False advertising.  What a wonderful thing.  Just from watching the TV tells me I can look 30 years younger by rubbing something on my face which has a fancy name, but is probably the inside of a pigs intestine or something like that.  “Pentapeptides” the adverts say.  Does anyone know what they are?  To be honest, I don’t actually care. 

I am a man.  I am not Metrosexual man. 

I do not need to smear anything on my face to keep me looking young as I am naturally a great looking guy.  Well, after a few beers, that is what I see of myself in the mirror.  Mirrors are not allowed out when I am sober. 

But back to the plot.  What there is of it.

It is proven that these “pentapeptides” don’t actually work.  I know this because I see a lot of women using them, and a lot of 40 year old women who do not look 10 years old.  Which is good.  Could you imagine meeting a girl, you get on great, she finds a new cream in the shops, and suddenly you are close to going to jail if they don’t check her birth certificate.

Another one of these “It just wont work” things are the likes of penis enlargements and other false promises. 

Email after email promises to “Increase my member”.  I am a member of a breakdown club in case my car stops working.  By buying these tablets, am I going to get better privileges?  I don’t think so! 

Another email told me that I can “Make her scream”.  I just don’t need tablets to make my wife scream.  Not cleaning up after myself or sneaking up behind her and shouting “I love you Bessie!” at the top of my voice makes her scream.  If not because her name is not Bessie, but the shouting alone winds her up. 

Hell, one email told me I can make my penis bigger!  Yeah sure.  So I bought £2000 worth.  Nothing.  Actually, when I got my credit card bill in, “Little Sy” actually shrunk as I saw the horror of the bill.  So I took the tablets, and all I got was indigestion.  Actually, my stomach bloated up a little, so “something” got bigger.  But I didn’t want a bigger stomach.

So there you have it.  The unsolicited mails are illegal as they promise something that is impossible to do.  The TV Ads should be banned for false advertising, but because they got a “few” results, they are allowed to continue to tell every woman that it “can reduce your age”.  Very clever indeed.

But then we come to the reason for this post.

Blatant lies.

How the BBC ever fell for writing this story is quite honestly beyond me.  I can honestly say I have never ever ever ever EVER seen one.  I have done a lot of research and it turns out that a lot of people (mainly male) agree with me.  My research involved standing in a busy high street and asking people.  Most people walked past and said “Not interested” as they carried on walking.  See?  People aren’t interested in something that does not exist.

But, some 4000 people have bought the device.  “What is it?” I hear you say.  Well, it is a device that at a touch of a button, will give a woman an orgasm. 

Yeah I know.  hahaha.  “A female orgasm!!!”.  People will make up anything these days!! 

My favourite part of the story reads:

However, the Slightest Touch, which sells for $139.95, is not suitable for everyone.

It is not recommended for women taking anti-depressants, those who are pregnant or those with some underlying medical conditions such as heart problems.

So a woman on anti depressants cant use it?  Why?  Maybe because she will be even more depressed that after lashing out that much money, she finds out that it STILL doesn’t exist!  And a woman who is pregnant is already going to be confident that it doesn’t exist.  I guess the people with heart problems is the same as the ones on anti-depressants.  The sadness they feel when they realised they have been duped will finish them off.

Bad BBC.  Naughty BBC.  You have given a false promise to many many women.  Feel free to thank me for letting you know now before you spent the money!

Full story HERE.

23rd July @ 6am – In a very pleasant slumber, my wife starts playing with my feet.  I enjoy this.  She never does it.  Because my feet smell of cheese?  Maybe.  Because my feet are as ugly as the love child of George Bush and Gordon Brown after a night on the absinthe?  Well, they aren’t THAT bad.  Just because she knows I like it so won’t do it?  Likely but not confirmed.

So why today?  Well, about a month ago, I sat in a room and heard the words “Yes, it might happen in films, but it almost never happens without contractions first, and then it is a long time after the contractions start”.  This was in reply to a woman saying “What if I am at work or out and my waters break?” while in an antenatal class.

