Duck (Scary) vs Builder vs Solicitor
I had some building work done, but got ripped off horribly when the useless workshy cunt of a builder did a runner with the job half finished. After negotiating an out-of-court settlement, the useless workshy cunt never paid up and left town leaving no forwarding address, and there followed a short exchange of letters with his legal representative, Mr Useless Money-Grabbing Cunt of a Solicitor.

Dear Mr Duck (Scary)

I represent Mr Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder. We note from your recent communication with our office that you have referred to my client as "a bit of a crook". These comments have been seen by Mr Cunt of a Builder's former business partner, and this therefore constitutes a serious libel against my client.
A payment of £1,550 will settle this case without having to resort to the courts.

Yours etc
U.M.G Cunt of a Solicitor


Dear Mr Cunt of a Solicitor

I note with some interest the contents of your letter, and respond as follows:

1. I have spoken to Mr Cunt of a Builder's former partner, who tells me that your client has absconded owing him £2,500 and agrees wholeheartedly that he is a "bit of a crook"
2. He also notes that your office has requested £1,550 in unpaid legal fees from him, owed to you by Mr Cunt of a Builder. He has, I understand, refused to pay Mr Cunt of a Builder's bill
3. I am sure that the Law Society will agree that the sum owed to you by Mr Cunt of a Builder, and the similar sum you have requested for this alleged defamation is a complete and utter coincidence

I therefore refer you to the answer given in Arkel vs Pressdram

Your pal

Duck (Scary)

He does not reply
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 27 May 2010, 12:59, 6 replies)

The professionally unemployed
This is probably going to be a bit of a rant. Before I start, I want to make it clear I'm not talking about unemployed people in general. Most of us at some point have left a job or been made redundant and had to spend time looking for work. Especially "In These Tough Economic Times" it's not uncommon. Unemployment is usually a stage between employments, where one hunts for employment. That's why the state-funded bolster is now called a "jobseeker's allowance".

What pisses me off are the people who objected to it having its name changed to that because it was previously called "unemployment benefit", because that's how they see it: if you're unemployed, then someone should be paying you. They hate that you now have to actually try and find a job in order to keep claiming your money - money that they think they have a right to be given because they don't want to work, that it's the State's responsibility to fund their laziness.

I know I'm only describing a minority of people, and I really don't want to come over all Daily Mail here (we'll get on to that later), but the attitude and sense of entitlement some of these people have is truly stupefying.

I've been a teacher; I've spent plenty of time working in GP surgeries; one of my best friends is a social worker, many of my friends are now doctors and one friend has the misfortune (or the courage) to work in a Jobcentre. I've seen, and heard of, countless cases:

- women who will have another baby to try and demonstrate their commitment to the latest feckless nomadic neanderthal who's grunted his way through the neighbourhood, with the added bonus that having another child means you get to move house (I didn't know that families are entitled to one bedroom per child in council house allocations either until J told me: spawn another, get a bigger house)

- families where the children wear their filthy school uniform at weekends because they have no other clothes but there's always money for the mum's Stella, fags and bingo and they've got a plasma screen TV and a clutch of games consoles,

- mums that are given the Argos catalogue by social workers and told to pick what their children need - ever wondered why you see chavs wandering around with several hundred pound baby buggies?

- kids that arrive at school unable to spell their own name, or name primary colours, with speech and behavioural problems because they've been sat in front of the brightly flashing TV from birth and no-one's ever conversed with them,

- patients with no illness who will book GP appointments because they've run out of ibuprofen, knowing that a pack will cost 50p in the supermarket but they get free prescriptions so they'll stock up that way,

- "unfit to work" patients, usually overweight men, who ham it up so badly and claim agonising pains and difficulty even using crutches to try and continue getting disability benefit but are then seen doing building work on the sly for cash,

- the "bad men", the "rude boys", the stupid pricks with the anger problems who suck their teeth and drive shabby blacked-out BMWs, deal crap drugs and think that condoms aren't for real men, who cajole and screw any woman they can, until she gets pregnant (usually after she gets a tattoo) to prove her devotion to them, who run off to the next poor gullible girl, leaving a trail of seriously messed up kids who'll inevitably grow up like their dads, thinking women are meant to breed, men are meant to be penis-driven wanderers at the whim of their animal wills and everyone is meant to be given money to do this.

Plenty of these people's neighbours work incredibly hard, sometimes two or three jobs, in order to afford the same things that the professionally unemployed get given. And I've heard several of our patients complain that there's no work out there, usually because "the immigrants are taking all the jobs" - OK, crikey, here goes the next rant - they're not TAKING the jobs, if you're too lazy to find a job or think that certain jobs are beneath you, the immigrants are DOING the jobs, because you won't. Who's cleaning toilets? Flipping burgers? Emptying waste bins? Mopping floors? Sweeping streets? Doing a hundred other menial jobs that you look down on and think you're too good for? Yes, often immigrants - people who have come over here to WORK, to earn money for themselves, by WORKING, who usually work incredibly hard because they appreciate the opportunity to earn a living wage from a crappy job and understand that to look after their family they need to EARN the money to support them.

The selfish arrogance behind the sense of entitlement riles me beyond measure. "But it's my right" is heard far too much from a tiny number of people. This isn't a party political thing. It's not a class thing. It's not a race thing. It's not a wealth thing. It's just that I wish there was some way to tell the whingeing scroungers who turn up at the surgery week after week griping about how they're not being given all they're "entitled" to, to SHUT UP, GROW UP AND GET A FUCKING JOB.
( sanityclause is waiting until, Fri 28 May 2010, 14:08, 75 replies)

Words of wisdom from my housemate
If the second part of your job title's "Agent" and the first part isn't "Secret", you're a cunt.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 27 May 2010, 15:59, 10 replies)

'Soap Experts'
I was a rubbish student. In my three years at St Foljambe De Fwar-Fwar's Metropolitan City University Academy of Excellence (formerly Bumhole Poly), I struggled to live up to the most basic of stereotypes. Not for me the surfeit of casual sex, the stealing of traffic-lights and the waking up in a kebab. Housemates would gasp in disbelief at my habit of including vegetables in meals and everything. I was well shit.

