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» Common
Common as Muck……
This QOTW reminds me of a family I know. Bunch of complete inbreds who claim hundreds of thousands in state benefit each year, including housing benefit for about six properties, some of which they don’t even occupy. Not one of them has got a real job, nor do any of them actively seek work.
The grandmother, who masterminds the benefit fraud operation, has no discipline over the antisocial behaviour of her offspring, but what hope does she have when her husband is a psychopathic bigot given to racist outbursts at the drop of a hat.
Her children all have broken marriages behind them, except for the one whose token marriage is only a cover-up for his being a shirt-lifter. One of her boys hooked up with a slapper who was sleeping her way round every third bloke in the country, until she copped it while out joyriding with a pissed-up mate and one of her “johns”, but he didn’t mind, as he’d been slipping one to some old bint who used to be his baby-sitter all the while anyway. Another of her lads was shafting some cheapo porn actress, but ended up with a chavette-to-end-all-chavettes, and he’s regularly been pulled up for taking and driving away (not just cars, but bloody jets, FFS). The daughter ran off with a squaddie, but ended up back on the money-for-nothing scam.
The grandchildren are generally piss-heads, potheads, and closet Nazis.
Whoever would want to live in Windsor??
(Sat 18th Oct 2008, 12:26, More)
Common as Muck……
This QOTW reminds me of a family I know. Bunch of complete inbreds who claim hundreds of thousands in state benefit each year, including housing benefit for about six properties, some of which they don’t even occupy. Not one of them has got a real job, nor do any of them actively seek work.
The grandmother, who masterminds the benefit fraud operation, has no discipline over the antisocial behaviour of her offspring, but what hope does she have when her husband is a psychopathic bigot given to racist outbursts at the drop of a hat.
Her children all have broken marriages behind them, except for the one whose token marriage is only a cover-up for his being a shirt-lifter. One of her boys hooked up with a slapper who was sleeping her way round every third bloke in the country, until she copped it while out joyriding with a pissed-up mate and one of her “johns”, but he didn’t mind, as he’d been slipping one to some old bint who used to be his baby-sitter all the while anyway. Another of her lads was shafting some cheapo porn actress, but ended up with a chavette-to-end-all-chavettes, and he’s regularly been pulled up for taking and driving away (not just cars, but bloody jets, FFS). The daughter ran off with a squaddie, but ended up back on the money-for-nothing scam.
The grandchildren are generally piss-heads, potheads, and closet Nazis.
Whoever would want to live in Windsor??
(Sat 18th Oct 2008, 12:26, More)
» School Trips
Lost in Translation -
Back in the 70's, it was a rare thing to have an overseas school trip, but being in the school CCF, or cadet force, meant an annual week away at an Army/RAF base. Hence, a group of some forty 16-year-old lads spending a week at RAF Gutersloh in Germany. Part of the schedule was a day out in Munster (to see the cathedral, or some such nonsense), but we were also to have a few hours left to our own devices (presumably so that we could go visiting art galleries, or admire the architecture). So, the coach has been parked up, and we are instructed to memorise the location to ensure that we can rendezvous at the appointed time of 16:00, and sent on our merry way.
Inexplicably, several of my mates and I have the same brainwave - head for the nearest Bierkeller. Two hours later, and a few litres of Germany's finest safely consumed, we leave said premises, and make the two minute walk back to the coach. Now, 16:00 comes and goes, and the majority of the party have re-assembled in dribs and drabs, and in varying degrees of sobriety. Supervising teacher speaks to coach driver, and arranges to allow another half-hour to wait for stragglers. Fast forward - the time is now 17:30, and coach driver is getting steadily more hot under the collar, but we are still waiting for two no-shows. 18:00, the local Polizei are now involved, and a bulletin has been issued to all patrol cars to look out for the two British teenagers wandering aimlessly around the city. Eventually, at about 18:15, the two miscreants come into sight, looking exhausted.