A few minutes of enjoying the foot tickling, I figure I should show my appreciation with a raised head, a smile and tell her I love her.  Of course, I was pretty sure at this point I was still asleep and I was going to turn round and see a Sasquatch at the end of the bed dribbling while chewing the remains of my cats tail or something, and I was next.  Yes, I really never ever get woken up to my feet being tickled.  I get woken up to being shaken, called, shouted at, or on occasion poked in the eye followed shortly afterwards by the words “Stop snoring”.  So it must be a dream.

“I think my waters have broken” my wife tells me.  A wry smile on her face and creating puddles like Jemima puddleduck living up to her surname.  There were no contractions.  Of course, we were also told that the start of the contractions would stop and proper labour would start many hours later.

9:45am – A trip to the day unit to confirm the waters have indeed broken.  Because they like to check that even though the water behind the hoover damn is laying on the floor now.  Maybe because most first time mothers these days are 13 and not 33 and may not know.  I am pretty sure we know the difference between a bladder that has given up the ghost and waters breaking.  Hell, even a complimentary sniff would answer that one. 

We were told the contractions were just “niggles” which will go away and labour will start some point in the next 72 hours.  They were spot on about the contractions starting some point in the next 72 hours.  They started there and then.  Which was very much inside of that 72 hours.  The “niggles” therefore; weren’t.

2pm – Wifey is now sat at home in the bath.  The “niggles” were less painful in there.  So I sat next to her.  On the toilet.  For 4 hours.  And never had to flush once.  Yes, my behind was fast asleep.  4 hours on the can is not the most fun a man can have.  Sat, with a stopwatch in his hand timing the “niggles”.  The “niggles” were never more then 3 minutes apart.  And didn’t stop.

6pm – “Lets call the delivery suite” my wife mentions between “oohhh….eeeee….aaaahhhhh” noises that she had been making every couple of minutes for the past hours.  So I did.  “Hello.  Delivery suite.  How can I help you” was spoken by the person answering the phone.  In a language I did not understand.  “Here we go…” I thought.  After explaining that we had been to the day unit, she keeps replying back “You want the number for the day unit?”  I feel at times like these, that it is important for 2 panicking first time parents to be able to speak to someone who can speak a language that you understand.  Apparently not important to them.  But finally, they tell us to come in.

9pm – She is back in the bath.  I am back sat on the can.  Just this time at the hospital.  As the loving husband, I kept the water topped up.  This was not because I am nice.  It was to get blood flow back in my rear which was now snoring it was so asleep.  No, it wasn’t wind.  It was snoring. 

By midnight, the immortal words “It wont happen tonight, so go home” were said to me.   Not believing them at all, I went home.  Had a bath of my own.  Didn’t sit on the toilet at all.  Went to work as it was half way between home and the hospital as I was supposed to be working anyway, and knew there would be another call.  An hour later I got a phone call, and broke the land speed record in a 1.6L engine. Getting to the hospital, the car looked at me with a “Oh hell do you do owe me one!” look on it’s face as it let out a huge sigh of relief that it was still in one piece.

From there on, there was a lot of swearing, sweating and looks of sheer pain.  My wife on the other hand, did amazingly with only a few words not suitable for this blog.

24th July @ 7:01am – 25 hours after my feet were tickled, our daughter was laid on to my wife’s stomach.   In the TV show 24, there are ad breaks.  They need to rethink this labour thing.  Bring it in line with the needs of today.

So for all those that say “Oh, the man has it easy”, I challenge you!  It may not be as hard as it is for the woman, but hell…it ain’t easy!  DVT from the toilet seat, speeding in the car to be there for your wife and child, fingernails dug in hands, broken bones (or maybe a little fractured), crying like a big girl in front of strangers when your child is born, sat on the toilet for hours on end with the inability to really do anything at all that takes the pain away from your wife/girlfriend. 

Tell me again why we have it easy.

Have any of you got a guinea pig?  Or maybe two?  Or maybe the two you did have, got their freak on, and now you have 10. 

You know what?  It doesn’t matter.  Well, not until they reach puberty and go out buying dresses for lunch with friends. 

Just the other day I took Papa and Bissau out for lunch because I heard of a place where they all go to meet and all dress up.  Then they all take part in competitions.  How fast can they run, who is the biggest, tallest.  And then I got there and realised that his was no ordinary get together. 

