Archive for August, 2009

Neighbourhood watch

August 6th, 2009

Dear Neighbour,

I am very happy for you that you have a burglar alarm.

Like any shiny toy, you want to play with it.  Like all those people with tiny penises who have great big Range Rovers and Hummers, I can understand that you want to let everyone know that you are quite capable of compensating for your inadequacies.

Or maybe you want to let us all know that you have gone on holidays and that your house is unoccupied for the foreseeable future?

Either way, there are some of us who aren’t particularly impressed.

Especially when you play with your fucking alarm for three fucking days.

I have had a belly full of your pathetic warblings.

I have already put the word out in the local Skobie Town that your house is quite obviously unoccupied.

I have told them that they needn’t worry about the alarm as no one is taking the blindest bit of notice anyway, apart from throwing the odd rotten egg at your windows.

Incidentally, you needn’t worry about the mess those eggs are making.

I doubt there will be much left of your windows when your house burns to the ground tonight.

Yours affectionately,

Grandad

When luck holds out

August 5th, 2009

I went into town yesterday.

I hate going into town because of the lack of parking and the stench of Skobies, and I was dreading going in as I had a lot to do and this entailed trying to park in different parts of town.

Something very strange happened.

At my first port of call, there was a parking space directly outside.  I put this down to an anomaly in the Space Time Continuum and went about my business.

Having finished there, I reluctantly left my neat parking space, and drove to the other end of town for my next port of call.  I really began to question the reality of the situation when I found a grand space there, exactly where I wanted it.

I had a few places to visit, so set off.  The first port of call was an office supplies shop to get some ink for my printer.  For the last couple of weeks, I have been forced to print all my documents in red or blue or some strange combination, as my black ink cartridge was empty.  For some reason, people give you strange looks if you present them with an official document that is printed in pink.  I have this strange knack of buying printers that are the only ones whose cartridges are impossible to buy.  The usual response is that they have every known cartridge known to man in stock except for the one I’m looking for.  When I told the bloke in the shop what model printer I had, there was the usual sharp intake of breath that I know so well.

“I’m sorry, but you’re out of luck on that one.  We don’t have colour cartridges for that model, and only one black ink cartridge left.”

Once again, my luck was holding out so I bought it.

The next thing I had to do was get some things for the car for driving in France.  I wandered into the motor factors and got my beam benders and a couple of other things.  While I was there, I decided to try my luck which seemed to be holding out remarkably well.  For a couple of weeks now, I have been looking for a fine, single core insulated wire, to complete my electric fence to stop Sandy wandering.  I need about fifty meters of it.  I had called into a couple of places in the past and they always tried to flog me three core mains cable or telephone extension cable or even television co-axial cable.  Do they think I’m daft?

“I know this is a long shot” I said to the doddery bloke behind the counter, “but do you sell wire?  I need fine single core insulated wire and a lot of it.”

“I don’t think we have anything like that, but I’ll have a look.”

He wandered over to a stand and started muttering to himself.  Eventually he announced that they didn’t, but while he had been doing his mutterings, I had been poking around in a bin and what did I find?  I found a reel of fine, single core insulated wire that is apparently used for earthing car speakers or something.  It was on a reel, and stamped on the side of the reel were those three glorious letters – 50m!

I had a coffee and a smoke then to celebrate my successes, and mused upon my day.  I contemplated buying a lottery ticket, but decided that I didn’t need that much money.  Then to my amazement I realised that I had only seen one Skobie the entire trip.  She had come into the motor factors to borrow a funnel as her car had run out of petrol and she needed to fill it from a jerry can.

She just stank of petrol.

What a load of rubbish

August 4th, 2009

When I was a lad, we didn’t have much rubbish.

All our waste went one of several routes.

Leftover food went into the dog.  Anything combustible went on the bonfire. Anything rottable [I can’t bear that word biodegradable – it reminds me of that fucking nancy Duncan Stewart] went on the compost heap.  Milk bottles were left out for the milkman to take back.  After that, there wasn’t much left. There would be the odd tin can or jam jar.  A lot of those would be washed and used for cleaning paintbrushes or storing nails.  The paltry pile that remained would go in the bin.

