What is wrong with people? Yesterday, Monday the 6th of September 2010, I had the misfortune of being placed in the position of needing to go to Trago Mills. For those reading this who haven't yet come across Trago Mills, it is a shop - about the size of Canterbury. A shop which sells just about everything at prices that are generally cheaper than most. Hooray for those of us seeking DIY tools. A shop that is teeming with people who are either excited to the point of frenzy, drooling at the low prices and filling their plastic pull-along carts with junk that they don't need and will never use or couples arguing, loudly and often incoherently after traipsing around the place, getting completely lost and forgetting why the f**k they came there in the first place. A shop where security guards check your shopping bag on the way out and cardboard-cut-out, life-sized policemen advertise the number of shoplifters they've prosecuted that month.
I try to avoid going to Trago Mills. But when a shopping list builds up and, for example, a packet of ten plastic curtain hooks costs 69p, compared to £2.99 at Homebase, well, you have to give in, bite down hard on a hunk of wood and brace yourself against people wetting themselves with avarice or husband shouting at wife, "It's okay when we look at what you want to look at, but when it comes to me, oh no, no, not a bloody look in!" Perhaps I ought to stuff my ears with cotton wool and wear blinkers? Anyway, back to the point, I hopped in my Jeep and headed, defiantly, to Trago Mills.
What do I find when I get there? The entire area, approximating to the size of a football pitch, that only weeks ago was dedicated to drawing money from the wallet in pursuance of living it up in the garden, is festooned with bloody Christmas stuff! Cards, crackers, trees, tinsel... well, you know what Christmas stuff is...
Hello? Is it me? It's the first week of September! What happened to Autumn? That fabulous season in which trees send their leaves to the ground in a fabulous array of reds, yellows, golds and browns; in which farmers reap their harvests and roll their hay; in which the cooling musty air hints at the Winter to come but can still surprise with warm bathing sunshine. Well? Come on Mr. Sainsbury, Mr. John Lewis, Mr. Tesco, Mr Bloody Trago Mills, what's your excuse? Why have you done away with our lovely Autumn?
In some ways, I suppose, you can't blame the hideous conglomerate kleptomaniacs for parading Christmas paraphernalia in front of us. Why should I say this? Why should I give them an out? I'll tell you why... it's because the moronic, drooling half-wits in Trago Mills were actually buying the stuff! Picking boxes of crackers off the shelves, looking around the packaging (What for? You know what's in them - jokes not even worthy of a groan, a cheap paper hat and a poorly-moulded plastic something useless), replacing it on the shelf, picking up the next one (Why? You know what's in them - jokes not even...etc.) and then, as my jaw dropped, actually placing it in their basket! What? Are you insane? What is the matter with you?
I like Christmas. I really do. I am very fortunate - I enjoy meeting up with my relatives, chatting about nothing in particular, eating, drinking, playing silly games. So, this is certainly not a Scrooge-inspired rant. But, really, truly, how long does any one person need to prepare for Christmas? Two or three shopping trips, pack a suitcase. That's it. Yes, it can raise the hackles and the blood pressure to leave things until the last minute, but surely, a couple of weeks is all you need? Give it three, go on then... so, let's say December the 1st, shall we?
If I were Cameron, I'd ban the selling of any Christmas item before December the 1st. We don't need it, we really don't. Why do we have to suffer the build up to a single day for a third of an entire year? It's commercialism gone berserk. The saddest thing is that it has diluted the magic of Christmas. How can children get excited about it when it's pushed into their faces in shops, on TV, in newspapers and magazines for four entire months? When Carols and Christmas songs are everywhere you go for more than 120 days?
So, if anyone reading this has actually bought a Christmas item before the 1st of December, stop it. Just stop it. And tell your friends and relatives to stop it. It's pointless and, worse, it is spoiling what used to be a fun and magical time of year. And, if everyone did stop it, perhaps that magic could be revived, hmmmm? And, as an added bonus, we'd get our Autumn back!
P.S. Where is that idiot going to store his stupid crackers for four months? I hope it's somewhere damp and the bloody things don't work! Hah!
Tuesday 7 September 2010
Wednesday 1 September 2010
Flies - more annoying buzzing or silent?
