Tuesday, September 26, 2017

The Arsehole Register

I reckon we've all been there - we see an article on the TV news or read about it online or, heaven forbid, in a newspaper about someone who's done something unutterable stupid or just plan socially unacceptable, and we think "what an arsehole*".

Like the woman who wouldn't move her pushchair to let a disabled person onto a bus; anyone who mistreats an animal for fun; the guy who killed a pedestrian while riding his brakeless bike through London; or the latest belief-defying gem, in which some complete git deliberately runs down a teacher in order to drop his kid off at school (setting a superb example to the younger generation)... see the article here on the BBC news website, or just watch it below...

Why do they behave this way?  Is it that the punishments aren't a deterrent, or that they simply haven't learned the difference between right and wrong, or have, and don't care anyway? Is this rot stoppable?

These people are all, to some extent, a waste of skin but (and I understand why) my occasionally muttered comment "why don't we just execute them and improve society" is considered extreme; at least it is while the UK is fortunate not to have its own version of "Alternative fur Deutschland". And yet, we wouldn't want much to do with them, would we? So how do we avoid them, when they are walking around among us?  Branding/Tattooing them with a big "A" on the forehead is also most likely to be considered a step too far and my own personal favourite of making them wear hats adorned with facsimile dog turds is likely to be hard to enforce in the UK. This is a shame, because in the US we find that many dangerous morons are happy to identify themselves by wearing a red chinese-made baseball cap with "make America great again" written on it...

But how about this - we have a list, publicly accessible via the internet or in the small handful of public libraries left of anyone who is a proven menace and folks, like this, who fit that description, are forced to sign to on a regular basis, so that we all know where they are.

Just a thought.

* shithead, numpty, dickhead, fuckwit, idiot, wanker - take your pick, really...

Thursday, January 26, 2017

President Fart

The fact (as opposed to 'alternative fact') that Trump is British slang for Fart has been widely shared on social media, so it isn't news.

If this was news, then the Orange One would probably hold a press conference to deny it or have the White House 'Groom of the Stool', a snivelling, odious wretch called Sean Spicer, do it for him. The weird thing is that some of the audience would applaud, as they tend to do whatever rubbish he comes out with. This, according to the many sources (including the Huffington Post) is because Trump actually hires people to applaud on these occasions.

There's a word for these professional sycophants - such a group is called a claque and it follows that a member of that group is a claquer - or if you prefer to Anglicise, a 'clacker'.

Now, in a delightful example of serendipity, 'Clacker' happens to be Australian slang for Arsehole.

Where else would you expect to find the most powerful fart in the world than in the presence of a number of professional arseholes?

Thursday, October 13, 2016

In light of the news abut Tesco and Unilever...

And with gratitude and apologies to Pete and Dud...

Miss Rigby! Stella, my love! Would you please send in the next auditioner, please. Mr. Marmite, I believe it is. (enter Moneygrabbing Supplier, hopping on one leg)
Mr. Marmite, I believe?
Moneygrabbing Supplier
Yes, Marmite by name, Marmite by nature. (keeps hopping)
Yes...if you'd like to remain motionless for a moment, Mr. Marmite. Please be stood. Now, Mr. Marmite you are, I believe, auditioning for the part of A Brexit casualty?
Moneygrabbing Supplier
Now, Mr. Marmite, I couldn't help noticing almost at once that you are a made in the UK person.
Moneygrabbing Supplier
You noticed that?
I noticed that, Mr. Marmite. When you have been in the business as long as I have you come to notice these things almost instinctively. Now, Mr. Marmite, you, a made in the UK man, are applying for the role of A Brexit casualty - a role which, traditionally, involves the use of a foreign actor.
Moneygrabbing Supplier
And yet you, a Unilever, are applying for the role.
Moneygrabbing Supplier
A role for which a passport other than British would seem to be the minimum requirement.
Moneygrabbing Supplier
Very true.
Well, Mr. Marmite, need I point out to you where your deficiency lies as regards landing the role?
Moneygrabbing Supplier
Yes, I think you ought to.
Need I say without overmuch emphasis that it is in the country of origin/manafacture division that you are deficient.
Moneygrabbing Supplier
The country of origin/manafacture division?
Yes, the country of origin/manafacture division, Mr. Marmite. You are deficient in it to the tune being made here, on our bloody doorstep. Your taste I like. I like your aste. A lovely taste for the role. That's what I said when I saw you come in. I said "A lovely taste for the role." I've got nothing against your taste. The trouble is – your blatantly opportunist greed. You fall down on your morality.
Moneygrabbing Supplier
You mean it's inadequate?
Yes, it's inadequate, Mr. Marmite. And, to my mind, the British public is not ready for the sight of a made in the UK product hiking its price and blaming the fall of the pound.
Moneygrabbing Supplier
I see.
However, don't despair. After all, you score over a man with no morality at all. Should a supplier with no Morality at all come in here demanding the role, I should have no hesitation in saying "Get out. Run away."
Moneygrabbing Supplier
So there's still a chance?
There is still a very good chance. If we get no reasonably priced alternatives in here within the next two months, there is still a very good chance that you'll land this vital role. Failing decent suppliers, you, a unilever, are just the sort of person we shall be attempting to contact telephonically.
Moneygrabbing Supplier
Well...thank you very much.
So my advice is, to hop on a bus, go home, and sit by your telephone in the hope that we will be getting in touch with you. (shows Moneygrabbing Supplier out) I'm sorry I can't be more definite, but as you realise, it's really a decent sort of chap we're after. Good morning Mr. Marmite.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Small Scale Chicken Farming