I did, however, manage to find time for the regulation gawping at daytime TV. Yes, I saw Chris Morris' welcome invasion of pretend-current-affairs-pishfest The Time The Place. I was there when indie outsiders Pulp mimed their legendary crossover performance of Common People on This Morning. And, once a week, I would swear like a fucking trooper with his balls caught on salt-n-vinegar barbed-wire when that same show gave airtime to their cunting 'Soap Expert'.

She was called Tina Baker, she looked like a rocking-horse's anus and her job description probably included the phrase 'wry, sideways glance at the week's soaps'. Once a week she'd sit in her bloody chair, pulling her bloody face while she made her bloody remarks about the comings and goings in Albert Square, Ramsay Street and wherever it is Coronation Street's set. And it got right on my wick.

What grated for me was the sheer pointlessness of it all. Her job was to talk about what had happened on TV, show a clip, make what she thought was an achingly clever quip, then struggle to contain a look of self-satisfaction akin to a cat who’s just shat a perfect ampersand. Worst of all, she only had one ‘joke’; Refer to two typically calamitous tragedies to befall a soap character, then add a light-hearted third one. i.e. “It’s been a bad week for Phil Mitchell. His dog died, his garage burnt down, and just WHAT was he thinking wearing that shirt?!” “Poor Cindy. First she’s diagnosed with a terminal illness, then she gets shot in the face, and worst of all, Ian Beale turns up and blah fucking blah”.

I have no idea if she’s still peddling her sorry act today. I suspect though that, considering people willingly pay actual money for the likes of Heat magazine in return for in-depth investigations into whether a Big Brother 5 runner-up’s cousin prefers scones or hammers, she’s probably about to be revealed as the new messiah.

(Crikey, imagine having to be a messiah. Your mate betrays you, you get nailed to a cross, and just LOOK at the state of those sandals!!!!LOL!!!111!!)
(costas, Thu 27 May 2010, 23:13, 12 replies)

Telemarketers Beware
I hate telemarketers with a passion, and in our industry we get a lot of calls from outsourced indian companies trying to make meetings, or dodgy aussie companies trying to sell us seminars which lumaries of the business world have remarkably "asked us to attend", and for the low low some of $20,000.

Rather than get upset, there are several strategies that we've used to great effect:

1. How long can we keep you on hold?
This game involves telling the telemarketer they've called at the perfect time to get us to change our contract on the phone system, or whatever it is they're trying to sell. They just need to talk to the guy in accounts. He's very busy. I'm sure he will answer soon. Still there? I'll let him know you're on hold. We are very keen to save thousands. Our phone bill is huge. If you can save us 40% that would be like $50,000 a month for us.

2. The special telemarketer extension
Pick the most horrific song, set it as on hold music for a specific extension. Repeat it forever. I love open source phone systems :)

(1) and (2) have caused us to be the target of real, real rage and we've had people on hold for over an hour.

3. Can we make you swear at someone?
A bit more cunty - but basically this involves passing them off to a different phone number as they called the wrong office.

We then give them the number of a foreign embassy, and the name of "insert very rude phrase in said foreign language" as the contact they need to speak to.

We never had a call back after the last one, unfortunately, I'd love to know how well it goes with an aggressive Indian woman calling the Russian embassy, demanding to speak with "Go f**k yourself"

Hound.
(evil_hound last barked at the moon on, Sun 30 May 2010, 10:44, 5 replies)

Pikeys
Ok, perhaps not a profession but certainly a way of live and they do make a living off it.

I hate pikeys for a number of reasons. There's the obvious stuff like huge cost on my council tax for cleaning up the fly tipped rubbish and repairing the damage when they vacate the nearby car park/field that became home for a few weeks.

However the personal side of it stems from a mistake of youthful stupidity....

Back at the age of 16 a friend and I were hard up over the school summer holiday, so along comes a "builder" with a large truck* driving down his road, see's the 2 of us and offers us a days labour for £30 cash each.

Naively we accepted. We hopped up into the cab with "Paddy" and his bastard son and set off. My suspicions began when I saw the state of the truck*. It didn't take long before we worked out he was a pikey and made a mental note to be cautious. The drive to the work site was long... too long. In fact it took about an hour. When a girl waved at me through the window son of pikey seemed concerned and asked how I knew her... almost like he wanted no witnesses to future events.

We arrived in a posh neighbourhood and in what can only be described now as stereotypical we began stripping the drive of a big detached house ready to be tarmac'd the next day. I kid you not me and my mate were worked like dogs on a hot hot day, cutting and clearing overgrown bushes and pickaxing up the old drive and shovelling it onto the back of the truck*. "Fire it up there" the Paddy wanker would shout over and over.

We must have looked in a bad way as the home owner looked concerned and brought us out drinks asking if we were ok etc. Paddy made sure he intervened and pretty much kept us separated from the customer after that.

By the end of the day we were mere shells of the lads we'd been that morning. Mentally and physically drained I'd had enough. We set off on the stupidly long drive back home and then the questionning began. All sorts. Everytime a posh looking caravan went past Paddy & son would get a bit excited and coo over the plush looking lines of it.

Eventually the fateful question. "What do you think of gypsies then?" I was asked. I didn't think. I just spoke. "I fucking hate Pikeys. Absolute scum of the earth." I said. The atmosphere in the truck changed in that instance. It fell silent. After a minute Paddy spoke. "Why?".

So I told him. I layed it out about the crime, vandalism, fly tipping etc etc etc. I was still venting my disgust as we turned off the road.... into the biggest fucking gypsy camp I've ever seen.

