Tuesday, September 30, 2008


The vast majority of my guests over the past month have arrived here by virtue of a link to a rather ridiculous picture I made a couple of years ago. I didn't actually publish it at the time but all of a sudden I seem, for my visitor numbers at least, to be under something of a deluge. Of weirdos. Even weirder ones than usual.

Anyway, if you have arrived here wondering what kind of person links to pictures of late middle-aged German men with unfeasibly large members of the squash family protruding from their trousers in an utterly hilarious fashion expecting more of the same, I hope you're incredibly disappointed. Welcome all the same. You're probably a perv so may even get off on the anti-climax. See it as punishment and enjoy. But before you go, at least click on a google ad and make me rich. I could do with the funds.
Blogger is messing me about. That picture should appear below but I cannot move it for the life of me. I'm really getting fed up now. Yesterday I spent all day waiting in for Brian from the housing to come and replace a window. I had a letter from the housing telling me Brian would turn up yesterday. When I called them at 4pm they had no knowledge saying that Brian was due on the 17th of September. That was the date of the letter from you telling me Brian was coming on the 29th I told them, and the day that Brian originally came to inspect it and take measurements. He did his bit pretty sharpish didn't he, I hazarded. Oh. We've er...sorry. Bugger. 2nd October OK?
I also had another letter dated 17th September from the housing that arrived the same day as the other one. In a different envelope. This one told me that Miserable Brummie Bob would be coming round to replace my broken central heating timer. That would be today sometime. Alarm bells were ringing. Miserable Brummie Bob only lives round the corner, loike, and he'd already told me that he would make me first on his list, loike, when he did my gas inspection way back in April. He actually forgot to report it, loike, but that's par for the course. Suspecting something untoward was going to occur, I got my pre-emptive strike in at 9am. Miserable Brummie Bob is meant to be replacing my timer today but after the farce of yesterday, I thought I'd better check (I could have asked yesterday but gas and general repairs are separate companies. You know, cost savings) . Ah...let me phone Miserable Brummie Bob and check. I'll call you back. Ring! You're not on Miserable's list. In fact you're nowhere. Oh. We've er...again. Sorry. We'll get back to you. What was that about stupid vegetables?

Sunday, September 28, 2008


Yesterday was a sad, sad day for all right-thinking people. The competition went right up to the wire and was a wonderful advertisement for the proper form of the game as 10 days ago about 6 teams had a chance of winning the greatest prize in sport. Sadly, the mightiest and most super of those also-rans will now be playing second division fixtures next summer after being relegated with Surrey.

Congratulations to Durham. Now what on earth am I going to do until next April?

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Wild Rover

After reading some of the comments on the boy Scary's window into his peculiarly deranged world the other day I became somewhat irked. Some people clearly have it in for Rover drivers. I find this a trifle unfair as I number myself amongst this dying breed and have been since the heady days of the millenium. I feel we are being unfairly maligned. I haven't smoked a pipe since 1982 and my slippers are decidedly unconventional, after I paid way over the odds for them in Marrakech's medina before I got the hang of bartering. I do have a blanket but, on checking, it isn't tartan and it isn't on the back ledge. I live in the north, I'm just sensible. However, I once drove round for a month with a lump of monkey shit on the back window after we'd been to Knowsley Safari Park, thereby hopefully displaying that we don't all waste our Sunday mornings wringing out a chammy. What most other drivers don't realise is that Rover drivers are saviours of the world. We have no concept of hurrying anywhere as we always "leave in good time" and are the perpetual tortoises, forever pulling up at the lights behind the same fwit driven BMW 3 series that left the previous set as if being propelled by the large hadron collider thingy. We have our own version of the LHC in Cheshire, it's called the A534 and objects driven by minute particles often collide head-on along it. We are saving our fuel so the rest of you can be profligate, so be thankful.

