Archive for September, 2011

All that jazz

September 30th, 2011

I have just been rudely awoken from my slumbers.

I was sitting here with my eyes closed, enjoying the scent of freshly cut grass from the garden and just thinking about nothing.  I then made the mistake of switching on Lyric FM.

I like Lyric FM.  It is a classical station that isn’t as snobbishly highbrow as Radio 3 and tends to play what I would call middlebrow classical.

As I said, I switched it on and kept the volume low to accompany my idle thoughts, but was very rudely awoken.

Some fucker seems to have taken over the station and is playing Jazz!  Instead of some gentle Mozart, Brahms or Beethoven, what I get is fucking Art Tatum.

There is a style of jazz that I cannot tolerate.  It makes my ears bleed.  It’s the type of jazz where four or five blokes come on and they each play a different, totally airless tune all at the same time.  It seems to be obligatory that there is a piano, a saxophone and a trumpet, and the only talent required is that they be able to play as many notes as possible without any regard for what the others are playing.

I have a theory that everyone in fact hates jazz.  They are just afraid to admit it.  It’s a case of the king’s new clothes where no one dare be the first to admit that jazz is tuneless shite.

I kept the volume on very low in the hopes that the presenter would see the light and play something decent, but no – all we got was Art Tatum after Art Tatum.

I have given up on the radio.

I would like to go back to my doze.

But my ears are still hurting.

Doing nothing

September 30th, 2011

Today is one of those days when I feel like doing absolutely nothing.

In fact, I think I will do just that.

Oh, the joys of being retired.

Nanny in the sky

September 29th, 2011

Our ever caring friends in the EU are at it again.

They are dreaming up a whole new series of Nanny Laws to protect us from ourselves.

Their latest brainchild is the in-car breathalyser.  They want the device fitted as standard in all cars.  And how much is that going to cost us?

The idea is that before we can start the car, we have to blow into this fucking thing to prove to our car that we are capable of driving it.  What about people who never drink?  Are they to suffer this indignity every time they want to drive?  Are they to pay for this extra bit of useless fucking technology?  And what about the poor bloke who has a cough and takes a dose of medicine before leaving for work?  Is the car going to be intelligent enough to allow him to drive?  There are a thousand and one reasons why this is a crap idea.  Probably the worst reason is that every time I get in the car, I am going to be reminded of how the Nanny State is protecting me from myself.

Then there is their new brainchild – tracking me by satellite.  If my SatNav says I have left the road, they are going to assume I have had an accident.  Oh boy, but that will be fun.

For a start, my lane isn’t marked on any map, least of all the ones in SatNavs.  So every single time I arrive home, Nanny is going to reckon I have had a heart attack and have driven into a field?  Is my arrival at home to be accompanied by screaming sirens, blue lights, helicopters, ambulances and squad cars?  That should be fun.

Just how exactly is the system supposed to know there has been an accident?  Most cars remain on the road after a prang [I should know - I've had a few] and for the system to register a strange deviation, at least one car would have to end up in the middle of a field.  How does it know that that field may contain my house and I have merely driven up my driveway?

Maybe it’s just a panic button sort of thing that I press when I have had a prang?  Not too bad an idea but how often is it going to go wrong?  Am I to be forcibly hospitalised just because I went to turn on the radio but hit the wrong button?

They also want to monitor my progress on the roads for “inappropriate speed” or signs of sleepiness?  Sweet fuck!  Is it going to listen out for sounds of snoring?

I really don’t know what to say.  The EU obviously thinks we are all a bunch of fucking idiots, incapable of making any sort of decision.  They are now turning our cars into their own little Nanny devices to monitor us.  What’s next?  In-car CCTV, so they can check we have our eyes on the road?  In-car microphones to make sure we don’t make racist comments about other drivers?

When is this madness ever going to end?

[P.S.  Tip of the hat to Holemaster for the "inspiration".]

The Magnificent Seven

September 28th, 2011

Some of you who are fortunate enough not to reside on this blighted Island may not be aware that we have a presidential election coming up.