We drove for what seemed like miles into the middle of this field. Astonishingly the tipper mechanism of the truck* didn't work and me and my mate were forced to offload about 5 tonnes of hardcore and cut down trees using 2 shovels. Obviously this was just onto the fly tipped pile of other rubbish, not some skip or anything helpful. Meanwhile Paddy had gone to "chat to his mates".

Me and my mate knew we were fucked. We could see the only gate, which we'd come through, about 500m away. Between us and the gate were about 200 angry looking Pikeys. If was wasn't already so knackered I'd have crapped myself but the fear had already stepped in and plugged my arse tight shut.

As we finished off loading the truck Paddy came over to pay us. And so started the talk. Apparantly working yourself to near death isn't working hard enough. Also we hadn't done a full days work as it was gone 9 when we were picked up and it was only 4:30 now. So we weren't getting the promised £60 between us. We were offered £20. Just £10 each. My mate took it and we were pointed toward the gate which now seemed a long long way off. We began walking and started to hear a few loud comments from some of the roughest looking teenagers I've ever seen. Considering some of the shitty North London areas I grew up in that's saying something.

After about 100m my mate says, "when I say so we're running over there and just keep up". "Go!".

We ran about 50m to the closest perimeter fence and were swiftly over it into the dense undergrowth beyond. I could hear voices beginning to give chase. I had visions of being a body found in the undergrowth 6 months down the line. Adrenaline kicked in and I put more effort into the next 5 mins than 5 years of PE lessons at school.

After a min or so we emerged scratched and dirty onto the grass verge of the A41. We legged it across the lanes of traffic fearing not for the 70mph traffic but the pikeys behind us. After a few mins we found a phone box in a residential street and decided it was first safe point. We got in and picked up the handset, just then we saw the first of the Pikey teens come into view. They stopped. We stared. What was going on? Then I realise, they don't know who we're talking to. The fact we'd not even dialled didn't matter. We could be calling the police, or local nutters, anyone.

We called a taxi. A taxi that had the very specific instructions to pick us up directly outside the phone box, only 2 of us were getting in, and not to hang about as we went. After the call we kept holding the handset and pretended to be talking, safest choice we thought.

Once the taxi arrived we were in and gone in seconds. That's when my mate checks the money we'd been paid with. He elbows me in the ribs and passes me the note. We exchange glances. It's fake.
Not sure if it was genius or luck, but my mate asks the cabby to stop at a corner shop, he legs it in and a minute later is back out with a 2 litre bottle of drink and a load of change.

We get a few miles down the road and decide we're safe enough now so the taxi drops us off. After paying him we've got about £12 left but are alive and in one piece. So we start the long walk home which took another 2 hours.

Like I said, I fucking hate Pikeys.

* a stolen tipper truck, with smashed windscreen, hotwired ignitiona and the motorway maintenance signs still on the back.



To try and settle the argument over whether Pikey is or is not the appropriate term for the persons in the story above I give you this reference:

"According to the Oxford Dictionary of Slang, pikey dates back to 1847 and means gypsy or traveller.

The word is believed to be a contraction of "turnpike" - a reference to a feature of the travelling life in years gone by."


From the English "turnpike", the place where itinerant travellers and thieves would camp near a settlement. Pikey is not a racial group, the term is used to describe anyone who lives in a caravan or shares the same values and "culture" of "the travelling community", and whose main sources of income are as follows: Stealing cars, flogging roses in pubs for "childrens' charities", nicking lead off roofs, burgling garden sheds, blagging entry to old peoples house to rob them, doing dodgy tarmac jobs ("we've got some black stuff left over from a job up the road"), sometimes with mint imperials used as a substitute for white chippings, or, reportedly, using snow to lay slabs on when the sand ran out, stealing your bollocks if they weren't in a bag and anything else that's not nailed down and anything that is nailed down but will fit in the back of an untaxed Transit when nobody's looking. Characterised by lurchers on a string, a unintelligible language that "isn't English, it isn't Irish, it's just Pikey" (source: Film: Snatch), a penchant for harecoursing, ketamine, lighter fuel, fighting in pubs and shopping at Lidl. Best avoided.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 27 May 2010, 13:18, 6 replies)

Estate Agents are going to get a lot of stick this week
So before it becomes tiresome, Scaryduck's entertaining exchange of letters has reminded me of the last time I moved house. The old place wasn't even rented from one of the bigger and notoriously cunty agencies, but they tried it on all the same when it came to returning the deposit. If I may crave your indulgence, I'm quite proud of the angry email I concocted, so I'd like to share it with y'all...

In which CROW gets all 'Honda Accord' on his old estate agents
October. CROW checks his bank statement online to find a large sum of money has been transferred electronically to his account. It has the Estate Agent's name attached to it, but is somewhat smaller than the total deposit he and his housemates had originally paid two years ago. Trying to be as non-confrontational as possible, he sends the following.
Dear Arsehole-Estate-Agent, (name changed to protect the not-so-innocent)
I've received a payment from Arsehole Estates for £2640 - I presume this is the returned deposit?

Best regards, Crow

Later that afternoon, AEA replies...
Yes indeed,
Arsehole-Estate-Agent

CROW tries to give them the benefit of the doubt - though he suspects otherwise, perhaps this is no more than a simple mistake.
Ok, many thanks for that. However, according to the paperwork, the total deposit should be £3000.
Crow

AEA replies soon afterwards
Absolutely right Crow but we had to get the place cleaned, which cost £360. It took 4 of them 6 hours, including cleaning the carpets. I can send you a copy of the invoice if you'd like.

