I Commend This Post To The Assembled

Always liked Bishop Hill’s blog – as it does attack the climate change issue with great sense and understanding that helps me to get to grips with some of the stuff Watts Up With That is on about.

But this particular piece (not on climate change) did ring home. Especially the part about when you die. As anyone who goes through the death of a relative, you know that even when your poor old mum and dad are lying cold in the chapel of rest, dear old HMG is getting their cut. They sell you a plot of land at outrageous prices to bury them, and charge you an even more outrageous fee to open it up again when the second one dies. There is the VAT on all the funeral stuff, including the box they lay in. Of course, the poor old parents couldn’t just pass the house on to the kids before they died – not unless they wanted to pay tax consequences should they need the health care they probably felt entitled to seeing as how they had paid in so much and pretty much not wasted their time before they died.

I think my whole outlook changed when I saw how the state treated you on the death of a loved one. It is then, really only then for me, that I realised they do not give a fuck. Seriously, wilfully, do not give a fuck. And then, to add to that, you try some legitimate immigration of a wife into this country. Do not give a fuck turns to nasty, active, downright hostility. These wankers have taxed my happiness and wellbeing. They have taxed me for finding the right person to pull me out of some very dark times. They have taxed me for having the cheek to marry someone intelligent and caring, and then made it very hard for her to be productive. That’s where my downright hostility has come from, should you ask….

I recommend this post, and this ditty. Pretty much sums it up.

A Gale Warning…. High Fleece Ahead…

Have you ever heard of the term “simple shopper”? I have seen it used most often in relation to the UK government’s procurement of goods and services. It is usually associated with the UK government’s lamentable record on procuring IT services projects, especially databases, IT services contracts and web upgrades. Their tendency to over-run, over-complicate and end up being fucking useless. Some firms make lots and lots and lots of money on them. Once in, you can’t exactly get rid of them unless you want to go to the PAC and explain why you blew a ton of money on fuck all. MPs like to keep that little racket of lotta pay, little work to themselves.

My department have employed a firm to upgrade their very ancient website. The set up of our original site was done by someone a grade lower than me with our own IT contractors providing assistance. Now we have let this contract to two individuals who sit behind me in the office. One has a ringtone that has a blues tune on it. I know, I’ve heard it often enough. The other has a property portfolio. I know, I’ve heard about it often enough.

My department is not Unilever. It isn’t even the Benefits Agency. Our clientele, to put it mildly, is limited. But I know fleecing the customer when I see it. Instead of formulating what we want in advance and telling the designer to get on with it, instead the designer is calling everyone up on a one-by-one basis to find out “what they want” in a new website. It is bonkers. We’ll have twenty different opinions and no-one will be happy. When the new website design is the obvious let down we all know it is going to be (and if I can set up a half-functioning blog, I am not convinced that we are talking NASA science here) then the designers, contracts performed, will just ask for more money to make the inevitable tweaks.

The Simple Shopper is the one who doesn’t know what they want and will take the “expert advice” it is given, which will inevitably lead it to paying out more money. Of course, as a mere taxpayer, I doubt I’d get to see the contract we are paying these people, as no doubt it will be in confidence. I have looked at our past staff briefing messages and seen little reference to these two individuals who pollute my life with their incessant crap behind where I sit. There is a whiff of prevarication as the project is now set to be concluded at the end of March. That would be six months from the start for this load of old cack. I smell us being fleeced.

 But what do I know. I’m just a blogger. I’m just a grunt.

Bart Scott Is A Moron…

Who is Bart Scott, I hear you ask?

Yesterday Sky showed the second instalment of the New York Jets v Miami Dolphins. Last season, after beating the Dolphins in a close game in Miami on the opening day, vanquishing a team that had gone 1-15 the season before, the New York media annointed the Jets as potential Superbowl contenders. On the last day of the regular season, Miami went into New York, won comfortably and ended their season. The Jets, who have not been to the Superbowl in my lifetime, had another year to wait.