Just lately - and I'm talking about the last couple of weeks or so - we have been plagued by flies. Actually, that's a bit strong. If I said there were six flies at any one time performing completely pointless flying and landing exercises within our walls, that would be about it. Still, one fly is annoying. I have adopted a much greater tolerance of the flying insect since moving to uber-rural climes and I can live with them in the great outdoors. However, when they invade our private, human-only space, a space dedicated to the perpetuation of me and the wife in comfortable relaxation, that's when the slightly damp tea towel comes out.
I have perfected the art of flicking the tea towel, much after the fashion of Indiana Jones's whip-cracking days, with pinpoint accuracy, laying a smug fly stunned and writhing on its back, wondering where the hell that lightning-fast image of Winchester Cathedral came from. There are two 'tricks' involved here. The first is to practice the towel-flicking. For me, having been to public school and suffered the oh-so-hilarious antics of those older boys practised in the art of getting that last inch of damp towel to whip round at, quite literally, the speed of sound just as it reaches the back of my thigh, I needed to unleash my revenge on the younger element of the communal showers. So, from quite a young age, I had it.
The other is to observe your fly. After flying around for no apparent reason, it will land. It needs to land on a flat area, such as a window or wall. And the landing area needs to be free from obstruction and/or items that could suffer damage. The last thing you need is to have your elation at a successful thwack sullied by your favourite mug becoming dislodged and ending up in pieces on the floor - you couldn't afford the Super Glue for one thing. Worse still, your wife's favourite mug... the end of that towel whipping round at a force that would ping, let's say a peanut, sixty feet (I know - I've tried it) could easily render a semi-fragile ornament worthless.
As mentioned (please see above) the fly will land. It will, maybe, wander around in a ludicrous weaving pattern until it decides it's safe in a single spot. It's taking a breather, a little rest until it decides there's more aimless aerobatics to be undertaken. Watch it. Watch it closely while you approach, stealthily, and draw back your slightly damp tea towel, poised in readiness for the strike. Take aim, carefully. Know your target. Identify with that part of the window, wall, flat surface of some kind, vertical almost always more successful than horizontal. And wait. You won't have to wait long. What are you waiting for?
You're waiting for that moronic, pointless, vexatious clump of cells to clean its front legs -and it will. It can't resist it, the smug little bugger. And that's when you strike. Thwack! You see, when it's cleaning its front legs, it's not quite so aware of Winchester Cathedral approaching it at Mach 2. Thwack! It's a gonner. Grin.
Okay, I'm guessing I'm not alone in being annoyed by flies - probably one or two others who can't quite seem to see the benefit of a disease-carrying upstart, totally oblivious to your personal space making its presence irritatingly known. But, I have to ask this question...
Is a fly that is silent more or less annoying than one that buzzes?
On the surface of it, prima facie as the lawyers might say, it would seem fairly obvious that a buzzing Biggles would win hands down on the irritability scale. But I would have to put the case for the silent fly, your honour. You see, the thing is, you know right away of the presence of a buzzing fly. It irks instantly. It rises the sap. The whining buzzy sound sends signals to your brain, resulting in an auto-response that has you leaping through to the kitchen for your weapon of choice and you wait for it to land, following the buzzy sound and easily spotting your target.
Whereas... your silent fly, well. It can fly around for hours undetected. It can go where it likes. It can land on your chopping board and run up an down it to its heart's content. It can alight on your toothbrush, your coffee mug, your beer glass, your freshly-ironed underwear (ok, that's just me then). You're settled. You're relaxed in your favourite armchair. You're absorbed in your Jodi Picoult novel (or your A R Grundy novel if you've any panache). You're happily reading the round up of the local court cases in your local paper. You don't know why but you're somehow comfortably numb in front of the telly. You're playing a game of Rummikub with your iPod on random. And then there it is! It can appear on the periphery, just out of the corner of your eye. Or it can be damned blatant and land on your book/newspaper/TV screen/Rummikub tiles! You didn't know it was there. You've no idea how long it's been hanging around; where it's been.
But you're relaxed, comfy, the tea towel seems such a long way away. It's not buzzing, so you leave it. You waft it away with the back of your hand. You forget about it. Momentarily. But then it's back! Flying around silently then landing on your book/newsp... well you know, again. Another waft of the hand, this time with a little more irritation. It's gone. You don't know where. You can't follow it's buzz and you certainly can't see the bloody thing. And then, the ultimate irritation, the throwing down of the gauntlet, the declaration of war...