CROW is, to say the least, not impressed, having spent all of the previous weekend with his housemates cleaning the place. CROW leaves his computer and goes for a walk to calm down. He knocks on the door of a friend's office and they go for a cup of tea. Calmed, but still sufficiently indignant, CROW pens the following reply.
Dear Arsehole-Estate-Agent,

Whilst I appreciate the need for the property to be in a suitably clean state for incoming tenants, I do not agree that it is our responsibility to pay for it be cleaned professionally. We were only contractually obliged to clean the property to the extent that it was left in the same state as we found it. When we first moved into , the condition in which it had been left by the previous tenants was entirely unacceptable and it was only after some weeks that Arsehole Estates arranged for the property to be cleaned. At the end of our own tenure, we made sure to clean the property to the best extent we could, and I would argue that, some standard wear and tear notwithstanding, it was left in as good a state as, if not better than, that in which we found it.

Furthermore, you have deducted the sum of £360 from our deposit without any prior notice. Proposed deductions should be identified to all parties involved before they are effected.

Whilst the following are perhaps less relevant to the matter, I feel this is a pertinent time to raise them. I would remind you that, during the course of our tenancy, part of the kitchen ceiling collapsed and had to be replaced, due to a problem with the insulation of the upstairs bathroom. It took several months for Arsehole Estates to arrange for this be repaired, during which time we were unable to make use of the upstairs bathroom and had to use the kitchen without any guarantee that the remainder of the ceiling was secure. Following the repair, there was some concern when another prominent damp patch appeared on the new kitchen ceiling. Later, water from the bath/shower was observed to leak through this damp patch into the kitchen. Whilst this, fortunately, did not culminate in a repeat collapse, the response from Arsehole Estates was again slow, and we were again forced to annexe the upstairs bathroom for several weeks.

In February, it was bought to your attention that the main heating element in the oven had failed. Obviously, this severely restricted our ability to cook within the property and, despite repeated emails and telephone calls to your office on Rectum Street, the problem was not fixed until the end of June. A problem with the back gate was also raised around the same time, and it was again some time before a repair was carried out, preventing a potential safety hazard to anybody requiring access to the garden or shed during this time.

Such incidents put us in a very strong position to demand at least a partial refund of the rent we paid for certain months. The agreed rent was for a house with 5 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms, with a fully fitted kitchen. For several months over the last two years, we found ourselves with only one safe bathroom and only a partially functional kitchen, which itself presented a possible safety risk before the ceiling was repaired. In spite of this, we waited patiently for the problems to be rectified, making no such demands, let alone withholding any rent. It would be greatly appreciated if you were to show us a similar courtesy with respect to our deposit.

Yours sincerely,
Crow

An hour later, CROW receives a reply. Simply reads:
Crow,
I think your comments are fair. We will reimburse the rest tomorrow.
AEA.

Smugly, CROW parallel-parks his Honda Accord whilst casually lighting a cigar before inviting some passing supermodels to have sex with him on the back seat.
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 27 May 2010, 14:14, 5 replies)

As my Dad said...
Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.
(Tugnut I got them all..., Thu 27 May 2010, 12:37, Reply)

Chuggers
Charity Muggers

Minding my own business walking out to get lunch in Putney I get some people from 'Warchild' - kids injured in warfare and so on.

Them - "Help the child soldiers sir?" *waving pictures of children carrying guns and looking sorry for themselves*
Me -"Actually I already do."
Them - "How?"
Me - "I design landmines. I'm working on a really good one, when triggered it jumps to at least 5 feet before exploding. It should miss most children."

Them - *shocked* *move away*
( Razor What the fuck - a sig?, Thu 27 May 2010, 12:37, 10 replies)

Sports Stars
Professional sports people are the ones I find get right on my wick. These types, usually of the little to no intelligence and of no real life ability other than being able to kick or hit a ball get paid millions and squillions of Dollars, Pounds, Euros for PLAYING GAMES.

I have heard it being justified, “Oh they have to train very hard and make a lot of sacrifices”, THEY PLAY FUCKING GAMES. A woman living in war torn Africa getting raped by marauding soldiers and taking it so they don’t find her children hidden under the floor boards is making a lot of sacrifices, these cunts hang out with their mates, PLAYING FUCKING GAMES and don’t eat KFC, that isn’t a sacrifice that is a lifestyle choice.

Yet for some reason we hold these cunts up as role models and examples of all that is good in our society. Give them father of the year awards on Tuesday and Wednesday they are out with their over paid, under brained team mates hovering up great piles of cocaine, forcing them selves on women (although some don’t really seem to mind being forced on) usually in a group, cheating on their wives, abandoning their children and generally doing all the worst things you can do for society.

They don’t actually contribute anything to society other than PLAYING FUCKING GAMES for the entertainment of the masses. Doctors save lives, doctors make people lives better, sure they get paid reasonably well for what they do but, bloody hell, they do make a huge difference to people lives yet their salary is a 100th of blokes like Noberta Sola.

And finally, what about teachers? The people we trust our children’s minds to, the people who outside the family have the most amount of influence (and in many cases more influence). If we paid teachers a million pounds/dollars/euros a year, it would probably attract the best and brightest people to become teachers, rather than merchant bankers or lawyers and ensure the long term betterment of our society rather than the large number of no hopers* who can’t make it in the real world and choose to impart their mediocrity on to our kids.

It’s just fucking wrong getting paid huge money to PLAY FUCKING GAMES. Give them 20 quid a week and a free meal after the match. That is fair remuneration for what they do. Maybe then the cunts would have to get a real job Monday to Friday and the time they have for taking advantage of society would be greatly reduced.

*no offence to all of the good teachers out there.
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Wed 2 Jun 2010, 3:47, 14 replies)

Prostitutes.
And now police men. How the hell am I going to finish my PhD now?
Bastards.
( Zak McFlimby Twibbling @McFlimby, Thu 27 May 2010, 14:08, 2 replies)

Pop Stars
Easy pickings I know, but I've been thoughtful enough to determine exactly what purpose they are capable of serving. To my mind, the modern Pop Star should serve one of three purposes.