They appointed Rex Ryan as their coach. Ryan was the defensive brains behind the Baltimore Ravens last season and in the first round of the play-offs, those Ravens handed Miami a heavy defeat, stopping the Dolphins trick plays from the Wildcat. Of course, this mouthpiece of charm came out and proclaimed he knew how to stop the Wildcat, and when the Jets went into Miami a couple of weeks ago, the Dolphins won a brilliant game with the final touchdown coming with a couple of seconds remaining via…. The Wildcat! Nice one mouth.

Now I know I can be biased in favour of my teams, but I can also be honest… Last night the Dolphins won a game that statistically, they should have lost. The Jets can point to those stats all they like – what they proved is what we know about Miami – they are dreadful front runners, playing the most woeful prevent defense you could hope to see. They took the Saints apart in the first half last week, and promptly fell apart in the second. The Saints are the best team in the NFL right now.

So while the Jets had 380+ offensive yards compared to Miami just getting over 100, the vast majority of those stat-padding yards were by Sanchez throwing to his receivers after the Dolphins turned off the pressure, for whatever reason. Sanchez looked good, but Miami’s weakened secondary, never their strong point, were always going to be put under pressure with the Jets receivers. Miami know their weaknesses, but are looking to address them and get better. If you believe the Jets, they have a great running game (league’s number 1), two very decent receivers (Edwards and Cotchery), the new Joe Montana taking snaps (Sanchez) and an amazing defense. How come they are 4-4 and lost twice to this Dolphins team and to the Bills (at home)? How come?

Bart Scott, though, thinks the Dolphins are really good. I’m not saying the grapes are sour in Bart Scott’s world, but the brains of the outfit Jets’ linebacker had this comment about the team which has beaten them twice…

“They’re a great team,” Jets linebacker Bart Scott said sarcastically. “They’ll probably contend for the Super Bowl.”

But you lost to them, moron. TWICE. Home and Away. So where are you going with this mouthy outfit then? I’m realistic – Miami are too inconsistent, they do miss the poise of Chad Pennington (who the Jets blew out of town in favour of Brett Favre – sorry, I just cried laughing) who is done for the season. I don’t think any realistic Dolphin fan believes this is our year. But you Jets just seem to think every year is your year.

Armando Salguero nails it in his column in the Miami Herald. Don’t talk trash when you lose. You just look like an idiot. You may have dominated the defensive battle, but you dropped the ball for a TD, and failed to tackle Ted Ginn on two kick-return TDs, the second of which was brilliant on the one hand, but a laughing embarrassment for the Jets Special Team. I then saw this piece by Armando (great name that) which nails it even better than the other link… I particularly like the following little piece..

“They [the Jets] are a beaten, battered bunch that has lost four of five games but still, inexplicably, don’t know when to shut up.

After losing to Miami for the second time in three weeks, their blowhard coach actually talked about how his team outplayed the Dolphins.”

I have no doubt I will find more gems as I trawl the web for this sort of stuff, but this was sweet. Just a pity that when the Jets converted that 4th and 10 near the end I couldn’t take it any more and went out to walk the dog!

The Importance Of Being Utterly Lazy

So, when you think, as some of you must have once in your life, of the City of Truro, what comes to mind? Would it be the train driver who won Mastermind’s (Hughes or something?) first answer in the trailer to the programme (I think, worryingly, I remember it as being the name of a particular locomotive). Would it be the home town of the Liberal MP David Penhaligon who so tragically died a couple of decades ago and was replaced by the ever so prim and proper Matthew Taylor? Would it be the beauty of the architecture of the glorious Gothic cathedral standing above the town? Would it be a paragon of Cornish pride, the centre-piece town of the great south-westerly county? Would it be Skinners Ale, and its headline brews such as Betty Scoggs, or whatever it is?

Or would it be captured by this? Purchased in a shop in the Pannier Market in Truro this morning (here modelled with the Rough Guide to Devon and Cornwall in the Wellington Hotel, Boscastle)…

Words cannot adequately describe the contempt the commissioner of this piece of work had for the public or tourist. I am a connoisseur, one would say the doyen, of purchasing unmitigated cobblers. This isn’t cobblers, it is far far worse. What are you really saying about Truro here? You are ridiculing fat people for a start. That’s nice. You want to paint an idyllic picture, but a token couple of squiggles pretending to be gulls and a crappy yacht aren’t selling the place. Enjoy the view in Truro indeed, but there is a slight problem here.