It lands on your head! Just below the right temple, on that soft bit above your eyebrow. Well, that's it! Had it just flown away, carried on its pointless business elsewhere, it might have lived - for as long a a fly lives, anyway. But landing on your head, well that's simply pushing things too far! You gave it a couple of chances, didn't you? You gave it the opportunity, more than once (in case there are any Brahmins reading) to clear orf, to go about its business. But, no. It has to push the boundaries, just go that one step too far. And up you get, from you erstwhile comfortable position, heading for the tea towel that's not long since dried up the day's coffee mugs.
You return, you're goat got at. But where is it? Where is the pipsqueak? No buzzing, see? No buzzing, so you can't locate the swine. You hunt for it. You're looking at anything light, anything that will throw it into contrast. But it's not there. So now you're all riled up, ready with your tea towel, hurled reluctantly from your comfort and the bugger's disappeared! There's something in the corner of your eye, but no, or was it? You stand there for a full five minutes. It seems to know. It's playing a game and you're losing. And then... there it is! It's landed on your Rummikub tiles and you line up your tea towel. The wife says 'No!' envisaging your game, at least an hour in, ending up irretrievably on the floor. You know there's a risk. You know it's a horizontal surface and your chances are exponentially reduced, but it's got your dander up!
You flick. You miss. Your Rummikub tiles spill to the floor. The fly launches silently into your airspace. Your wife groans. She doesn't understand. Until that fly is stunned into giving up on its Holy Grail of annoyance, you can't rest. You pull back your tea towel for a second shot and once again you hunt...
You see what I mean? I could repeat the last two paragraphs ad infinitum. Without that buzz, as irritating as it is, you're on a hunting expedition, potentially for hours. You simply can't zone in on the thing. It evades your senses and you stand, poised in the lounge, tea towel pulled back, ready to pounce... Either that or you give up, apologize to the wife and try to re-assemble your Rummikub game. Or, failing a correct re-positioning of the tiles, concede manfully, raising your wife's wrist triumphantly into the air, declaring her the Rummikub champion - at least for that particular night.
So, what do you reckon? Is a fly that is silent more or less irritating than one that buzzes?
I have perfected the art of flicking the tea towel, much after the fashion of Indiana Jones's whip-cracking days, with pinpoint accuracy, laying a smug fly stunned and writhing on its back, wondering where the hell that lightning-fast image of Winchester Cathedral came from. There are two 'tricks' involved here. The first is to practice the towel-flicking. For me, having been to public school and suffered the oh-so-hilarious antics of those older boys practised in the art of getting that last inch of damp towel to whip round at, quite literally, the speed of sound just as it reaches the back of my thigh, I needed to unleash my revenge on the younger element of the communal showers. So, from quite a young age, I had it.
The other is to observe your fly. After flying around for no apparent reason, it will land. It needs to land on a flat area, such as a window or wall. And the landing area needs to be free from obstruction and/or items that could suffer damage. The last thing you need is to have your elation at a successful thwack sullied by your favourite mug becoming dislodged and ending up in pieces on the floor - you couldn't afford the Super Glue for one thing. Worse still, your wife's favourite mug... the end of that towel whipping round at a force that would ping, let's say a peanut, sixty feet (I know - I've tried it) could easily render a semi-fragile ornament worthless.
As mentioned (please see above) the fly will land. It will, maybe, wander around in a ludicrous weaving pattern until it decides it's safe in a single spot. It's taking a breather, a little rest until it decides there's more aimless aerobatics to be undertaken. Watch it. Watch it closely while you approach, stealthily, and draw back your slightly damp tea towel, poised in readiness for the strike. Take aim, carefully. Know your target. Identify with that part of the window, wall, flat surface of some kind, vertical almost always more successful than horizontal. And wait. You won't have to wait long. What are you waiting for?
You're waiting for that moronic, pointless, vexatious clump of cells to clean its front legs -and it will. It can't resist it, the smug little bugger. And that's when you strike. Thwack! You see, when it's cleaning its front legs, it's not quite so aware of Winchester Cathedral approaching it at Mach 2. Thwack! It's a gonner. Grin.