For 6 years in a previous life I worked at the world's premier tolled river crossing in Dartford. During that time I was anal enough to maintain a record of my takings. I was a very quick operator. In fact, at one time I was the quickest there, the Albert Pierrepoint of toll collectors, in and out in under 7 seconds. One Monday morning in lane 21 I took £3127.60 in 6 hours. That's a lot of cars. In all, I estimated I took money off 3 million drivers in those 6 years and that gave me a wonderful insight into the characteristics of the average British driver and how their personalities are reflected in their choice car. I'm pretty certain that my dear friend Andy, an occasional visitor to these pathetic meanderings, will wholeheartedly agree with these summaries. Andy was at the crossing when I joined and is still chained to it now fully six years since I escaped. Sucker.

Volvo drivers.
You really have little idea of roadcraft. You fell for the publicity and believe you are invincible. Moreover, you have little idea what that curious circular thing in front of you is. If you turn it, your tank will go round corners. By moving it very slightly to the right it will even save you from the withering glare of a pissed-off toll collector once more forced to contravene health and safety and lean out of the window. Sorry doesn't cut it. There are lots of Volvos, you are all the same.

Saab drivers
As Volvo drivers but sadly under the impression they've bought a sports car.

Citroen Drivers
These fall into two camps: Traditional large and Saxo. Traditional large - the meaty beaty big and bouncy ones. Proper Citroens, full of brass piping and green fluid. You are slightly strange. You will keep your car on the road until it explodes. I know, I was one of your kind. Twice. Otherwise you are eminently sensible and love to talk, especially when you meet another Citroen driver. You don't aspire to a new car, you want a 1959 DS. On the other hand, Saxo drivers (and by implication, any small Citroen that doesn't hiss at the lights) have the mental aptitude of a battery chicken. Your car is a device to get you from A to B relatively safely, it is not a speaker on wheels and those lime green spoilers look faintly ridiculous. You have terrible acne for a 23 year old and your clothes are far too clean for a man.

Peugot Drivers
You just didn't have the guts to buy a Citroen.

Renault Drivers
You are being experimented on. By the French. Don't touch that button. Your car will suffer various unexplained mechanical failures yet you will press on under the impression that you own the pinnacle of Gallic engineering excellence. You will apologise profusely to the AA man for anything.

You don't know how it works. You don't need to. You've bought a means of getting from A to B and that's it. There are buttons on the dash you're scared to touch. You drive far too close to the toll booth window and need to contort yourself to open the window.

The natural choice for ex-Rover drivers. They were the same cars for years and old habits die hard. Unless you've bought a Jazz, in which case you probably ought to be looking at care home options.

I must admit I'm upset with you, espicially the saloon drivers. You should have far better manners but you lost it sometime around the time Blair came to power. Coupé drivers are far nicer. You've worked hard for it but are slightly embarrassed because you know that it won't be too long before it breaks down on the hard shoulder near Toddington services. You have a number plate something like B16 CAT that you paid more than my salary for.

TVR and Super 7s
Out of all the sports car drivers these were probably the most polite. They knew they could floor it and be out of sight in a millisecond but didn't bother. Everyone else knew they could, that was enough.

Rolls Royce.
You're a chauffeur, you don't count. You actually know what you're doing, unlike the twat in the back.

You'd never have a chauffeur. You're loaded but you're polite. You know your car is made by VW but at least it's made over here. It'll be the only time you ever go to Crewe.

Ford and Vauxhall.
Ho hum. 99% probability you're a professional driver. You do over 50,000 miles a year, so supposedly you know what you're doing. Guess who causes all the accidents at the crossing? Women drivers? Chavs? You guess wrong, my Mondectra steering robot friend fiddling with your laptop on the passenger seat and reading your latest pension prediction while talking to Nev through your wanky bluetooth headset. "Just a mo, mate" you used to say. "You take your time and finish your call, I've got all the time in the world" I'd reply. "I'm not sure the truck driver behind who's only got 46 minutes to get to the next services has though."