Actually be talented enough to be a professional singer
This is obviously an increasingly rare qualification for today's Radio 1 fodder to hold

Be a bloody fantastic dancer, to the point where the music can be ignored
This is what mute buttons were made for. Examples, dependent on gender preference, include Usher, Ciara, Justin Timberlake and Shakira (although the latter actually can sing)

Be so blisteringly atttractive that nothing else matters
I give you Pixie Lott.

Even with the generosity here exhibited, there really is absolutely no excuse for the continued indulgence of that useless cunt Robbie Williams. Click "I like this" if you think the above should be adopted as British Law, entitling anyone with sufficient hatred and motivation to legally hunt and kill any pop star who demonstrably serves no purpose. This would effectively lead to the closure of Radio 1 and make The X Factor into a sanitised version of The Running Man as the winner is sure to die horribly shortly after Christmas. Who wouldn't want to live in a world where crap music is punished by vigilante justice?
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Thu 27 May 2010, 14:38, 10 replies)

Cold callers
Combining last weeks & this weeks QOTW, I have read a lot about cold callers, this might help. Advice I have been given (but never used of course).

First be polite, ask the callers name and thank them for the call (mild surprise for them) listen to what they are saying and ask a few reasonable questions (they wet their lips) , remember be polite - even friendly if you can.

Now express interest in the product or service on offer (caller now sees $), at this point you ask if the caller uses the product themself, this is the turning point - you should try to engage in a conversation, even for a moment (slight confusion but still seeing $). Now say " I bet you have a hard job, calling strangers and having them be rude". Wait for them to get things back on track then say "I'm naked right now... what color eyes do you have?"

Job done. Welcome to the blacklist.
(cname, Fri 28 May 2010, 23:35, 6 replies)

Sales staff, but only of a particular type.
A couple of years ago, Mrs Sandettie and I went into Comet to buy a few appliances for our new kitchen. As we entered, a young smarmy sales bloke (SSB) came over rather too eagerly for my liking.

"Can I be of assistance?" asked SSB.
"Just looking at a few appliances" I replied.
"Ok, let me know if you need anything" and rather than fuck off, he tailed us around the store. He approached a couple of times and asked if we'd seen anything we liked, but then retreated again. He continued to follow us. Not too close, but a presence all the same. It felt like we were under surveillance; by a stalker with a bathroom full of 'surfer hair' product and too much Lynx Africa.

"He's beginning to really piss me off big time" I said.
"Me too. I know, we'll lead him about." my wife replied. So we led him up and down aisles around the store like a ghost in a sedate game of PacMan.

He got fed up after maybe ten mins and went and stood at a distance keeping us in his line of sight, shifting position to make sure he could still see us. I saw a woman approach him with a toaster/kettle box set and he practically shooed them away.

We went to look at the various fridge freezers with the water dispensers on the front. A short, unassuming guy who must have been close to retirement strolled over as I opened the door of one particularly nice LG.
"That's one of those with a reservoir that you fill with a jug. I got one, they're a pain. You get bored of filling it up all the time, the novelty wears off and it doesn't get used. If you have a cold water pipe nearby get one you can plumb in. This Samsung's nice." he pointed one out. "Plumbed in, you get a constant feed and this model is £100 cheaper"
I warmed to this guy. I could see SSB in the background and he didn't look happy. He took a step closer and then stayed where he was.
"We aren't making a decision yet, but there's a range cooker we want and you actually sell it here too" my wife said. After a few more minutes of small talk and chit-chat, we left.

The next day we went back. SSB clocked us and begin to wander over. As he did, a manager-looking guy was nearby so I collared him.
"Is Ted in today" as that was the old guy's name. I could see SSB lingering in the background.
"No, he's not in today, he'll be back in tomorrow though" the manager replied.
"Ahh, ok" I replied "We'll come back then". We left.

Next day we were back again. SSB saw us again and started walking over.
"He's seen us" I said.
"Quick, there's Ted" said Mrs Sandettie and we strode over to him. "Hello again, it's us. I think we've made a decision."
"Ah yes" he replied and I shook his hand making sure SSB could see.
"We'll take the Samsung fridge-freezer, the range cooker over there and we'd like that dish washer."
"Are we not getting the microwave today?" asked my missus.
"Any in particularly?" asked Ted. We pointed one out, not a flash one because we knew it wouldn't get used much.
"Hang on then" and he wandered off. He came back a few minutes later. "I had a word with my boss, told him what you were buying and he said you can have the microwave for nothing. I aren't going to bother trying to sell you the extended warranty unless you really want one. Tell you what, I'll throw in a couple of boxes of these dishwasher tablets as well." Those must be £8 a box alone.

He took us over to the till, we paid, arranged a delivery, said thanks to Ted and left. We went past SSB on our way to the door.
"You should've asked me yesterday when you came in. You could've had the stuff delivered on the Friday instead of having to wait until the Monday. Did you take out our extended warranty."
"Nope." I replied
"It would be wise, these things break down"
"No. If anything does break we'll sort it out ourselves." and we left him to be crestfallen to himself.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 2 Jun 2010, 10:54, 5 replies)

Military HR incompetents
Some background, I work for the armed forces and was assigned to a remote area abroad with my regiment some time ago, (we have been there a while) I am not allowed to specify where exactly, but you can probably guess.

As part of the ‘peacekeeping’ effort we were assigned security duties outside of the main city and tasked to A. search suspicious vehicles and people going into the town that could be involved in insurgency directly or supporting and B. given specific targeted locals that we had to detain should they happen to try to get through our checkpoints.