After much bollocking on the lack of respect for their peers, irresponsibility, and so on, the two are told to explain themselves. Turns out that they had "made sure" they knew the location of the coach by writing down the name of the street where it was parked, and produced the piece of paper. They had apparently been trying to get directions from the locals on how to find "Einbahnstrasse". Brilliant move, lads, that's German for One-Way-Street.
(Thu 7th Dec 2006, 12:56, More)
Lost in Translation -
Back in the 70's, it was a rare thing to have an overseas school trip, but being in the school CCF, or cadet force, meant an annual week away at an Army/RAF base. Hence, a group of some forty 16-year-old lads spending a week at RAF Gutersloh in Germany. Part of the schedule was a day out in Munster (to see the cathedral, or some such nonsense), but we were also to have a few hours left to our own devices (presumably so that we could go visiting art galleries, or admire the architecture). So, the coach has been parked up, and we are instructed to memorise the location to ensure that we can rendezvous at the appointed time of 16:00, and sent on our merry way.
Inexplicably, several of my mates and I have the same brainwave - head for the nearest Bierkeller. Two hours later, and a few litres of Germany's finest safely consumed, we leave said premises, and make the two minute walk back to the coach. Now, 16:00 comes and goes, and the majority of the party have re-assembled in dribs and drabs, and in varying degrees of sobriety. Supervising teacher speaks to coach driver, and arranges to allow another half-hour to wait for stragglers. Fast forward - the time is now 17:30, and coach driver is getting steadily more hot under the collar, but we are still waiting for two no-shows. 18:00, the local Polizei are now involved, and a bulletin has been issued to all patrol cars to look out for the two British teenagers wandering aimlessly around the city. Eventually, at about 18:15, the two miscreants come into sight, looking exhausted.
After much bollocking on the lack of respect for their peers, irresponsibility, and so on, the two are told to explain themselves. Turns out that they had "made sure" they knew the location of the coach by writing down the name of the street where it was parked, and produced the piece of paper. They had apparently been trying to get directions from the locals on how to find "Einbahnstrasse". Brilliant move, lads, that's German for One-Way-Street.
(Thu 7th Dec 2006, 12:56, More)
» Common
God's Honest Truth, or may my eyes be damned......
About eighteen months ago, I was paying a thankfully rare* visit to the UK to catch up with family and friends.
My last port of call being London, I had tried to book a flight back home using the two alternatives - London City, or London Stansted airport.
Alas, on my due departure date, the City flight was fully booked, and so I reconciled myself to the Hull that is Stansted. I probably need not go into the niceties for regular consumers, but should point out that Stansted is the airport serving the county of Essex (see previous QOTWs).
At this particular time of year (around Easter), there is a flocking-off of the Romford Massive to sunnier climes, including the brigade of single mums (for “single”, read “Ain’t got a single clue who the farvers are, well, I was rat-arsed and stoned weren't I, but I like having mixed-race babies, and besides, the social pays more”.
So, having suffered the depradations of the security check-in queues**, I find myself in the gate area for my departure, and like any sane man, order myself a comforting pint of Holy Nectar/ Nigerian Lager/Liffey Water/Guinness (delete as necessary), and settle down for a half-hours' pre-flight relaxation and a read of the book.
But Oh No….
22 stones of Japanese-whaler-stylee "friendly-fire" walrus blubber*** from Basildon squelches into the seat opposite, and starts railing about the “Fahking Cahnts” at security “oo woodnt let her ‘ave foar bags ta take froo”. “FFakssake Oi know oim gonna need’m cos the boy always shits hisself!”
At this point, I drew some succour when I noticed the baggage label attached to the buggy (IBZ or whatever the code is for Ibiza). At least I wouldn’t be riding this one out.
Two minutes later, it was like the Ride of the Valkyries, the final gallop of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a Beastie Boys meets Janis Joplin concert, and Hurricane Katrina all rolled into one, as the fruit-bats of her womb arrived, kicking, spitting, biting, effing, and blinding.
The beached whale sat blissfully deaf to the mayhem which the demonic duo were causing for about five minutes, before the siren voice of a large Vodka and Red Bull obviously threw in her unquenchable lament.