Coccidiosis is not the easiest of words to pronounce. For example, after taking a run-up at it earlier today, Mrs Grumbler managed ‘Cock Cilla Doses’, which sounds like a dreadful venereal disease caught some fifty years ago in Liverpool’s Cavern nightclub.  It is, in fact, a parasitic infestation of birds and animals and not a word most folk are going to need unless, like us, they are small scale chicken farmers.

Now, when I say “small scale chicken farmers” I mean that we have a relatively low number of chickens, rather than that we farm chickens whose size is a fraction of the generally accepted norm. Not for the want of trying, however….

Some weeks ago, while watching the BBC’s ‘Countryfile’ and reading a Victorian horror novel, I was struck by a particularly intriguing bolt of inspiration. There was an article on how people with small back gardens can keep chickens but what, my inner voice asked me, if I were to produce a chicken one tenth of the size of a regular one, specifically so that people with window boxes can have their own (admittedly tiny) fresh eggs for breakfast?  Several mad-scientist possibilities occurred to me and I resolved to begin my experiments in pico-poultry-production first thing on the morrow! 

We can cut a long story short and gloss over the many attempts which earned me little more than a startled “Awk!?” and a baleful glare from my test subject (as well as a turkey baster I can never bear to use again, but thats a story for another day) but, eventually, by good old fashioned selective breeding I’d managed to produce remarkably compact birds. With one small problem: every successful mini hatchling was, without exception, male.  All of the hens were regular sized.  And so it was that in the end I had to concede defeat because, and I know that you can see this coming a mile off, nobody wants a tiny cock…

Thursday, September 01, 2016

Dear Europe, an open letter

Dear European Union

I’ve never been afraid to admit when I am wrong.  I haven’t had to be, because I’m usually not wrong ;) When I am wrong, though, I can be quite spectacularly so…

So many years ago that it feels like a different lifetime, I had a relationship (who that was with doesn’t matter, and you don’t need the person’s name – even now I wouldn’t want to cause them pain)  which, if I’m honest, worried me a little even while it was happening. It worried some of my friends a lot more than that, and some of them were brave enough to tell me so.  But I was ensnared; I had built a relatively comfortable life (or so I thought) and I was terrified of what I might lose if I ‘took steps’ to end that relationship. I figured I could change the other person’s controlling behaviour, and bring logic and compassion to their world view (which lacked both of those things).

In hindsight it turns out that not ‘getting the hell out’ was one of the most expensive and damaging decisions I have ever made – or failed to make. It cost me health, money and friends.  The first friends to go (not of their own accord, the person I was with engineered their disposal) were the ones who had my best interests at heart.

OK, maybe I wouldn’t be where I am now (which is a place I like a lot, and wouldn’t change) but, had I taken a decision based on an ‘unclouded’ view of where I was all those years ago much pain would have been avoided. 

And now to current affairs...

A few short weeks ago, many of my friends voted for us to leave you. I was stunned, disappointed, and afraid of what might happen. Despite being concerned about many of what I perceived as your ‘flaws’ I really thought I could change you, and that I was better off in your arms.

In relationship terms, we’ve told you we are leaving and we have started to pack our bags but we haven’t divvied up the CDs yet and not even begun to talk about access to the kids once we have gone our separate ways. But you’re already telling us, and the rest of the world, that you’re gonna make us pay for leaving you.  Not necessarily because you want us to suffer, but you want to make it clear to the other people you’re in a relationship with that leaving will hurt. This is the first clue to me that I may have been wrong.