Quite why we have a president, I’m not sure.  The only time we ever see him or her is when some Bigwig comes calling or when there is a tragedy overseas and we need someone to mouth the appropriate words of sympathy.  In other words, a fucking great waste of money.

There are seven candidates apparently, so I had better tell you who they are so that you too can sit riveted to the television as the results of the election are called.  These are they, in alphabetical order.

Mary Davis.  I haven’t a fucking clue who she is.  Something to do with a charity?  Never heard of her before this latest bandwaggon started rolling.

Sean Gallagher.  An utter fuckwit.  His only claim to fame is that he was on the panel of the Irish version of “Dragon’s Den”.  He seems to think this gives him some kind of status in this country.  Sadly, it probably does.

Michael D Higgins.  He has been representing Galway in the Dail since God was a child.  An intellectual but with a very irritating voice.  He always talks as if his bollox was trapped in a vice.  I don’t know the significance of the “D”.  I can only suppose that his parents loved the name Michael so much that they named their sons “Michael A”, “Michael B” and so on, and that our candidate was fourth out of the traps.

Martin McGuinness.  Not to be confused with the Martin McGuinness who was the leader of the IRA.  The fact that they are the same bloke is apparently irrelevant.  No one can understand a word he says anyway unless they are from Derry.

Gay Mitchell.  The first of the Gays on the list.  Comes from a dynasty of professional politicians.  One assumes he is in the race because the Presidency is about the one area the Mitchells haven’t cracked yet.

David Norris.  The second Gay on the list which should have a few Good Irish Catholics in a tailspin.  Can be very entertaining but insists on talking about James Joyce all the time.  Once started, it’s difficult to shut him up.

Dana [aka Rosemary Scallon].  Has made a career out of the fact that she once sang a song in the Eurovision Song Contest back in 1970.  Is also a professional religious nutcase.

So they are the seven runners.  A lovely selection you must admit.

Who will I be voting for?

Dustin the Turkey, of course.

Being outed by Google

September 27th, 2011

A while ago I signed up with Google Plus or Google+ or whatever the fuck you call it.

Why?

God knows.  I suppose it was like Everest – it was there.

Those of you who have been following my musings on the Interweb may remember that I joined Facebook ages ago.  I have never used it, or certainly have never used it in the way I was supposed to use it.  I just left it there so that it could send me annoying mails about who wanted to befriend me.

Anyhows, back to Google Plus.

That turned out to be just as annoying.  As well as getting endless mails from Facebook, I’m now getting endless mails from Google as well.  A couple of days ago, I realised I hadn’t actually visited Google Addition in ages so I decided to have a look.

The cunts have suspended me,

They have decided that I am not who I say I am but that I am somebody else.  How the fuck they come to that conclusion, I don’t know, but there you go.  I’m suspended.  Now, I’m not quite sure why they are telling me.  Surely they should be writing to that other person who they think I am?

Just to play along with their fantasies, I have changed my name to my real name.  Instead of Grandad Himself, I am now Grandad Fartzalott.  In the interests of modesty, I have left out my title.

The story of the Fartzalotts goes back a long time, but basically Sir Edwin Fartzalott came to Ireland some centuries ago and settled down for the quiet life.  Unfortunately for him, one night he was attacked, beaten and raped by the notorious Grainne Clancy who duly became pregnant.  She forced him to marry her at the point of a double-barrelled twelve bore pitchfork, and the Irish Fartzalott Dynasty began.  For some reason that I never understood, the knighthood only passes to the second son, but who is to argue with tradition?  My second grandson [Sir Tom Fartzalott] is now carrying on the family knighthood.  I may have mentioned him from time to time, but he’s only a year old, so there isn’t much to write about.  My daughter insists on using a different spelling for the name [she calls him Fartsalot] which is something I intend to speak to her firmly about.

So there you have it.

I have been exposed, and I’m not happy about it.

But I’m damned if I’m going to let Google get the better of me.

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