Evidently, the contents of the Pushchair of Darkness could not be trusted to mere airline passengers whilst she sought out the requisite comestibles.
She therefore summoned her progeny thus, and I kid you not…….
“OY! TROJAN, CHLAMYDIA, GET OVER ‘ERE or YA AIN’T GOIN TA EYE-BEE-FA!”
Common? Well, I've only seen/heard it that bad once.
* No offence to friends/family, I just hate police states.
** What's the problem? Read the rules and comply!
*** People like that should be forced to sit together on planes - 3 abreast - see if you like it!
Length? Not as long as the poor b3tards who were on the flight.
Tschuss...
(Mon 20th Oct 2008, 2:06, More)
God's Honest Truth, or may my eyes be damned......
About eighteen months ago, I was paying a thankfully rare* visit to the UK to catch up with family and friends.
My last port of call being London, I had tried to book a flight back home using the two alternatives - London City, or London Stansted airport.
Alas, on my due departure date, the City flight was fully booked, and so I reconciled myself to the Hull that is Stansted. I probably need not go into the niceties for regular consumers, but should point out that Stansted is the airport serving the county of Essex (see previous QOTWs).
At this particular time of year (around Easter), there is a flocking-off of the Romford Massive to sunnier climes, including the brigade of single mums (for “single”, read “Ain’t got a single clue who the farvers are, well, I was rat-arsed and stoned weren't I, but I like having mixed-race babies, and besides, the social pays more”.
So, having suffered the depradations of the security check-in queues**, I find myself in the gate area for my departure, and like any sane man, order myself a comforting pint of Holy Nectar/ Nigerian Lager/Liffey Water/Guinness (delete as necessary), and settle down for a half-hours' pre-flight relaxation and a read of the book.
But Oh No….
22 stones of Japanese-whaler-stylee "friendly-fire" walrus blubber*** from Basildon squelches into the seat opposite, and starts railing about the “Fahking Cahnts” at security “oo woodnt let her ‘ave foar bags ta take froo”. “FFakssake Oi know oim gonna need’m cos the boy always shits hisself!”
At this point, I drew some succour when I noticed the baggage label attached to the buggy (IBZ or whatever the code is for Ibiza). At least I wouldn’t be riding this one out.
Two minutes later, it was like the Ride of the Valkyries, the final gallop of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a Beastie Boys meets Janis Joplin concert, and Hurricane Katrina all rolled into one, as the fruit-bats of her womb arrived, kicking, spitting, biting, effing, and blinding.
The beached whale sat blissfully deaf to the mayhem which the demonic duo were causing for about five minutes, before the siren voice of a large Vodka and Red Bull obviously threw in her unquenchable lament.
Evidently, the contents of the Pushchair of Darkness could not be trusted to mere airline passengers whilst she sought out the requisite comestibles.
She therefore summoned her progeny thus, and I kid you not…….
“OY! TROJAN, CHLAMYDIA, GET OVER ‘ERE or YA AIN’T GOIN TA EYE-BEE-FA!”
Common? Well, I've only seen/heard it that bad once.
* No offence to friends/family, I just hate police states.
** What's the problem? Read the rules and comply!
*** People like that should be forced to sit together on planes - 3 abreast - see if you like it!
Length? Not as long as the poor b3tards who were on the flight.
Tschuss...
(Mon 20th Oct 2008, 2:06, More)
» Useless advice
Ahh... That'll be useful to know!
I swear to God, I once saw a label on a packet of Whiskey-flavoured condoms, the following advice........
"Contains alcohol. Do not use if driving"
Ooops! Just past through Maidenhead!
I shall, as always.......
(Fri 20th Oct 2006, 15:40, More)
Ahh... That'll be useful to know!
I swear to God, I once saw a label on a packet of Whiskey-flavoured condoms, the following advice........
"Contains alcohol. Do not use if driving"
Ooops! Just past through Maidenhead!
I shall, as always.......
(Fri 20th Oct 2006, 15:40, More)
» The Dirty Secrets of Your Trade
Dirty Secrets ??