Operating out of these conditions is extremely trying and hugely stressful as the threat is constant. We have little opportunity to relax as the local culture is a little outside of our experience to say the least and we are definitely not encouraged to mix! We are constantly tired and judgement gets eroded under these conditions.
After one long patrol, I was called into the commanding officer and charged with dereliction of duty as some local insurgents had apparently passed through our checkpoint without being detained. I had no representation to defend me against this despite having the right to have HR involved (we are getting progressive these days but it is a veneer only) I was made a scapegoat as the orders and intelligence we had been given were so non specific as to who were to detain the upper echelons were covering their arses as usual.
The other point is that the similarity of dress and appearance makes identification extremely difficult and the local language can lead to you being very confused and influenced especially as a lot of them have beards. I had absolutely no recollection (as did my squad) of this happening and doubt that it even took place.
I feel shafted first by the officers In charge and also HR who did nothing to help or support me and feel very disillusioned as a result.
None of this was taken into account as the insurgents had escaped to another province to continue the insurgency and have disappeared from those who are desperate to locate them before they do any more damage. I really don’t feel that this was my fault!

In short I was demoted and reassigned to a new military project far away from my mates and am awaiting to find out what my new duties will be when we become operational.
Yet another SNAFU but hopefully it will be a cushy assignment as we are far away from any trouble here in Alderaan.
(nimrodihnio making gravy for one., Mon 31 May 2010, 11:33, 12 replies)

In Defence Of Teachers
Firstly, yes, I am a teacher.

At first glance, yes the working hours are lovely and the holidays are great. Hell, even the pay is good if you like the idea of educating the masses.

However you could probably split teachers into two groups based on these 'facts'.

The first group are those who have been slagged off on these very pages. They're only in it for the good holidays, 8.45-3.10 hours and the reality that despite being rather shite at their job they'll probably never be sacked unless they hit or touch up a child. They'll get frustrated when they realise that teaching these days basically means being as much a parent more than anything to most kids (including those with serious disorders who can't cope in mainstream school but are forced to be there because of goverment policy on 'inclusion'). They'll start to show signs of rage when asked to meet particular targets or give extra support to classes who aren't meeting expected standards in terms of grades. They'll scream at a kid who's forgotten a pencil. They'll ignore parental requests. Their classrooms will be grey and dull. They'll do the classic 'chalk and talk' routine to kids who these days need a little more stimulus than a textbook. They'll be the ones who'll have a lovely retirement because they've coasted through the job and got a decent pension out of it.

Then there's the rest of us. Who work a 8-6 most days because they're working hard planning lessons to incorporate every child they're responsible for when teaching. They'll phone parents after school to talk through Little Jimmy's problems. They'll put effort into writing reports beyond 'must try harder'. They'll spend their holidays writing schemes of work, running extra-curricular classes or trips abroad so that kids really do get a well rounded education. They won't snap when a kid is being a little shit because of crappy parenting (rather, they'll show the kind of manners they expect from the student in the vain hope they'll remember that for next time). Most of their evenings will be spent a) marking b) processing data c) creating posters and resources to stimulate and motivate d) planning lessons e) finishing off reports from observations of trainee teachers... They'll know their kids inside out, especially the ones who are on the ever growing Special Educational Needs register. And they'll be the ones who conform to the statistic that on average* that teachers croak it 2 years after retirement.

Guess which group moans the most about being a teacher?

Guess which group has to put up with the shit caused by said moaners?

Exactly.

Yes, some teachers are twats, but don't tar us all with the same brush. At least we're not Estate Agents (basically committing fraud by getting paid for a job they don't do), Parking Attendants or Tele-marketers. Some of us really do work our arse off.

* - Yes, it's true apparently. 2 years life expectancy after retirement for teachers. Mind, that's on average, so for every teacher ploughing on for 10-15 years afterwards, there's a teacher who carks it after walking out of the school door. Such is life.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Sat 29 May 2010, 18:13, 11 replies)

Mediums...
"There's no such thing as dead people"
- Derek Acorah

I am here to express my utter feelings of hate toward those fucksucking parasites that claim to be able to channel people from the spirit world.

I have watched in open mouthed anger as countless friends of mine have been maliciously duped and tricked into believing the shit fairground tent shenanigans of so called mediums. All of these friends have walked away from readings, seance's, and spirit sessions with their pants around their ankles having been firmly buggered out of their hard earned cash by these fraudulent, unctuous scam artists.

Whether they're lauding their higher astral state over vulnerable, grieving, desperate folk or filling up my Sky channels wearing shiny suits and shit eating grins there is one thing they all have in common:
They all in one of the lowest professions known to man.

I can't express in words here how much I hate these utter fucktards so I'll leave it here.

Stick that up your ass-tral plane.
( magictoast, Thu 27 May 2010, 18:15, 8 replies)

Whatever it is Richard Littlejohn calls himself
"boo to immigrants" he chants, whilst living in Florida

"boo to fat cat managers" whilst getting paid a small fucking fortune for maintaining that the phrases "yuman rites" and "elf n safety" are still witty after 2.8 femtoseconds.

I hope someone puts ebola in his tea bags the shoe-faced cunt.

Edit: The same goes for Jan Moir
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 27 May 2010, 14:32, 8 replies)

Lactation Consultants ...
Yes really. That's what the obtuse mumsy know-it-all condescending cows are actually called.

They stick to the 'breast is best' mantra no matter what the circumstance, genuinely believing the guff that they spout, such as;

Even adoptive mothers can breastfeed
Your supply will come up to the baby's demand in a few weeks
Breastfeeding is 100% natural and painfree
Don't mix breast and bottle, the baby will get 'nipple confusion' WTF!

No shit. These brainwashed morons will keep trying to convince you to put up with your hungry infant's screams for the sake of a party line.

I am firmly convinced that milk supply is as variable as fertility. One woman might produce only one child in a 10 year period, whilst her neighbour, despite her finest efforts, has 8. By the same token, some women can struggle to feed one infant, whereas others can breastfeed triplets and still have a freezer-ful of milk to donate to medical science every week.

Have any of these lactation consultants read a novel more than 200 years old? Infants died in their hundreds and not just through disease and poor hygiene. Wetnursing, was born of this need.

Say what you will about Nestle, but access to formula and clean water is as important to infant mortality rates as good obstetric care.

