The One That Is Offering Some Tips. . .

It is hot. I do not respond well to heat, it makes me grumpy(er) and even more unpleasant to be around than usual.

I've had the most joyous task of running a few errands this morning, which meant I had little choice but to take to the roads, pavements and shops of the fair city of Canterbury.

Having returned I am now outlining some helpful hints for the hard of thinking in order to facilitate the smooth running of their daily lives.

Behind The Wheel.

- Signalling at roundabouts will prevent people from having to guess your intentions and almost running into your side.

- When encountering some knob jockey at a roundabout who has decided not to signal his intentions, waiting for him to pass over the junction before committing yourself to moving means you won't run into the side of him.

- When a traffic light shows red, it is considered good form to stop.

- When a traffic light shows green it is best practice to stop composing a text/filing your nails/masturbating and engage first gear and move off.

- The national speed limit on a single carriageway is 60mph, driving at 40mph will encourage people to attempt risky overtaking manoeuvres.

- The speed limit on narrow street with many pedestrians is normally 30mph, driving at 40mph will mean that you will have to break suddenly and almost end up in the rear of the person in front of you.

- Driving at 40mph on a 60mph road and on a 30mph road marks you out as a cretin of the highest order.

On The Pavement.

- Old Ladies, when on a coach trip to Canterbury, it is not required for you all to stop en masse and gaze into the window of WHSmith. They sell the same tat in there as they do at the branch in whichever Godforsaken town you live.

- Young men, when it is sunny, no-one really wants to see your pasty white, scrawny torso as you saunter down the street with your T-shirt tucked into the waistband of your kappa tracksuit bottoms. Fewer people are impressed with your selection of music playing over the loudspeaker of your mobile phone. Fewer people still are impressed with your habit of spitting on the pavement every 5 metres. The absolutely fucking huge black man who admonishes you as you spit once again at the ground but hit his very young daughter's shoes is neither impressed nor intimidated when you square up to him and ask him what his fucking problem is. He is twice your size and has limbs which look like Stuart Pearce's legs where most people have arms. Think carefully.

- When at the cashpoint with a large queue behind you, it is very bad form to insert your card and make use of every facility the cashpoint offers. To do it with two cards, and seemingly in English, German, French, Spanish, Italian, Serbo-Croat and Yoruba before walking away without having withdrawn any fucking cash, is asking for a hefty kick in the genitals.

In The Supermarket.

- When one of your unruly gutter rat children (of whom there seems to be a dozen, each one more unruly and snot-coated than the one before) runs into the basket being carried by an old woman, almost knocking her off her feet, the appropriate response is not to yell at her 'watch where you're fucking going.'

- When at the checkout, the sign hanging above the till that says 'Baskets Only' applies to everyone, not to everyone except you. Taking the young girl on the till to task for pointing it out, marks you out as a complete fucktard and is asking for a hefty kick in the genitals.

- When at the checkout having had your shopping scanned and bagged for you whilst you gazed out of the window, try not to act surprised when the girl on the till then requests payment.

- When at the checkout there is no point in acting like some kind of superior being because you've brought along your no-doubt very expensive, message heavy, rough hemp bag, when you are then going to demand that the girl on the till put your hermetically sealed chicken portions in a transparent plastic bag.

- When at the checkout don't tut and look at me like I've stamped on your kid's head because I am using a new plastic bag. I have a dog, these bags are then used to pick up the deposits she makes in the park and placed in the bin. Would you prefer it if I went out and bought purpose made bags, or would you like me to leave the dog-shit where it is, so your kids can roll around in it? If you like I can re-use the bag again and again by emptying the deposit into your letterbox.

It is a wonder I'm not on an attempted murder charge this afternoon.

The One That Wants To Know Which One It Is. . .

So which one is it? Troughing pig or drooling imbecile?

Elliot Morley (and there's a face only a mother could love) is in the Telegraph coloured shit this evening. It transpires that he claimed £16k to pay a mortgage he didn't have.

Sixteen thousand quid is more than a good deal of people in this country see in wages every year. This is not a piffling amount of cash.

Is there not one MP that will have the balls to come out and say 'Yes, we've been right at it. There has been a culture of grabbing as much loot as possible for years at Westminster now, and we honestly thought you'd never rumble us'?

No, Elliot Morley is the latest in an every increasing line of MPs who have made a 'mistake'.

This defies belief, these mistakes have been made over and over again. And for how many years before the leak of these expenses claims?

How are we to have any faith in your policies if you repeatedly make the simplest mistakes? Do you really expect us to believe that these are proper honest to God mistakes? Or is that perhaps you've been, y'know, lying?

Either way the whole fucking lot of you are not to be trusted, how stupid do you think we are?

The One That Is Looking For Pitchforks And Flaming Torches. . .

This story has already been touched on at the LPUK Blog.

Of course there's no dumbing down in the UK. They just don't want to confuse the plebs. (Oh, hang on, that might be Latin.)

I'm not normally driven to feelings of violence, but things like this have me looking for flaming torches, pitch forks and other items of an agricultural bent. (Ah, I think agricultural might have a Latin root.)

I see the spokesperson for Bournemouth Council has remained anon. (Ooops. I think that might be Latin as well. It's not easy, is it?), good job too, I'd be keeping a low profile if I'd driven people to the edge of homicide. (Bollocks, I've done it again!)

The One That Would Have Used It . . .

This story which crossed my line of sight at the always entertaining Magistrate's Blog.

A judge has ordered the Crown Prosecution Service to make a public apology to a gardener who was arrsted and taken to court for carrying a scythe which he said he needed for his work.

Oh for crying out loud. What is wrong with these people? Look, it is perfectly acceptable to bang on about the politicos interfering in the police and the introduction of targets and blah, blah, blah. But some prick in a uniform has (very arguably) considered the situation and felt this guy's collar.

COME ON! PLEASE, USE YOUR BLOODY BRAIN, WON'T YOU? He's a bloody gardener, of course he's got a scythe, and probably a sickle, pruning shears, a saw and all sorts. What next? Raids on butcher's shops because they've got cleavers? Why not nick the local armed response unit? They're driving around with bloody guns in the car.

The CPS should be forcibly marched from 'zance to Truro, naked, and then whipped in front of the cathederal for being such, stupid, unthinking, inhuman, thick as bottled shit idiots.

To get to court, this case must have passed through the PC, the custody Sarge, an Inspector, a caseworker, a huge number of CPS officers and no-one, not one bloody one of them, had the sense to say to themselves 'hey, let's just stop for a moment and consider this situation.' Every person that encountered this case should have the costs of this ridiculous episode deducted from their wages plus some compo for the poor old sod.

Give me strength. . .