Crisis of Conscience!
Today is Gutternsipe’s birthday. I am thirty-xxxxx years old and getting older by the minute, and with this age comes a crisis of conscience…
Amongt the many pleasant gifts I received today from family, friends, the crew of the Ark Royal and all those countless and grateful African and Romanian children I have sponsored over the years, the fair and good Lady Guttersnipe has bought me an MP3 player.
Now Guttersnipes I know what you’re both going to be saying…
“Ah Guttersnipe, you’ve spent months ranting about iPod wankers… how you going to get out of this one?”
You see I have a crisis of conscience. I risk becoming what I hate on the one hand or on the other
- I can no longer hear the children
- I can no longer hear the phones
- I can no longer hear the other iPod wankers.
Be careful not to trip over my principles on the way out, they’re currently in a pile by the bins.
*DISCLAIMER NOTICE* Lady Guttersnipe would like it known that she had purchased this long before I started ranting about iPod wankers. Lady Guttersnip’es like that… birthday in November? Better get the presents sorted out by the end of March.
She doesn’t want you thinking she’s evil or anything.
What The Hell Do You Look Like???
Those of you with a regular rantery nature will know that Guttersnipe here has a few choice words about our youth’s dress codes. Particularly amongst the “Baby Goths” (???) that line my City Centre.
Yesterday as I was heading through the train station there was one of these going the other way on the escalator.
Not your usual Goth type… this one had a tan. Clearly all that morbid depression had led to Daddy cheering her up with a holiday. The tan was unusual, but then there was the hair.
Green hair…
What, in the name of sanity, do you look like woman? Tanned skin, Green Hair, odd clothes….
Which latest fashion magazine suggests these things? Which socialite gatherings require this sort of dress code?
Is “Death Metal Oompah Loompah” the new look for this season?
I’m so not hip with the kids… I need my slippers, I feel an attack coming on.Also see Anna on Little Red Boat for more green hair abuse.
I Just Wanted To Read...
[Rustle rustle rustle]…. "BASTARD!" … [Rustle rustle] …. "ARSE"…. [Rustle rustle} … "OH FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE."
Having had the due consideration to not monopolise the entire train table with me catching up on middle England’s unique brand of ranting I was trying to read a discarded Daily Mail in my own cramped corner of the train.
Now given that we can manage such astounding feats of technology such as radio transmission to the moon, ultrasound scanning equipment, the supersonic jet and the frozen pizza, can we please invent a newspaper that folds?
Please?
By the time I had attempted to read this newspaper without cracking the girl next to me a fine one round the chops or catapulting the Sudoku section into the gentleman opposite me I was attempting to read something I’d just screwed up.
There is an inviting crease line down the centre of all newspapers, can it not just fold down that line without me requiring a degree in civil engineering? The sports pages were at right angle to the rest of the news, the funnies were now upside down, the letters page had developed an enormous tear down the side of it and Guttersnipe of course was getting hot under the collar. A collar I might add that now contained the Money pages and horoscope.
Is it too much to ask that I don’t need to do the Origami?
Oh My God... I Could Have Killed Kenny
Why do people take their children to restaurants? In fact why do people take their children to anywhere other than school?
Last week, the beautiful and fair Lady Guttersnipe, (who still remains without an engagement ring) took me out for Sunday Lunch. A good quality Sunday roast with plenty of meat and not a hint of poncy ass cuisine in sight. Unfortunately we were then joined by a family who pulled up in a somewhat out of date Mercedes and proceeded to pile their seven children and assorted friends into the same restaurant.
The main brat in question was called Kenny. A spoilt shite of a child who went on to do whatever the hell we pleased while his parents (I assume they were both his parents, it’s difficult to tell these days) occasionally lifted their baseball caps to say “Kenny don’t do that”. This process was repeated ad nauseam without a hint of increasing the volume or doing anything about it.
Knowing when we are about to be cursed, myself and Lady Guttersnipe eagerly allowed people to be seated ahead of us while we waited to be seated away from the aforementioned miscreants. All was going well.
We sat down, we got the drinks in, we went to the carvery and “oh for pity’s sake” they were all there ahead of us grabbing as much food as they could. Does it ever cross the mind of these people that “All you can eat” is an invitation rather than a command?
Anyway, they were all there getting food, all that is except Kenny. Kenny was jumping on the chairs and climbing on the tables while his father kept saying “Kenny, what do you want to eat?”.
Not a hint of “Kenny if you don’t stop that I’m going to kill you”. Not a hint of “Kenny if you don’t stop that I’m going to beat you to death with this joint of gammon”. Not even a hint of “Kenny don’t do that”. So does Kenny stop? No, he joins the rest of his family and then decides it is time for a lie down.
Bang in front of us, slap bang between us and the very meal we had paid good money to get.
And they just left him there!!! They went about getting his food and left him there. Do these people feel no embarrassment at all? I mean even people (like the alleged mother) who come to restaurants wearing the entire Elizabeth Duke back catalogue must feel some embarrassment at something.
Apparently not.
IT’S NOT A FUCKING CRECHE IT’S A FUCKING RESTAURANT.
Jesus, there once was a day when you needed a licence to have a dog, but any dickhead can have a child…. And they rarely stop at one.
An Open Letter to Taxi Drivers
Dear Taxi Drivers,
According to that sacred tome you should all read, that being the Highway Code not the Koran, the flashing yellow signal at a pelican crossing means you may proceed when the remaining pedestrians have cleared the road.
It does not, in any definition or interpretation, mean the law entitles you to drive over the person in front of your car.
Might I also add that red lights mean stop, not stop and rev your car, not slow down to an absolute crawl but still not stop. It means stop. It might mean good luck in China or wherever the ruddybollocks you come from but over here it means STOP.
Please learn this or get off the road. You’re worse than the bastard cyclists.YoursRanting Guttersnipe
Trick.... Now Get Lost Will You?
I work hard for my money and being a Yorkshireman you have to either have a bloody good reason, or a gun if you want to get it off me. This is why I am one of the few people in the world that is truly terrified of small children carrying pumpkins on Halloween.
I don’t give money to the charity envelopes, I don’t give money to beggars and I resent stopping the important work I am doing to answer the door to a 7 year old dressed in a bedsheet.
Last night the important work I was engaging in was equally shared between helping Max Payne overcome some of his more deep rooted anger and bereavement issues as well as helping Horatio Kane solve a murder in a park. Important high stakes stuff I am sure you will agree.
But no… all this had to be put on hold because if I didn’t hand over hard earned chocolate (although I had removed all chocolate buttons) then Lady Guttersnipe’s car would have been egged into a time where it came before the chicken.
Guttersnipe was always raised to not talk to strangers, now I believe this should include not talking to disguised children demanding goods. Next year I have plans…
1. Brussels Sprouts dipped in chocolate and wrapped in Ferrerro wrappers.
2. Barricading myself in my top room and not appearing until 10-o-clock
3. Sticking posters across my windows saying “Registered Sex Offender at this address, be warned”
What do you think?