Check out the maps of the region, the geography, the topography, the location. If you are sitting on a beach in Truro, Cornwall, I would suggest catastrophic climate change has taken place. Unless, of course, this is a cleverer piece than it looks. Maybe it is a vision of 2090, when we live in a post sea level rise apocalypse and Truro, not Torquay, is a seaside venue.

Or maybe it is just a disgustingly cheap, lazy piece of crap. You decide.

Livingstone’s Folly, Boris is a Wally…

I am, despite everything, a car driver. It has entered into the public, Guardian-reading liberalistas that I am one up from Adolf Hitler. At various times I am a mass murderer of cyclists, I am poisoning the children and their frail lungs (and please God, won’t someone think of the children) and, of course, I am now the sort of person who is condemning millions to a life of famine and shortage through “climate change” because by me, little old fatboy me, decided he could get to work in 30 minutes (20 on a good day, 40 on a bad) rather than an hour door-to-door by public transport (all those off to Climate Change junkets around the world – their emissions don’t count you know)…. An hour a day saved, means an hour more with my wife, my border collie and to relax ready for the next day…

This week is the worst for traffic as the kids go back to school, mums hop into Chelsea Tractors and clog up the roads, the rush hour lasts longer and is worse, and the queue for the Blackwall Tunnel is never shorter than Woolwich Flyover, is more likely to be Sun-in-the-Sands, and more regularly Kidbrooke. For those of you who do not know this London thoroughfare, let me explain to you the meaning of this terminology.

Blackwall Lane – Short queue, usually caused by the narrowing in the road from 3 to 2 lanes, and a slip road coming onto the main road. During the Summer the queue can be shorter even this and, heaven forfend, you don’t stop on some occasions.

The North Greenwich Footbridge – Middling queue, normal length for summer and Fridays at all times of the year. Very acceptable. 5/10 minute wait.

The Woolwich Road Flyover – Two scales to this one. If the queue is at the top of the bridge then it is an average day, and a 15 minute wait will be the result. The wait is caused, even though it is a relatively short distance to the Footbridge, by inconsiderate twats who cut you up without so much as a thank you. The correlation between these ignorant c***s and their ownership of German cars is absolutely uncanny. Scientists would have a field day. The second scale is on the south side of the bridge, quite often as a result of the queue to get off the A102 and onto Trafalgar Road. That queue in the inside lane can go back as far as Sun-in-the-Sands, but even though that is obvious to the most rational, sentient beings, those in possession of Deutschland Uber Autos still drive up the middle lane and then block off two lanes of traffic as they try to cut in at the top. If the queue is on the south side, 20 minutes is the usual non-overheight vehicle/broken down in the tunnel wait.

Sun-in-the-Sands – the name of a pub where the roundabout to Blackheath/Shooters Hill looms over the top of the A102. If the queue is back to here, and there are no further accidents / foreign ignoramus lorry drivers / wankers then you can reckon on 30/35 minutes to reach the tunnel. During peak times, with no tidal flow any more, and kids at school, between 8 nd 10 you can reckon on the queue being back here. In the days of the Tidal Flow it was extraordinary that it reached back that far. Still, we are told, because we are taken for fucking morons, that congestion has not got worse. There is technical term for this sort of statement. It is called “BOLLOCKS”. The fun really starts if people see this queue and decide to get off the A102 and go onto the A2 over Blackheath. If that queue for the roundabout stretches back onto the A102 itself, you get…

Kidbrooke – This is where I used to get on the A102. A stupid set of lights, now more of a problem coming home as some two bod idiot numpty has them phased all wrong with the lights by the station, so making drivers home take a chance as to whether they’ll get across the northbound carriageway or not. Where do we get these clowns from. If the queue is back this far, and I’ve heard it on the news, I am taking the train in. More often than not, travel news from the BBC focuses on the M25, North-West London and the North Circular. Many is the time I have been in a 40 minute queue and it has never warranted a mention on BBC London, as they are more concerned at a lorry broken down on the hard shoulder on the A40 or whatever…. Reckon on an hour from here – and a phone call to work saying “sorry, I am going to be late….”