The bin men used to arrive in a small lorry with a sort of semi-cylindrical back.  Doors used to slide up on the side and they would merrily chuck the bin contents in.  There was none of your compressor stuff or hydraulics or anything like that.  They didn’t need to compact the rubbish because there wasn’t that much.


The real ones were a bit bigger [and dirtier].

Another regular visitor to the road was the Pig Lady [Mary Harney’s mother?].  She was a large woman dressed in dirty grey and dirty blue who would be slumped up on her horse drawn cart and would slowly amble up the road.  The horse had a bell around his neck so we could all hear her coming.  Anyone who didn’t have a dog would bring out their buckets of leftover food and would chuck it in the cart for the pigs.

Nowadays, it’s all different.

For a start, we are weighed down with packaging that we don’t need.  Tons of cellophane, boxes, cardboard, plastic, plastic and yet more plastic.  You can’t buy a simple screw without getting a moxy load of plastic and cardboard to go with it.  Nothing is returnable any more.  Those of you who are foolish enough to abide by the non-bonfire law must be in real trouble. We now throw out about ten times more than we used to in the Old Days.

We have three bins.  A black one and two green ones.  One of the green ones is for paper and cardboard and the like, and the other is for glass. But when you think about it, you don’t buy much glass these days?  Maybe the odd jam jar or bottle of olive oil but everything else comes in fucking plastic.  Except of course for booze.  Wine and spirits still come in glass bottles so that must be what the extra green bin is for.

I have never put out my glass bin.  When I am finished drinking my spirits or my stout, I just hand the glass back to the barman to be refilled.

They call around every few weeks to collect the glass bins.  You can tell it’s glass bin day by the racket which can be heard from about a mile away.

And I will tell you one thing.

There are a hell of a lot of serious alcoholics in my area.

Heh!

I swear it’s good

August 3rd, 2009

As regular readers of this wee column will know, I have been doing a lot of work over the last few days shifting this site around.

This operation has not escaped the attention of Herself.

“Will you please stop cursing,” says she.

“I will in my hole.  Now please fuck off and leave me to my misery,” is my cheerful response.

“You’re swearing an awful lot these days,” says she.

“Am I?  I don’t think I am,” I reply innocently.  “Bollocks!” I roar as another huge file vanishes just as it was nearly downloaded.

“There you go again,” she mutters.

“AW FUCK!” I reply as a newly transferred site shows up as a blank screen instead of what I was expecting.

“Will you please stop.  You’re frightening the guinea pig, and I have just had a complaint from the neighbours.”

“Fuck the guinea pig and the neighbours.  I have my own fucking problems.”

“It’s not doing any good.”

“Oh yes it is” I reply with a smile.  “Take a look at this.”

I sit back and relax for a minute as she reads.  Another site has been transferred successfully.

“Fucking great,” I smile to myself.

Well, here I am

August 3rd, 2009

Well it looks like the dust is beginning to settle.

I started at eight, yesterday morning.

“No bother,” says I.  “I have all day to copy a couple of sites.  How hard can that be?”

I had not allowed for the extremely weird control panel I had been presented with, for a start.  Whoever designed that did so with a logic that defies gravity.  Nothing is where you would expect it to be.  There is a myriad of menus that all lead around in circles and they all look the same but aren’t.  Have you ever been in Hampton Court Maze?  That’s what it was like.

After an hour or two, I managed to set up a blank area to take this site.  Great!  Now my problem was how to copy the old site across.  You see, you can’t just copy the old site onto a PC and then copy them up to the new one – it just doesn’t work.  The new site will just start looking for bits on the old server or something and will start crying. I hate that.

I had to create a new site from scratch and then just copy the relevant bits across.  But what are the relevant bits?

Then there is the database.  Fuck me, but it’s big.  And when the new site has a file limit of 5 Megathingies, it is too big.  So I had to chop the database into little chunks and copy them all across in little bits, and I had to be very careful to keep them in the right order.  Otherwise you would find your comments coming out your ears.

I managed it in the end.

Even then I had complaints from a few people that they could only see things up to last June, but I could see everything so it that a case of tough shit!

I think it’s all working now.  I don’t think I lost anything and I think everything is in the right order.

It actually seems a bit faster now, but that will doubtless change.

I still have a couple of minor details to fix.

And of course I still have a load of other sites to copy.

Bollox. 

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