Breast is best, but bottle is a lot better than a screaming hungry infant.
(Que?, Wed 2 Jun 2010, 8:39, 20 replies)

Best advice I ever had:
"Don't answer the QotW a week late."
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 27 May 2010, 13:32, 1 reply)

Chemistry Lecturers
Professor Strangwood was the bane of my life. He was nasty, sarcastic, unapologetic, and - bizarrely - bore an uncanny resemblence to Screech from Saved By The Bell. I doubt he'll want me to use his likeness, but here's a photo to prove it.

tinyurl.com/3a69nqb

Now, I don't want to subject unfortunate B3TAns to this, but it is necessary for you to understand some of the chemistry I was studying to fully get the gist of this story.

We were researching a metal complex which could have great importance in the storage of hydrogen. Hydrogen has, for the last 15 years or so, been a subject of massive importance, because it has the potential to replace fossil fuels in many applications, not least fuelling our cars and power stations.

The focus of study was metal complexes. These complexes have, at their heart, a positively-charged metal cation, surrounded by negatively-charged ligands ('arms', if you like) which were frequently organic. If molecules such as lithium tetrahydridoaluminate (basically an aluminium ion clinging onto a whole lot of hydrogen) could be persuaded to let go of their hydrogen, they might become the basis of a hydrogen-centric economy.

My particular research was oriented around finding other ligand anions which would take the place of the hydrogen particularly well. Such anions tend to be known as nucleophiles, because of their electrostatic attraction towards the positively-charged metal cation. A particularly well-known nucleophile is the cyanate ion, which consists of an oxygen atom, bonded to a carbon atom, bonded to a nitrogen atom. This results in a serious negative dipole around the oxygen atom, attracting it to the positively-charged metal ion.

Anyway, when I proposed further investigation of nucleophiles to Professor Strangwood, he flipped! He yelled at me about atmospheric poisons, and catalysis of unwanted fuel-cracking, and several other ideas that hadn't really occurred to me. As he turned purple-faced and stood on his chair to get a better angle of abuse, I fled his office down the corridor, attempting not to shed a manly tear. I ran into the arms of Catherine, a cuddly-breasted colleague of mine, and promptly seized the opportunity to cry into her ample cleavage.

As she gave me a big hug, and asked what horrors I had received from Strangwood, I was a little overcome and emotional. Overwhelmed by big-breasted cuddliness, I could only bring myself to blurt out:

"Prof - he shuns cyanate!"




Length? About two-and-a-half angstroms if my calculations were correct.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Tue 1 Jun 2010, 0:54, 13 replies)

Psychics
I don't get why anyone believes in the twats. They prey on a sad deluded subsection of the population, grieving for a lost love one, lonely and upset, grasping at straws looking for answers. They need help not to be played with by showmen. (the exception I make was those idiots in the Michael Jackson séance they need to be neutered thereby making the future average IQ rise considerably)

Derek Ogilvie was the absolute cunt who used to "read babies minds" cold reading the mums and usually making them cry and feel like terrible mothers. Shouting in their faces under his "trance", I'm amazed he can sleep at night. There was a program when he went up against James Randy's $1000000 dollar prize and failed miserably which I enjoyed immensely. He of course blamed it on the pressure.

"I'm quite hardcore on this. I think every psychic and medium in this country belongs in prison. Even the ones demented enough to believe in what they're doing. In fact, especially them. Give them windowless cells and make them crap in buckets. They can spend the rest of their days sewing mailbags in the dark." - Charlie Brooker
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Thu 27 May 2010, 13:52, 10 replies)

Bookies and their 'heavies'
Or, to be more precise, Insurance companies and Loss Adjusters.

Insurers.

However you dress it up with suits, posh offices 'the traditions of Lloyds of London' - you're a bunch of bookies with less honesty and integrity about your business than Shonky Dave who takes bets in your local. At least when Dave loses he pays up.
Actuarial tables? = Odds! You take money from your punters - sorry, clients - gambling that a specific event will NOT occur. You get your punters to pay every year/month to keep this bet going and, in the event you lose the bet, you try your best NOT to pay up! Can you imagine what would happen if Shonky Dave tried that? He'd be fucking lynched! But you? You get the second lowest form of life on the planet - 'Loss adjusters' - to do their damndest (and they ARE all damned)to get the punter to either drop the claim or take less money than you promised on your betting slip, sorry, that's 'insurance policy document'.

Loss Adjusters

Utter utter cunts, the lot of them. If I was paid on commission to cheat, lie, threaten, prevaricate, intimidate or use any other method to make a punter not claim the full amount promised on a betting slip - I'd be vilified and probably arrested. But Loss Adjusters? Thy're 'just doing their job' of protecting their bookies from paying what they promised and fucking charged through the nose for.
Over the years, the insurance industry has covered itself with a veneer of respectability and probity. That veneer is microscopically thin. Underneath it you're shysters and thieves who'll take money and not pay what's promised when you lose.

Thinking about it, Shonky Dave has more integrity in his shite than the whole lying cheating slimy bunch of you. Die soon you scumbags.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Sat 29 May 2010, 8:57, 5 replies)

Bloody immigrants
Coming over here, taking our jobs. Give me ONE good reason why Ali from Pakistan should get a job ahead of an INDIGENOUS (white) BRITISH WORKER and I'll ignore it out of hand because I'm almost literally too ignorant to use trousers.
(StapMyVitals wouldn't mind a bit of that, Fri 28 May 2010, 16:49, 4 replies)

Computer Repairmen.
The Tale of the Laptop that Worked But Didn't (But Does)

My laptop is irreparable. Well, officially, anyway. I have a document from technicians telling me that the laptop is a write-off and I should buy a new one. This laptop here. That I'm writing on. Right now.

I'll tell you all about it, shall I?

