As neither a driver not a car owner (the former kind of dictates the latter) and a loather of the general public this whole petrol craze that has swept the nation has been hilarious. The POSSIBILITY (bold and uppercase used for emphasis already, where will he go next? Italics or underlined are the big favourites) that there would be a strike by tanker drivers seems to be enough to get people with plenty petrol in their cars to queue for hours to get more petrol in the tank than they will need. I fucking love the British people going mental. And people are fucking mental; someone in England has definitely drove around wasting petrol in their car so they could get a full tank of petrol. That has definitely happened.
Co-incidentally, the last week or so creating havoc and panic about petrol not being delivered for a couple of days has pushed the butchering of public health issues with the Health and Social Care Act. That must have been a completely independent slice of luck for the ramshackle collection of chancers compromising the government. One only hopes that there isn’t a similar strike of Coca-Cola employees manufacturing cancer treatment in a couple of years as there will be people queuing up like the Next January Sales puffing on Marlboros with a roll of £50s for the last few treatments.
I shouldn’t get on my partisan high horse – the party I am a member of has lost a bi-election to man who is best know for impersonating a cat on a televised popularity contest reality show. Anyway, I am not getting on a partisan high horse. They all make me shudder to a degree, Labour are just the ones who used to represent something that was nearest my own ideological mindweave.
Groin But Not Forgotten
I keep forgetting that I have hurt myself and playing football with said hurtness. It’s not something I have experienced before – basically if I look down myself it’s just above my pubic triangle to the right. Not at skin level – inside, and it’s not always there. It only reappears when I kick a football with any degree of force. Because I own a memory that is tempremental at best I only remember this injury when I am warming up for my weekly football game and I kick a ball. “OW,” I say and then remember. Fortunatley I am like a young Xavi or Iniesta and just modify my game to play without kicking the ball hard- or doing so with my left foot. Then after 20 minutes running around it all loosens up a bit and I start thrashing myself about safe in the knowledge I will not be in pain until an hour or so after I get home and all through the night, but will then forget about it until I kick the ball warming up next week. It’s the perfect system and only 55% likely to end in me going lame.
Monkey Hard On
My friend Vicky makes sock monkeys (check them out here: https://www.facebook.com/#!/The.Sock.Parade: they’re fucking great), my colleague – and not friend – Rabina doesn’t like it when I make the tail of one of the monkeys look like the monkey has a cock, in stiffy mode. That makes me do it all the more. Haha, I am hilarious.