OK, so it’s another post about the I.T. industry, but the big IT companies out there have basically got a license to print money once they’ve got their foot in the door.
I work on a contract basis for a large concern, who Internationally make Business Machines, and who may or may not have been responsible for the design of the HAL computer in the film 2001.
They in turn have a contract for the maintenance of the software systems for a large manufacturing company based in Switzerland.
On occasions, this manufacturing company will identify a requirement for an enhancement to the systems. This may be something very small. Like changing the positioning of an address on their invoice. At this point, The International producer of Business Machines comes to me and says
“Hey Demeter, how long do you think this work will take?”
I then reply “Well, I can make the changes, run all the necessary testing, and produce the finished article in about 2.5 hours”…….
HAL then takes over……
By the time that a quote for this change has reached the customer, the 2.5 hours has been plugged into the HAL recalculation machine:
Programmer says 2.5 hours – so double that. We’re now up to 5.0 hours.
There will of course be a “Work Assessment element” – 1.0 hours, and so it goes on…….
Then there is the “Functional Specification” – 2.0 hours
Add on the “Technical Specification” – 2.0 hours
“Test Plan Scenario Definition” – 1.5 hours
“Risk Assessment” – 1.5 hours
“Contingency” – 2.5 Hours
“Unit Testing” – 2.5 Hours
“Module Testing” – 2.0 Hours
“Test Evaluation against Test Plan” – 1.0 Hours
“Implementation Planning” – 2.0 Hours
“Project Management” (WTF!!) – 3.0 Hours
“Implementation” – 2.0 Hours
“Post Implementation Assessment” – 3.0 Hours
So the 2.5 hours which I have allowed myself to comfortably do the job in question has now spawned over 30 hours of chargeable time to the customer, all of which will be at a rate about three times more than I am being paid.
Strangest thing? - The customer will invariably swallow this charge.
Who’s the Mug?
Length? Every inch turns into ten when you’re paying for it.
(Tue 2nd Oct 2007, 15:17, More)
Dirty Secrets ??
OK, so it’s another post about the I.T. industry, but the big IT companies out there have basically got a license to print money once they’ve got their foot in the door.
I work on a contract basis for a large concern, who Internationally make Business Machines, and who may or may not have been responsible for the design of the HAL computer in the film 2001.
They in turn have a contract for the maintenance of the software systems for a large manufacturing company based in Switzerland.
On occasions, this manufacturing company will identify a requirement for an enhancement to the systems. This may be something very small. Like changing the positioning of an address on their invoice. At this point, The International producer of Business Machines comes to me and says
“Hey Demeter, how long do you think this work will take?”
I then reply “Well, I can make the changes, run all the necessary testing, and produce the finished article in about 2.5 hours”…….
HAL then takes over……
By the time that a quote for this change has reached the customer, the 2.5 hours has been plugged into the HAL recalculation machine:
Programmer says 2.5 hours – so double that. We’re now up to 5.0 hours.
There will of course be a “Work Assessment element” – 1.0 hours, and so it goes on…….
Then there is the “Functional Specification” – 2.0 hours
Add on the “Technical Specification” – 2.0 hours
“Test Plan Scenario Definition” – 1.5 hours
“Risk Assessment” – 1.5 hours
“Contingency” – 2.5 Hours
“Unit Testing” – 2.5 Hours
“Module Testing” – 2.0 Hours
“Test Evaluation against Test Plan” – 1.0 Hours
“Implementation Planning” – 2.0 Hours
“Project Management” (WTF!!) – 3.0 Hours
“Implementation” – 2.0 Hours
“Post Implementation Assessment” – 3.0 Hours
So the 2.5 hours which I have allowed myself to comfortably do the job in question has now spawned over 30 hours of chargeable time to the customer, all of which will be at a rate about three times more than I am being paid.
Strangest thing? - The customer will invariably swallow this charge.
Who’s the Mug?
Length? Every inch turns into ten when you’re paying for it.
(Tue 2nd Oct 2007, 15:17, More)