You know, that’s not how love is supposed to work.  Folk are supposed to stay together because of the joy that brings, not because of the fear of the spite and pain that going their separate ways might entail. Hearing you talk of how you’re going to make ‘an example’ of us has opened my eyes to your insecurity, and made me realize that perhaps the relationship I thought we had wasn’t as cozy as I’d believed.  It’s already put some distance between us, and that’s helping me see your behaviour in a different way.

The immediate ‘disasters’ that were foretold if we were to decide to split have spectacularly failed to materialize. If anything, I’m already a little bit better off.  This is the second clue that I may have been wrong.

I can see, just as happened so many years ago, your attempts to make some of our friends who are also in a relationship with you turn against us. You’re trying to line up France and Germany in particular who, along with ourselves have effectively financed your behaviour for all these years.  What do they gain from mistreating us?  Nothing.  So if you have your way, you are the only winner – everyone else loses.  The third clue, and a hard one to miss, I’d say.

The funny thing is that if you stop being so spiteful then you’ll see that you and we could both be better off in an amicable divorce, where we can still be friends. But I don’t think you’ll ever see that, because it would need you to change your ways, and drastically.

And now, let’s see how you’re treating Ireland, and Apple Corporation.  They haven’t actually done anything that is ‘wrong’ – in the eyes of the law (law which *you* made). But nevertheless you don’t like what they *have* done.  Whose fault is that?  Theirs, for doing nothing wrong, or yours, for failing to set out how you wanted them to behave?  Now that you’ve decided they’ve pissed you off, you want to make them both pay, and pay so much that the cost will echo through history. Your hubris is astounding.

This is the straw which broke the camel’s back as far as I am concerned.  The scales are lifted from my eyes. I now see you very differently, European Union, to how I did just a few short weeks ago.  You’re a jealous, twisted, illogical and self serving character, aren’t you?  The only interest you have at heart are your own, and you will rewrite  history or even the laws of nature to see to it that you come out on top. It matters not the slightest to you who has fed or nurtured you in all these years – if it suits you to turn on them and devour them, like a praying mantis to her mate, then nothing on earth will stop you. You are no lover, you are a succubus.

The irony of my ‘road to Damascus’ moment isn’t lost on me, as so many people flee their own literal or figurative war-torn Damascus in the hope of a safer, better life in Europe. Perhaps their hopes and fears, their energy, their relief in escaping a known devil,  this ‘new blood’ will satiate your vampiric tendencies, if only for a short time.

But you and I?  We are done, my former love. I will walk away, and not look back. No fear of turning to a pillar of stone for me, just a sadness in the realization that a relationship I held dear was rotten to the core, and at the same time a lightness of heart that things can only get better now. Others, soon, will come to realize the same and, in time, I think you will go the way of Ozymandias, and I don’t want to see the maggots boiling from the eyes of the half-sunk, shattered visage that will be all that remains…

Friday, March 11, 2016

Yerp - in or out - contains profanities (not mine, for once)

On Thursday 23rd June 2016 the UK Voting population will be invited to answer a simple question.  Do you want the UK to remain a member of the EU or not?

Seems like a simple question on an emotional subject where feelings are running strong.  To make a rational decision you need all of the available information, and the time (and desire) to weigh it up.  I'm not sure I have enough of either of those things, but I shall give it a go for myself (I'm not trying to influence *you* - this was one argument for staying in, recommended by a friend-of-a-friend and I understand that Stephen Hawking - who has never knowingly lied to me - is also in favour of the status quo - possibly the pink floyd and T rex as well).

David Cameron (like him or loath him) has been all over Europe seeking concessions to some of the things which annoy the UK, and has certainly secured some movement - though I'd hazard a guess not as much as he, or we, wanted.  On their part, the other countries in the UK have indicated they want the UK to stay, but that this is a one-time decision.


I am beginning to think that large swathes of the folk who'll be answering have no interest in making a rational decision.  My money is (would be, if I had any) on an 'out' result, which I think is going to be largely driven by reptilian (or perhaps limbic) fear and loathing.  In that respect, there seem to be many parallels with the Trump campaign in the US. The referendum result, more than any 'general election' has the power to change our country for many years - and I have no idea at present whether it will be for good or ill.

So why do I harbour this terrible fear?