Eltham – Can I just turn around and go home please. This is where I get on. When I get to the lights at the bottom of the A2 (as it is there) I look up and get a sense of relief if I see a lorry (can’t see the cars) moving freely past. If you see one stationary, it is going to be a long morning….

Anyway, this week, after a Sun-in-the-Sands Monday, and a day being tortured by Hatchet Harriet (physio) and an apprentice spiv washing machine deliverer (ooooh, can’t install that today, sir – you need a plumber. His colleague fitted it today with no drama), I made a decision to come in by public transport for a week. Now I know this isn’t exactly Pole to Pole with Michael Palin, but for me, it is a step forward into the world of public transport by “choice”. I am going to get fitter walking to stations. I am going to be able to read books on the trains. I am going to get home earlier because, like it or not, leaving the Isle of Dogs between 4:30 and 6:30 is for those who willingly subject themselves to abuse. I am leaving the office at 5:25 to get the 17:52 from Lewisham, and all being well, be home by 6:15-:6:20.

The plan is – up at 7 am, out at about 7:50. Bus to Mottingham to get the 8:22. Arrive at Lewisham at 8:35, DLR to the office, get in at around 8:55 – 9 am.

Day 1 – Walk up to bus stop. As I ascend the small rise, I see the bus go past. No worry it is 7:55, and it is ten minutes between buses, and I have two routes to get me to Mottingham – law of averages suggest it will be 5 minutes as an average, 10 at worst. Bus turns up at 8:08. Same number as the first (126). 124 follows 2 minutes behind that. Miss 8:22 which pulls out just as I reach the station (needed to buy a travelcard so always pushing it). Wait 20 minutes for next train – arrive at work at 9:18. No dramas going home.

Day 2 – Leave 5 minutes earlier – at 7:51 on my watch. As I ascend the small rise away from my house, I see the bus go past. No worries it is 7:51 and it is 10 minutes between buses, and I have two routes to get me to Mottingham – law of averages suggest it will be 5 minutes as an average, 10 at worst. Bus turns up at 8:13. Same number as the first (126). Another 126 follows behind that, as does a 124. These wankers are taking the piss. Get off bus early to beat it to Mottingham Station. (you get off the stop before, because the queue to get across the A20 at Court Road going towards Eltham is appalling, and if you walk, you get to the station before the bus). Turn up at Mottingham at 8:24. Wait nearly 20 minutes for the next train. Get into work at 9:18. Going home the 17:52 is cancelled, I miss the 17:48 to Eltham as I can’t walk quick enough. Get the next train (17:54) to Eltham. Get off there. Wait ten minutes for 161 (one left as I came out of the station). Get off 161 at Mottingham as I know a 126 is following it. As I get to Mottingham, the 18:12 (the Mottingham to Lewisham train I could have waited for) pulls in. They all pile onto the 161. 126 delayed a little but two minutes later it shows up. The wait did have some aesthetic benefits, but the wife might be reading this, as does the sister-in-law, and my wife is the greatest! Got home at 18:40.

Day 3 – Leave at 7:50. No bus goes past as I ascend the small rise. But see a 124 approaching as I round the top of the hill. Packed. With annoying schoolkids. Get on and stand all the way. Get to Mottingham, fighting past appalling, ignorant, rude fucking schoolkids to get off as others at Mottingham try to pile on. Break free of the skirmish and into the light. Get the 8:22. No seats, so stand all the way. Gets packed as we go through Lee and Hither Green. Arrive at Lewisham the same time as an Eltham train. Go down to DLR. Train is packed solid. DLR stops at Cutty Sark. Doesn’t move for 10/15 minutes. The “short delay” was due to (a) a train in front not able to shut its doors; (b) that train being stuck at Mudchute; (c) the train needing to be moved up the line and then back into a siding; and (d) the failed train actually being moved. Bloke next to me in the DLR is obviously a heavy smoker. Another one has obviously had garlice with their breakfast. Can’t stare anywhere else or I could be arrested. Finally get to my stop, and fight my way out of the train, into the light, like a very fat chick breaking through its eggshell. Get into work at 9:13.

