I got roped into a conversation about golf. Now I used to play golf nearly every weekend, so I can talk a good game. I can't play a good game however. No matter, I held my end up very well, and was humoured further when they found out I was a leftie. The Carp has a golf society that gathers every 5 or 6 weeks for a game and a bit of a day out. Too much lager had been consumed to politely decline their invitation.

There are a few snags with this:
1- I don't have a set of clubs (I think the last set I owned are still at the bottom of the imaginary lake that I imagined throwing them into after a particularly poor round some years ago);
2- When I did play golf nearly every weekend, I was what is technically described as shit. After the imaginary club drowning, I vowed never to play the evil sport again;
3- How the hell was I going to convince she-who-must-be-obeyed that exercise involves me blowing 200 notes on a set of clubs, going missing for 7 or 8 hours and returning home with sun stroke, a bad back and (more than likely) inebriated?

I tackled the hardest first and approached the subject with the missus. To my astonishment, she was enthusiastic and thought it was a wonderful idea, and suggested I go to the local pro shop to look for some clubs. This did freak me out a bit, but I soon recovered and took advantage of the situation before her mood changed. Of course now I own a brand new set of clubs, I have to try and get out for a game. As benevolent as she was in allowing me to buy a new toy, I think part two of number 3 (above) might be slightly more difficult. I'm predicting that she will allow me on the golf course when the following three criteria are met:
1- she is in a good mood;
2- Halley's Comet is visible in the midday sky;
3- There is a 'Z' in the month.

First things first, clubs in the boot, I headed off to the driving range early on Sunday morning to slap the covers off some dimpled feckers. It all started out ok. I warmed up by hitting a few short irons, and to my amazement, most of them went straight. The longer irons were next, and they to went as straight as the Wembley halfway line. Full of confidence, I pulled the driver out of the bag. It was at this point that Tiger Woods breathed a sigh of relief. The only things worried were the people in the booths next to me, and small woodland mammals that can't jump very high.

No matter, I was enjoying myself and bought a second bucket of balls. It was about 10 balls in that I started to feel a bit tired. My arms, back and wrists were hurting, and I started to sweat like a nonce at a Little Miss Sunshine pageant. I managed to get through the bucket and staggered back to the car feeling slightly light headed.

A couple of days later, my body aches all over. But worse still, I have a blister the size of a small island on my left thumb. Today it has settled down a bit, but blisters are right buggers. Just when you think you have got away with it, and the skin returns to your digit, you'll do something that will lift the skin up again. It's a bit like a married couple in trouble, no matter how much they try and make things better and pussy foot around, it only takes one incident to seperate completely and cause much pain. The pain in my thumb is in the post, guaranteed. My thumb skin will become estranged from my thumb the next time I catch it on something. Of course I will head back to the driving range before it heals.

I have been forced onto the physio's bench before my golfing career has even started. I feel a bit like David Beckham.

Quick update: the skin is still attached. It feels secure. The wife won't let me keep the clubs inside the house. It's outside or in the shed. She is a dear.

'Invaluable' art stolen

Some paintings have been stolen.

Officials at the Musee des Beaux-Arts said the works were "invaluable".

Police in Nice said the combined value of the four paintings was about 1m euros (£670,000).

- Does that mean that something invaluable is worth €1,000,000?
- How do you insure, or claim for something invaluable?
- 'Police in Nice' has a nice ring to it doesn't it?

Pointless conversations

I was in the battle cruiser on Saturday as usual, and got chatting to one of the locals about television programs. We spoke at length about Deadwood, Lost, Rome, Carnivale and Oz.

Things were going swimmingly, then I said 'Do you like Extras?' 'Oh yeah,' he replied 'that's one of my favourites.'

The following is a transcript of your conversation:

SkyBlueSnowy: 'I watched the one with Les Dennis in the week. How Gervais gets these stars to do what they do is incredible'
Local: 'Oh, I haven't seen that one'
SBS: 'Les Dennis, the guy from Family Fortunes? He does a panto in the episode, and is made to look a right depressed case'
L: 'No, not seen that one'
SBS: 'The Kate Winslet one was good as well. Seen that?'
L: 'Kate Winslet, the one that was in Titanic?'
SBS: 'Yes'
L: 'No'
SBS: 'Ah. How about the Ben Stiller one?'
L: 'Hmm, don't think I saw that either'
SBS: 'You must have seen the Ross Kemp and Vinnie Jones one? That was funny'
L: 'Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels?'
SBS: 'No, Extras, with Ross Kemp and Vinnie Jones'
L: 'No, I saw Lock Stock... though'

It dawned on me that he probably never saw the first series, and only the second. So I tried again:

SBS: 'The one with Daniel Radcliffe was funny'
L: 'Who?'
SBS: 'Harry Potter'
L: No, didn't see that one'
SBS: 'How about the one with David Bowie, when he sings that 'Chubby little loser, blows his stupid brains out' song in the bar?'
L: 'Nope'

I gave up. It reminded me of

eBay roulette

Try this out. Got to eBay™ and find something you really don't want that has a relatively low current price. Bid on it until you are the highest bidder. As the clock ticks down, more often than not someone will outbid you. See how many times you can be the highest bidder before your nerve goes.

Teachers

I don't have that many fond memories of school. I have fond memories of break time, and doing stuff after, but not many during school hours. One of my main problems was the teachers. Sure, we had some nice ones, but generally they were horrible, mostly strict and many downright cruel. I read this on the BBC website today and it's typical of the type of cruelty I remember.