Anyone connected via Facebook with a number of UK based friends is likely to already know the opinions of many of them - often in no uncertain terms.  Just this morning a friend of mine 'shared' a post from one of his connections championing the leave cause - no names, but I doubt very much that my pal shares the same opinions as the bloke he quoted (remember how many good people were taken in by Britain First?).  It was an interesting post - contained a number of serious grammatical errors, made a few unsubstantiated claims (for example "The EU needs us more than we need it") and reached a conclusion not supported by those same claims.  I have to admit, I was fascinated, so I went to the Facebook page for the originator where I was greeted by a middle aged fellow gurning alongside a can of Stella Artois (an overpriced tasteless EU import, ironically) and ringed by the slogan "Proud Enemy of Islam".  Now, I don't *like* Islam, in the same way that I don't like *any* religion - Id rather they didn't exist, but they do and I certainly don't think that all of the followers of those religions are evil. I have many of them amongst my friends - all of whom are most excellent individuals. Its impossible to tell how much of a person's Facebook life is locked down to their friends only - but a good guide is how much you can see if you are not one of them. In this case, that was rather a lot - of his and his pals opinions.  I got about as far as "Refugees Fuck Off", closely followed by "Fuck Islam" and decided I'd had enough. This is not a man who's opinions or morality I respect.

There is most certainly scaremongering on both sides, and that's regrettable. Most of the 'in' arguments seem based on what we might lose - which could be more positively phrased as what we currently enjoy. A great number of the 'out' comments Im seeing from the great British public seem to focus on not being bossed about by Belgians or 'overrun' by East Europeans/Muslims. But let's remember, that a 'pure' English person is most likely part Celt, part Viking, part Saxon and, most recently, part French - and stronger for it. And the EU was, in part, created after we all so nearly became completely German - so the irony of folk fearing that its a pathway to invasion isn't lost on me.

I suspect (but I'm really not sure) that we are better off in. I don't think we can escape all of the 'bad' points of EU membership by flouncing off in a huff, and if we do that we're stuck with them as we have no seat at the table. We will have stuck two fingers up to our neighbours in a fashion I'm not sure Winston Churchill would have felt comfortable with.

I'm starting to think about the whole thing emotionally too - I wonder if NOT doing so is actually impossible. Regardless of the facts and a determination to make a sensible decision I fear I may end up voting IN just to dissociate myself as far as I can from the kind of narrow minded, racist, poorly educated and dangerously stupid person whose Facebook page so recently turned my stomach - not an easy thing to do when you consider the quantity and variety of shit I've shovelled from one place to another.