So – bad traffic will mean a journey of 45 minutes, and really bad an hour. A good day on public transport means an hour being pressed up against glass doors and smelling other people’s breath and last night’s food (and hey, I am not saying I smell like ashes of roses, by the way – especially that morning when I psychadelic yodelled at Greenwich) and getting sore feet.

So Livingstone, you car hating c***. So Johnson, who is warning us we are going to pay much more for the “privilege” of playing sardines every morning. You think this is an attractive alternative to car travel. How about improving things, making things, like, more reliable, before forcing us poor people, on a limited budget, to pay more to drive (and that goes for the taxation policy on all things driving) and making us do this. The only positives I can think of at the moment are that “Walk In The Woods” has been a damn good read, and I am getting marginally fitter with the walking I am doing. The negatives are I reckon my blood pressure has gone up markedly, and that is saying something.

When I get home, I am knackered. It coincides, neatly, with the time to take Jake for a walk.

Tell me…in the words of Neil Tennant. “What Have I Done To Deserve This?”

I Now Have Twitter

I don’t really see the point of it, but I’m one of those “just got to have it” types…

Anyway, it is on the right hand side of the blog and is called Dmitri’s Delusional Diminutive Declarations. I may update it when I have little to say…

Dmitri’s Song Review

OK.

I was driving into Bromley this morning to get some crappy old shopping among the herberts, when the radio station put on some old rubbish song by some female singer. I didn’t recognise it, but it was definitely going to be called “If I Were A Boy”.

There then followed a dismal bag of old shite, effectively labelling blokes as drunken layabouts, with all the loyalty of Nick Saban (Miami Dolphins reference), who would cheat on their woman as soon as look at them. Of course, birds hurt a lot more than blokes. Who wrote this bag of old shite? Harriet Harperson?

I have since found out this load of old pony is sung by Beyonce.

Oh dear. She’s trying to do her version of Superwoman (by Karyn White). The lyrics are extraordinary. Quit your bloody moaning.

Roatan Island – My Experience

On our honeymoon cruise we were due to make our first port of call out of Miami at Roatan Island. For those who don’t know it, is in island off the north coast of Honduras and forms part of the Bay Islands under the governance of that country. It has a newish port / cruise terminal at its capital Coxen Hole, and as I understand it, is a new and upcoming attraction for Carnival Cruises (although we went with Norwegian Cruise Lines).

The guide book paints it as an idyllic, if little basic, Caribbean retreat which has an unappetising capital (the aforementioned Coxen Hole) but a delightful West Side where the beaches are superb. There are the warnings of sand fleas, and some quite alarming alerts regarding malaria in the Lonely Planet book, but we took our chances. As it turned out, we had no problems with mites or mossies.

Our problems were with the weather. As the Norwegian Prize Bingo called into port, Aussie Ted Bovis came over the tannoy to cheerily inform us that our marguerita and snorkel tour had been cancelled. Leaving us no time to sign up for an overpriced beach party, or for a deathslide experience, or a visit to see monkeys and iguanas or whatever, we decided to try for ourselves. How hard could it be to find the bus outside HB Warrens store in the centre of Coxen Hole, and get to West End by ourselves?

As we braved the throng of people trying to sell us excursions, we headed into town. One particularly annoying ruffian came alongside us, selling something or other, and as he walked next to me, a dog happened to walk into his path. This little f*ckwit thought it would be a grand idea to boot the mutt as hard as he could. I hate that. My beloved despises it too, and at that point I knew Roatan had lost her for good.

As we wandered down the main road, the town got more intimidating to the beloved. Personally, having been in other less “desirable” places, I wasn’t too bothered, but I don’t blame people for not knowing the score. But when we saw a dead/dying dog on the pavement, it was too much. The main shop, HB Warren, did not have a readily apparant bus stop / meeting place, and Coxen Hole was rapidly being renamed “Shit Hole” in my eyes.