The screen froze last Sunday, so I took it into a repair shop. The following conversation happened:

Me: "Do you do laptop repairs?"
Them: "Yes"
Me: "Oh good. My laptop's screen keeps freezing. I think it's a loose cable. Is it possible you could check it out?"
Them: "How do you know it's a loose cable?"
Me: "Because the screen keeps freezing".
Them: "But it could be a virus"
Me: "No it can't. Because when I squeeze the screen, where I'm guessing the loose cable is, the laptop works fine"
Them: "But it could still be a virus"
Me: "What sort of virus effects HARDWARE?"

They then convinced me that all I needed was their "Care Package", and they handed me a piece of paper. They took the laptop, and said it would be ready in three days.

A second conversation took place via phone the next day.

Them: "Hi, it's the repair shop"
Me: "Right"
Them: "Yeah, we found out the problem. It's a loose cable"
Me: "I know. Is it fixable?"
Them: "Yeah, we could get a new one in. It'd cost though."
Me: "That's fine"
Them: "Yeah. To be honest mate, you're probably just gonna need a new laptop"
Me: "... What?"
Them: "Yeah. Get a new laptop. We'll send this back"
Me: "So.. it's irrepairable?"
Them: "I'm not saying that"
Me: "If you're saying the only cure for this is to GET ANOTHER ONE, then I'm pretty sure you can't fix the problem"

So, I went to collect it the next day, and they charged me £55. They wouldn't let me have my laptop until I paid them. I asked them "what service am I paying for exactly?". They told me that they did a service check, and found the loose cable. (The loose cable I told them was causing the problem). They then said my battery was broken what?) and that it couldn't be fixed. £55 please.

I paid the man, because I am fickle.

I went home and studied my laptop. I pressed the power on button, and it didn't load up. Odd. So I plugged the battery in. The battery that the shop decided was broken.

The battery worked.

I thought logically. "The screen works if I squeeze this bit.. there's a screw right next to that bit... I tightened the screws around the laptop, and it works now. I fixed it with a knife. A cheeseknife, if you wish to know the full details.

The screen worked.

Loading up my laptop with the working screen and working battery, I noticed it was having problems booting up. It was giving me an option to format my C://Drive. I didn't want to do that. I phoned up the shop.

Me: "Hi, it's Friz. I just picked up my laptop. It's not booting up properly"
Them: "That's because of the loose cable"
Me: "No, I fixed that."
Them: "Well, the battery doesn't work"
Me: "Nope. Fixed that too. Why won't my laptop load?"

I heard muttering down the phone. Then, I heard my CD drive going mental, so I ejected it. I found that they left a CD in my drive. A CD with some sort of booting programme called "Hiren's 10-Z". I restarted the laptop.

The laptop worked.

They then got back to me.

Them: "Hello, Friz?"
Me: "Don't worry, I fixed it."

So, my laptop works. I spent £55 for the advise to buy a new one. I've been suggested to go back to the shop and demand a refund, but a polite email from them says that I agreed to the service charge before giving them the laptop.

When did I agree? Look a few lines up. Near the beginning of the story.

They then convinced me that all I needed was their "Care Package", and they handed me a piece of paper. They took the laptop, and said it would be ready in three days.

That piece of paper was a bill. Accepting means that I agreed to the service.
(__, Sat 29 May 2010, 16:51, 7 replies)

Irishmen.
Not all of them obviously. Just the ones who pair up with an Englishman and a Scotsman and bother me when I'm trying to serve drinks.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 28 May 2010, 3:43, 2 replies)

Quantum mechanics.
I'm never sure whether they're open or not.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 28 May 2010, 2:08, 1 reply)

I'd like to hate chuggers as well, but somehow I can't quite do it.
It's probably down to the looks on their faces when you refuse to contribute to a breast cancer charity on the grounds that you think bald women with one tit are HOT.
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Thu 27 May 2010, 17:29, 6 replies)

Gynecologists.
Stuck up cunts.
(Tugnut I got them all..., Thu 27 May 2010, 14:36, 4 replies)

Journalists
The Telegraph last year broke the story about MPs expenses claims. The News of the World breaks many stories using undercover journalists. They report these things as it is our right to know what the great and the good are up to, and whether they deserve those titles.

But who judges them?

The News of the World makes its own news. Say what you like about the Fergie thing, but that wasn't a reporter going out and finding a story, it was a guy dressed up attempting to create one.

Look at the MMR scare, with its longterm health implications and many lives damaged. Have half the papers involved apologised for their part in exacerbating the bullshit? Have they fuck.

Journalists wield massive influence and power over people, because many do not question the validity of what appears in the papers, instead getting angry about whatever scandal is rocking the front pages today. Fair enough people are angry about MPs, feeling that we can no longer fully trust our elected representatives (meanwhile the cynical lean back in their chairs, glare, and mutter 'What fucking kept you?') as they are mired in corruption and greed, pursuing their own agenda at the expense of all those abstract concepts David Cameron always goes on about - truth, decency, leaving your door open so your nan can borrow your E45 cream, fair play, jolly hockey sticks, British values.

Stephen Fry said, in the wake of the expenses scandal, 'What's the big fuss? Everyone claims money back on expenses for ridiculous stuff. Journalists do it all the time. I certainly have done it before.' Or words to that effect.

Whether or not you agree with him, it raises the point that the people lecturing about our moral decline are in no position to as they lie, cheat and cajole people into positions based on fear, loathing and ignorance. If there's to be a big investigation into our MPs behaviour, how about an investigation into the behaviour of journalists? How about the Standards Agency that actually has the power to do something about people like Jan Moir, with her evil Mumsy dead eyed stare?

But of course, the people who investigate corruption and greed are the journalists, and so nothing will happen unless one paper delights in making another one look bad.

But really, if you're a journalist, you're going to have to work hard to prove to me that you're not a lying, duplicitous, double-standard abusing, unscrupulous cunt.
(thePontificator, Tue 1 Jun 2010, 9:54, 13 replies)