Unappreciated Good Deeds #1

“’scuse me mate I was wondering if you could help me out”

“Certainly… what can I do for you?”

“I need some money for a cup of tea”

“Oh I can help you there… there’s a café just inside the entrance there and it has a cash machine just next to it”

“Tight bastard!”

Some people are just blind ungrateful for help aren’t they?

It's A Matter of Principle You See...

I recently had call to go up to t’north where they all say “gradely” and “champion”. Not quite as far as where they all say “Why aye” and “Howay” but close nevertheless… so once again I found myself on a train. I duly turned up to the train station and bought a ticket, a ticket which I am led to believe entitles you to a seat on a train.

You would have thought wouldn’t you?

Alas all the seats were taken by other people, other people who saw fit to bring smaller, louder, other people with them. It was left to Guttersnipe here to stand.

Now Guttersnipe was taught in school that if you are young, able or working class then you stand up so that someone older, less able or posh can sit down. I wasn’t expecting tugged forelocks and a “bless ya squire” but I think I could be permitted the expectation of a nice sit down. When you get to my age you look forward to “a nice sit down”.

Alas I was destined to be as disappointed as someone who has won a week’s holiday with Jade Goody. I was left to stand.

However one should adapt and overcome when faced with inconvenience and I thought “Bugger this… If I’m standing then I’m standing in First Class!” and so I marched off happy in the knowledge that if I was standing then I was standing so people more deserving can sit down.

“Ticket please!”

“I’m sorry this is a standard class ticket and you’re in a First Class carriage.”

“Yes but I’m not sitting down. I’m standing”

“But this carriage is for first class passengers only”

“And a First Class ticket would buy me a seat in this carriage?”

“Yes… you can upgrade for a further £20”

“No thanks.. I’m happy standing”

“But this is a First Class carriage Sir”

“Yes but I’m not sitting down am I? I’m standing on the carpet. The same carpet, I might add, that you have in the Standard carriages. If you’re going to charge me £20 extra for standing here then I insist that there is an improved carpet, it’s a simple value for money thing you understand.”

This continued for a further 15 minutes, at which time I got off the train, the shield of justice firmly attached to my arm.

That's Amore....

My pizza arrives….. words cannot explain how much I look forward to pizzaas hand delivered by our local take away. But given that this is a blog, they’ll have to…

I look forward to them a lot.

Wide as you can, all hint of vegetables removed and pepperoni replaced in the gaps the veg left behind. I can then curl up on the sofa with the delightful Lady Guttersnipe and watch CSI, or if Lady Guttersnipe’s out doing girl things then maybe an interesting documentary DVD about Japanese Cheerleaders, the entertainment world being my oyster.

It is of the CSI nights that I refer to here…

“Your pizza smells gorgeous”

“Yes it does doesn’t it? I’m now going to enjoy it in such a manner that you could be mistaken for thinking I’m impersonating a dying walrus”

“Can I have a slice?”

And so it begins… the ever circular battle of wits, the highlander style duel fought through time until there can only be one. Myself and the delightful Lady Guttersnipe have been together for some time now and I’m hard pressed to recall a time where I have had an entire pizza.

“No you can’t”

“Pleeeaaaasssee”

“If you wanted pizza I would have bought you pizza”

“I don’t want a pizza I just want a slice of pizza, surely you don’t begrudge me a slice”

“I don’t begrudge you a slice… just please have a slice of your own”

At this moment “puppy dog eyes” are used… Hah! Guttersnipe is immune, after all Pit Bulls were puppies once..

I will fight, I will cave, I will sulk, and I will continue to enjoy a pizza now deficient to the tune of 1 slice.

And so the cycle continue…

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.

Yours
Ranting 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?

Special Once In A Lifetime Offer...

Last week I was at the Pickering War Time Weekend. A fine, if somewhat crowded salute to the Home Front of the 1940s. I was seeing a few people I'd not seen for a while. Catch up on old times over a fine pint... you know the sort of thing.

Now as it came time to leave and head back to Leeds, one of the crowd said:

"See you soon Guttersnipe, and next time we see Lady Guttersnipe we expect her to be wearing an engagement ring"

Gulp!

So I ask... does anyone want to marry Lady Guttersnipe? She's cute, she makes bacon sandwiches to die for, she hates the french and you want to see the things she can do with an egg whisk.

Have You Got a Hole In The Head Or Something?

I’m not an idiot, I am aware that the words “fashion sense” constitute an oxymoron but body piercing? How can that ever be a good idea?

Near where I work in Leeds you will find “Corn Exchange” a pleasant bazaar of the more unusual shopping experiences our fair city has to offer. Now this eclectic range of wares does have a tendency to attract a load of oddly dressed Goth types to hang around outside the place.

So as I walk past this bizarre looking mass of hair and metal backs into me and then goes about his merry way. I’ll add at least he had the decency to apologise and that’s when my horror began.

Pierced face? Multiple piercing of the face?

Who stands in front of the mirror of a morning and thinks “Wow I’m looking sharp today but if only my face was a bit more… you know… metallic”, “Hmmm…. Bond villain look today I think” or “If only I look like a stapler had exploded to my right”?

The last time I saw someone like him was when I rented Hellraiser.

How do these people get jobs? When this phase finally ends what will their faces look like? I’ll tell you what they’ll look like. Tea Bags. Could they even drink without a surgically implanted cork?

It can’t be good for you… I’m no health crusader but think, talk to a few War Veterans and they’ll tell you that people with unnecessary holes in their heads die.