Thursday, December 31, 2015

The Grumbler's 2015

I’ve got a memory like a sieve, so I’ve often resolved to keep a diary because it would be interesting to look back on – but just like intentions to be a regular gym goer, to stop drinking or swearing, the promise has been lucky to last five minutes into the new year.
It turns out that social networking means that I have actually been keeping a diary of sorts, via the ‘book of faces’. Reading through the last year’s posts reveals that the year’s been a lot busier than I thought…
I’ve actually managed to pretty much keep to one resolution I made at the start of 2015 – which was that 90% of all beer, wine or cider drunk at Grumbler’s Oast be brewed on the premises. Shares in local home-brew suppliers have risen dramatically over the year but are poised to plunge once more as Mrs. Grumbler and I contemplate a ‘dry January’.
There have been moments of sadness. Observers may have been surprised had they been walking in the woods in January and chanced upon the Grumbler, clutching a spade, covered in mud, crouched in the bottom of a five foot deep hole in the pouring rain, bawling his eyes out. We had lost our beloved friend and companion Floyd who, for nearly fourteen years had filled our lives with so much love, shed fur, barking and horrendous dog farts that the memories (and the smell – though come to think of it, I know someone who used to blame Floyd when she ‘trouser coughed’, so maybe that’s why he’s still so palpably with us) will never ever leave us. A few months later, after having spent a nice half hour chatting with him in a field before he came down with a very nasty case of colic, I was performing a similar task for Jet, though a simple shovel wasn’t going to cut the mustard on that occasion. Jet had been Mrs Grumbler’s friend for three and a half decades and, while he was undoubtedly the ‘Victor Meldrew’ of the pony world we all loved him very much. Further from home, the passing of Terry Pratchett felt like the loss of a personal friend, having loved his books and identified with more than one of his characters for many years.
On the other side of the coin, there were some new arrivals. Arfa, who we expected to remain a tiny ‘handbag dog’ came to live with us and has grown, like a weed, into an un-trainable, lanky git with the ability to be incredibly naughty and unbelievably cute simultaneously. And Ebby has added a touch of Andalusian class, beauty and teddy-bear attitude to the stableyard. We’ve hatched chickens, collected swarms of bees, adopted goats, raised pigs and installed turkeys. (And we’ve eaten some of them too.)
I’ve discovered a remarkable ability to inflict pain on myself. I left a couple of mates drinking beer in a tent and got my first tattoo. It’s still there but I think they’ve moved on. I made a spirited attempt (with the help of a rusty trailer and a lapse in concentration at exactly the wrong moment) to permanently disassociate myself from my right thumb. While helping a pal move some beehives I managed to get stung half a dozen times with the ‘coup-de-grace’ being delivered in style by a particularly sneaky member of the genus Apis mellifera to my right eye just after I’d taken my net-curtain hat off. In an attempt to reduce the swelling so that I could see again I worked my way through the various creams, pastes and ointments in the bathroom cupboard. I’m not convinced that everything I found in there is even ours. I started with the least distasteful and discovering to my immense relief that pile cream worked a treat. On the bright side, I’m not going to get stretch-marks, wrinkles, athlete’s foot, halitosis, zits, verucas, rust, limescale or – bizzarely – a puncture in that eye now, but the few possibilities that remained after my triumphant discovery still make me shudder.
We’ve crossed a huge number of things off our to-do list (though the damned thing still gets longer). The ‘pony playpen’ is completed so the horses have somewhere to let off steam without wading through hip-deep mud. We’ve had a log burner installed in the Oast to keep us warm. At first, most of the smoke came into the house, but we’ve had the chimney extended, metre by metre, until it goes where it’s supposed to. We may sublet it to Virgin Galactic as their UK launch base since it’s halfway to outer space already. We finally won a long running battle with the council to fix the drains outside on the main road – my threat that next time I had to clear them at two am I would do so without covering my night attire (see Marilyn Monroe, but substitute Brut33 for Chanel #5) probably did the trick. The thought of being sued for mental anguish by a trucker who’s been accosted in the middle of a flooded A-road by a naked old man angrily waving his grass rake (that isn’t a euphemism, by the way) was probably too much for them.
And finally, friends were a constant feature. Good live music was enjoyed. We (well, the horses) won some prizes at shows, and we made a good friend cry by giving her a beautifully drawn picture of her favourite horse. We made another attempt on Trailtrekker – the last, if Oxfam are to be believed. Some of the team went the distance while other (self included) didn’t get much past forty miles or so. And there was Grumblefest; where the rain held off, the pig stayed on, and the drink didn’t run out.
So it’s been another year where counting our blessings would involve removing not only my own shoes and socks but those of several family members. However, as I write this in the warm office, they’re mucking out the horses (score one for me) so I really dont want to get too close to their boots.
Happy new year everyone…

Friday, December 11, 2015

'Ark at that rain, but don't call me Noah. A swearfest.

I am awoken from hard won slumber and a dream involving a lottery win, twelve gallons of Harvey's best and a bus load of naked nuns by the howls of a thousand banshees and something that sounds like my house being demolished around me, mostly because it fucking well is, by my own beloved pets.

I discover an Eight foot wide swathe of water, four feet from my house on a sixteen foot wide road with forty ton trucks (sixty tons when fully loaded with migrants from the Calais camps) going past at fifty miles an hour throwing a ten foot tidal wave at the aforementioned abode. And over me in my sodding dressing gown as I try and unblock the drains at midnight?

Meantime there's 100 kilos of mad dog in my kitchen, two busted doors and a pile of 'terrified dog' shit that looks like it weighs more than the frantically barking canine cretin that's just laid it. I like mountains as much as the next guy, but I don't want a fucking brown one in the room next to my kitchen. Especially not one that smells like Tyson Fury's breath.

And the man at the council winces when my complaint contains the word 'fuck'? Well, bollocks.

My legendary patience is ended in a searing orgy of profanity.

Tomorrow, someone's going home from the council road maintenance office with busted eardrums, radi-fucking-ation burns and an extra arsehole they didn't have when they got up in the morning. And if that doesn't fuck their Friday night up as badly as my Thursday has been, I shall visit them at 2am on Saturday and personally shit in their handbag after I've tattooed 'Donald Trump is God' on their forehead using a rusty nail and a pint of hydrofluoric acid laced with smallpox, and sublet their toilet to a tribe of psychopathic midget headshrinkers from Papua New Fucking Guinea who hold a very specific grudge against south east English local government employees.

And by way of apology for anyone who's ever watched 'the thick of it' Malcolm Tucker is a pansified amateur who can kiss my hairy arse. And if you haven't watched it, then do, and you'll know just what I mean.

Right. Rant nearly over. I am grateful, after all that I don't live in Cumbria, to the residents of which goes my heartfelt sympathy. Where's my bloody whisky. I love you all dearly, but this has really pissed on my chips. Night night.