There's a special section for German cars. With the exception of VW, you have very serious personality disorders.

You really wanted to buy a British car but they don't make them any more. It would have been a tough thing anyway, you know VWs last for ever. You're almost apologetic for driving a car in this country that was conceived by Hitler. You didn't realise that the Passat was as big as that did you, madam.

Oh you sad delusional get. You spent all that money on a brand new car and now the window doesn't work. Lol lol lol lol! You have no personality. Colleague John once moaned at one for paying all in copper. "You lot always do this" he said. "That's why I'm driving one of these. I look after it". John, sadly, bought a second hand 180. I would have called the driver something more Anglo Saxon.

What BMW drivers want to be when they grow up. They don't mature, they just get older.

WHere to start? You should never have been born. Outside the confines of the car you can be level headed and sensible but as soon as you sit in your precious Beemer something happens. I have a friend who transforms behind the wheel of his 3 series. He needs to overtake everything in sight. Rules go out of the window yet he'll bay mercilessly at other minor transgressors. You don't own the road. Those blue headlamps are stupid and the ones with LEDs in leave you seeing stars every time you blink. The interiors of BMWs are soulless uninviting voids, which must be comforting for you. You also have little clue about how your car works. One night one of your number out wiv 'is bird came over the bridge from Essex into lane 15, where I was stationed. "I've got a problem, mate. Steering's gone a bit funny" He said to me. "I noticed, Sir" I replied. "Might it possibly be that it's because your offside front wheel overtook you as you approached and is now rolling down the escape lane into the sandpit?"

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Press Release

Goatfood is pleased to announce the arrival of its 20,000th visitor!

And who was the lucky person? Sadly it was me. Not currently possessing my own comprechter, Google is failing to recognise the multiple visits I make from the various council run emporia I frequent as well as the several machines owned by friends I borrow as being unique visitors. I do know who visitor 19,999 was though: step forward Pamela. Your prize is to bake me one of your intriguing sounding confections (pray, what is a "snickerdoodle"?) and hope it survives the ministrations of Mr Crozier's happy posties here in the jewel of the north-west as they excitedly deliver their own redundancy notices.

I am pleased to note that at least a few of my visitors are culled from the ranks of the wayward and disturbed and are not only my online "friends". Of course, I do realise that obviously there will be some overlap. It's also heartening to know there are some secure establishments allowing unrestricted access to the information superhighway and I have detailed some of their attempts to access information via this website below.

life size plastic elephant

silly old moo on a roundabout

wanking punishment

a205 planning se6 -toshiba -fuji -sony

"vegetable peelings" photo

A translation of this journal into Russian

And my personal favourite,

"on seeing his wife's pubic hair"

All good clean fun.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008


Long-term readers of this journal will remember I am in something of a protracted dispute with a company known as Equita. They are a "collections agency", what we commonly call bailliffs. For my part, I prefer to call them lying and bullying bastards and with some good reason.

A while back they demanded I send them proof of the £15 cheque I'd claimed I'd sent them. I wrote back telling them that their continued inefficiency wasn't doing them any favours - it was a £5 cheque, as I'd already told them (oh for fsake, use your bloody hand! - a comment directed at the bloke next to me in the library who is in the middle of a sneezing fit), maybe they were looking for the wrong thing. Anyway, I sent them a copy of the front and back of the cheque along with a rather detailed account of why I think they are a bunch lying, thieving etc as previously described. I didn't mince my words. I addressed the letter to the chief executive officer. I asked for an explanation as to why they employ lying, thieving etc as previously described and why they appear not to give a flying one for anything except making money.

Yesterday I received an envelope containing a cheque for £5 and a slip bearing the words "with thanks". There was no letter and hence no explanation. What's more, the lying, cheating thieving bastards had not even affixed a stamp to the envelope.

The fat lady is still in her dressing room.

By the way, just for the benefit of the search engines, that's Equita. Of Nottingham. Get that? Equita.