Like the lower decks of a Nimitz class aircraft carrier, you might be forgiven for thinking that the concept of emancipation had never reached toilet lollipop sellers ears, maybe this is the reason for their non negotiating stance, being unfamiliar with the concepts involved.
I was touching my Johnson in the Brasshouse pub on a recent Saturday afternoon (they start the lollipop trade early in Brum) and decided to do my bit for the bizarrely happy gentleman who had stacked so many bottles of crap around the sink, that I briefly mistook it for a ladies bathroom. Not wishing to pay the full £1 for a lollipop which are probably sourced for around 10p, I suggested he sell me 2 for £1, which is still a healthy margin, for himself or whoever he contracts for/is in indentured servitude to.
This bargain was refused, and I left with no juicy taste in my mouth (despite rumours, not unusual for my toilet visits). I cannot help thinking that this was unproductive for the economy of the UK, and his little part of it in particular. Perhaps he is accountable to stocktaking, and his boss would suspect foul play. Perhaps he is salaried. Perhaps he thought I was a cheapskate. If ever a hard hitting Guardian investigation was required, it is in these bogs.
With Charles Babbage, helped create the first computer program, on a computer that didn’t actually exist. Together the two of them squandered the chance to progress technology 50 years* forward, and in actual fact kind of did nothing at all except to create a great alternate history scenario point of divergence. Possibly distracted by EastEnders. What a waste.
*number pulled out my ass.
Together with Bob Hope, helped create radar and foil various nazi spy rings (source: some film I watched on netflix a while back).
I am so retarded, I cannot work out how to tie my own shoelaces. This is a bit of a problem, because my pro active mandatory euthanasia for the mentally retarded stance is now perilously close to home.
I purchased these 36 hours ago, and my concious brain can’t work out an elegant solution to the laces needing some sort of knot in them, so they don’t drag on the floor. I gave my subconscious a 10 hour crack at it last night too, woke up, it had nothing. Pathetic.
I can tie a normal shoelace knot, but it looks messy and iffy, that can’t be right. Joining the Royal Navy might help if they still make you tie knots, but I’d probably end up intercepting drug traffickers and thereby putting the street prices up. Not sure I can morally justify the increase in crime that causes, just to sort these £15 trainers out.
Surely I am not meant to cut the end off to form normal laces, because then why are the ends joined by default?
Maybe I am not supposed to pull the laces so tight to start with, thus avoiding them coming into contact with the 1970s chewing gum laced pavements of Birmingham?
My equally retarded little brother can’t work it out either, which implies I am perhaps not so stupid, or the problem is genetic.
And this is why I started hanging around bus stops and staring at “yoofs” feet to find the solution, your honour.
Previously used category: Foetal Alcohol Syndrome.
The Ikon Gallery in Birmingham is a depressingly publicly funded, waste of time, that bored rich people wander in to when they want to look at utter nonsense, and pretend it means something.
Here are a list of art exhibitions, that if I had no morals and wanted to sponge off taxpayers, I would set up:
Painting titled “Better left unseen”, based on a brutally honest, horrific rotten.com or ogrish image. Hang on wall facing inwards and let the visitors/impish children turn it over if they dare.
Art exhibition of doodles, every workplace or school has a doodler, so put out a general call for submissions and wait for the art to flood in. Scan them all and display them using iPads, because these sorts of places just love excuses to piss away your money on iPads.
Set up one of those yellow “Warning wet floor” signs, and actually have the floor wet. This will confuse the fuck out of everyone, because in their entire life they will never have associated this sign with a floor that is actually wet. Post-modernist commentary on the excessive abuse of warning signs leading to their ineffectiveness, by pussies worried about being sued by bottom feeders.
Photoshops of bald heads on celebrities known to wear wigs. Guaranteed to get published by The Daily Fail as a nice promo piece too.
“Play makes it possible” – no, play actually makes it less likely.
The filthy hope machine that is the UK Lottery acts as if it is some benevolent dream maker, whilst secretly manically cackling at the millions of mathematically illiterate losers every week feeding it.
£7,275,200,000 was foolishly flushed away in 2014/2015. £3,915,200,000 was begrudgingly coughed up in winnings by a dodgy old man handing over pound notes very slowly hoping you will get bored and leave when you have enough for a Chinese takeaway. A return rate of 54% – I can’t think of another form of gambling worse than that. Maybe Russian Roulette with 3 bullets in the chamber. If you play the lottery, try that instead.
Look at those people in the picture, all smiling whilst they jump into a swimming pool somewhere sunny. Maybe they are on holiday? How to buy a holiday like this for yourself:
Don’t shit away £4 a week on lottery tickets or junkie like instant gratification scratchcards that you look fucking pitiful buying, barely waiting until you are out of the shop before realising you lost again. Put that money in a large jar instead.
Wait 10 years.
Your jar now contains 52 weeks * 10 years * £4 * 46% loss rate, so roughly £950 you have not jizzed away. An average save of almost £2 a week from not wasting your time on the ridiculous idea that this is good way to fix your life and make you happy.
With that £950 you saved, maybe more, because the world hates you and you never win anything, even though you did win £10 a few years ago, jet off for a week somewhere sunny. Wasn’t that hard was it? What did you really have to do? Not play the lottery.