We hired a taxi to take us to West End, which even had its own street map in Lonely Planet. When we got there nothing was open. The taxi driver, a decent chap who spoke sketchy English (but much better than my Spanish), then offered to take us to the beach at West Bay. For an extra $10. I tried my haggling best for a cost for the entire trip and yet it was the beloved and her dewy eyed innocence that got the reduction. Great.

West Bay and Tabyana Beach are no doubt the most lovely of spots on a hot day with a turquoise Caribbean lapping at your feet. It isn’t so beautiful, although not without distinct charm, when the wind is roaring and the see is as grey as Skegness in December, with the seaweed being chugged up on shore and only the brave going into the churning briney. The photos below show the niceness of the place, but (a) there was little evidence of any shops being open; (b) the sewage going into the sea through pipes wasn’t the most attractive feature and (c) the fact that you couldn’t sit down for too long without being sandblasted sort of went against it. A few snaps of the scenery, a purchase of a dreadful generic fridge magnet from a local merchant and another stroll braving people offering braiding services and more mysteriously “massages” and we returned to our taxi.

He took us back along the south coast sea front having navigated a road that looked like it belonged more in war-torn Grozny than an island trying to be an idyllic paradise, and past the lookout point he had stopped at on the way to West End to get his mates to flog us some tat, and past the “death slide” merchants you wouldn’t trust with your life (which is exactly what you are doing) and to our ship. We were on board by 1ish before the heaven’s opened. We wondered what the guys who paid for the beach party were thinking.

Roatan is probably good fun when the weather is nice, so it doesn’t pay to be too harsh, and every tourist spot has a seedy underbelly – as I know from Barbados – but the chief problems are that I think the port is there before the infrastructure and that’s quite important. I am glad I went there, but I won’t be hurrying back. Others rave about the place, as the beloved found out when she put her more strident views on Cruise Critic, but to me it needs a load of work. Maybe that would spoil the charm. It is a fine balance.

I will review Belize, and my experiences there, in the next instalment. Photos will precede it.

It Is Time For The Dmitris…

I tried this in another place, and lost interest, so let me see if I can follow through with them this year…

Most loathesome team (All Sport)
Most loathesome sporting individual (All Sport)
Most loathsome sports reporter – press (All Sport)
Most loathsome sports reporter – TV and radio (All Sport)
Most loathsome commentator (All Sport)
Most loathsome sports news presenter (All Sport)
Most loathsome commentator (Football)
Most loathsome commentator (Cricket)
Most loathsome commentator (US Sport)
Most loathsome commentator (Other)
The Lewis Hamilton Award for Least Convincing Excuse
The Steve McClaren Good In A Crisis Award
The Kevin Pietersen Sports God Award
You Should F*cking Retire Now Award
The Ricky Ponting Award for Brazen Hypocrisy
The Andrew Flintoff You Are A Bloody Idiot Award.

And for a couple of positive ones
British Sportsman of the Year
International Sportsperson of the Year
Individual Performance of the Year
Team of the Year
Best Sporting Moment

Any suggestions, most welcome.

Not A Great Day… Way Out West To The Rescue…

The ear treatment did not work, so still suffering with a clothed up lughole. So what do you do? Buy a CD when you can barely hear. Logical Dmitri!

Nick Warren in Lima for Global Underground was the name – number 35, I think, in the series. I shall report back on what I think in due course. That his Shanghai set finished with the brilliant Derek Howell track and was the first CD I purchased after mum died is by the by..

In the meantime, a couple of tracks Mr Warren has something to do with. Way Out West. Three albums, all top drawer. Number four is rumoured to be out next year.

In my top 200 songs all time this one… (above). This oone is shortened a bit from the album version.

And the next track is from the same album…

And finally, from their earlier days in the mid-1990s…

Not the official video, but on listening to this again, I forgot how truly awesome this bit of music is too.

And a bonus – the brilliant Domination..