Okay, I'm guessing I'm not alone in being annoyed by flies - probably one or two others who can't quite seem to see the benefit of a disease-carrying upstart, totally oblivious to your personal space making its presence irritatingly known. But, I have to ask this question...
Is a fly that is silent more or less annoying than one that buzzes?
On the surface of it, prima facie as the lawyers might say, it would seem fairly obvious that a buzzing Biggles would win hands down on the irritability scale. But I would have to put the case for the silent fly, your honour. You see, the thing is, you know right away of the presence of a buzzing fly. It irks instantly. It rises the sap. The whining buzzy sound sends signals to your brain, resulting in an auto-response that has you leaping through to the kitchen for your weapon of choice and you wait for it to land, following the buzzy sound and easily spotting your target.
Whereas... your silent fly, well. It can fly around for hours undetected. It can go where it likes. It can land on your chopping board and run up an down it to its heart's content. It can alight on your toothbrush, your coffee mug, your beer glass, your freshly-ironed underwear (ok, that's just me then). You're settled. You're relaxed in your favourite armchair. You're absorbed in your Jodi Picoult novel (or your A R Grundy novel if you've any panache). You're happily reading the round up of the local court cases in your local paper. You don't know why but you're somehow comfortably numb in front of the telly. You're playing a game of Rummikub with your iPod on random. And then there it is! It can appear on the periphery, just out of the corner of your eye. Or it can be damned blatant and land on your book/newspaper/TV screen/Rummikub tiles! You didn't know it was there. You've no idea how long it's been hanging around; where it's been.
But you're relaxed, comfy, the tea towel seems such a long way away. It's not buzzing, so you leave it. You waft it away with the back of your hand. You forget about it. Momentarily. But then it's back! Flying around silently then landing on your book/newsp... well you know, again. Another waft of the hand, this time with a little more irritation. It's gone. You don't know where. You can't follow it's buzz and you certainly can't see the bloody thing. And then, the ultimate irritation, the throwing down of the gauntlet, the declaration of war...
It lands on your head! Just below the right temple, on that soft bit above your eyebrow. Well, that's it! Had it just flown away, carried on its pointless business elsewhere, it might have lived - for as long a a fly lives, anyway. But landing on your head, well that's simply pushing things too far! You gave it a couple of chances, didn't you? You gave it the opportunity, more than once (in case there are any Brahmins reading) to clear orf, to go about its business. But, no. It has to push the boundaries, just go that one step too far. And up you get, from you erstwhile comfortable position, heading for the tea towel that's not long since dried up the day's coffee mugs.
You return, you're goat got at. But where is it? Where is the pipsqueak? No buzzing, see? No buzzing, so you can't locate the swine. You hunt for it. You're looking at anything light, anything that will throw it into contrast. But it's not there. So now you're all riled up, ready with your tea towel, hurled reluctantly from your comfort and the bugger's disappeared! There's something in the corner of your eye, but no, or was it? You stand there for a full five minutes. It seems to know. It's playing a game and you're losing. And then... there it is! It's landed on your Rummikub tiles and you line up your tea towel. The wife says 'No!' envisaging your game, at least an hour in, ending up irretrievably on the floor. You know there's a risk. You know it's a horizontal surface and your chances are exponentially reduced, but it's got your dander up!
You flick. You miss. Your Rummikub tiles spill to the floor. The fly launches silently into your airspace. Your wife groans. She doesn't understand. Until that fly is stunned into giving up on its Holy Grail of annoyance, you can't rest. You pull back your tea towel for a second shot and once again you hunt...
You see what I mean? I could repeat the last two paragraphs ad infinitum. Without that buzz, as irritating as it is, you're on a hunting expedition, potentially for hours. You simply can't zone in on the thing. It evades your senses and you stand, poised in the lounge, tea towel pulled back, ready to pounce... Either that or you give up, apologize to the wife and try to re-assemble your Rummikub game. Or, failing a correct re-positioning of the tiles, concede manfully, raising your wife's wrist triumphantly into the air, declaring her the Rummikub champion - at least for that particular night.
So, what do you reckon? Is a fly that is silent more or less irritating than one that buzzes?
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