After entering Papa and Bissau in to every competition, I watched as they stomped on the competition.  My big fat healthy guinea pigs were the toast of the competition… and then we got to the last contest.  When I read the “How good do they taste” round, I figured that it meant something along the lines of what kind of palate do they have?  What range of foods do they enjoy? 

Boy was I wrong.  This “Get together” just so happened to be the third annual Festival of the Guinea Pig in Huacho, Peru.  Naturally. 

Yes, this little festival is all about the lucky guinea pigs at the festival, who after a good day of showing the crowd their wares, some escape with the indignity of being turned into kings, miners and Peruvian peasants for the day, and the rest?  Well, they get munched.  And when I say munched, I don’t mean they feel hungry and have the munchies.  Yes, they end up on a plate.  Delicious.

In case you are wondering, or have a litter, a cleaver and an unhealthy need to cut up your pets and cook them, it is a cross between rabbit and dark chicken meat.  I recommend against doing this though.  Nothing ever tastes quite right when you do it yourself!

I think Papa and Bisau ran away when they found out about the last contest.  On my way to the food tent to get myself a 1/2lb Guinea Burger with a side of Fur-ies, I did hear a muffled squeek of “OH GOD NOOOO!” which sounded like one of them in the tent cleverly named “The Chop Shop”.  I think that tent sold knives, fur and blood.  Well, that was all I could see in there anyway.  Maybe Papa and Bissau went in there to get some items for their journey and found it was going to cost more then they thought?

Either way, I miss them.  I got a real taste for those burgers, and even bought the buns.

I know you are curious, so HERE is the news story.

Did you do much?  Maybe you went and had a little look at Don’s site and had a bit of a giggle.  Then again, maybe you rented a movie, and then had a chat with Jim about it?  Maybe?  Maybe you just went to Mrs T’s house and talked about the virtues of being a housewife extraordinaire?  Or even looked in to the deeper side of life and relationships with Tamera?  Of course, some times you just want to look at whats going on in the world with Rose.

Maybe you didn’t do any.  Maybe you went to have a word with some menopausal old bag?  Or maybe thought about moving to france, and wearing jodhpurs.  Like Debs.

There are so many posibilities really when you look in to it (and by that, sorry if I missed anyone).   I mean, today I did this (well, my wife did it.  I was just there for the show):

 

World – Meet Shawnee Jaydn Hughes.

Shawnee – Meet the world.

So if updates are a little slow for the next 18 years, you know why.  If you need a paypal button to send me vast quantities of cash for her, just ask.

RIght.  Been up for 29 hours straight.  Going to bed.  Night night world….even if it is 10am.

I have an idea which has probably been thought up many times before, but I am claiming it based on me wanting to.

Let me set the scene.

It is Sunday, and we take a nice leisurely drive out to do a few things.  I got to drive along urban roads, motorway’s and dual carriageways.  The windows of the car were open.  The music was at a respectable level of “How loud can I put this on for before it distorts to all hell”.  This was of course while on the motorway, and being the good citizen I am, I turned it down when in built up areas.

It sounds perfect.

But as I said, it is Sunday.

The idiots are out.  And holy hell they are EVERYWHERE. 

Crawling along the middle lane of the A23 in what I can only describe as “reverse gear” was some annoyingly blue car.  Someone who had absolutely no idea that the inside lane is not actually the hard shoulder.  You can in fact drive on the inside lane, and it will not be frowned upon.

So I overtook on the outside lane.  There was nothing close to me and it was safe to pull out.  I stayed in the lane to overtake another car.

Up comes the car not only tested by dummies, but is also on occasion sold to them.  Hello Mr Volvo driver.

Mr Volvo Driver thought we were married.  Well, I am assuming so because the only person that gets that close to me is my wife.  Apparently, if you drive so close to someones rear, it is universal language for “Excuse me dear boy, would you mind awfully, I would love to come past you a little quicker!”.  So I gently put my arm outside of the car window and made the universal language for “Of course you can, please come a little closer.  It is the best way for you to kill myself, my wife and my unborn child while we do 70mph along the road!”  This is done by cupping your hand as if you have a hand full of coffee beans and you are giving them a little shake.

Moving ahead several miles, we enter “Urban Area”.  Where you get roundabouts.  With pretty white lines on the road.  And if you look at the signs, and the pretty white lines, you can negotiate the roundabout with no real knowledge of the roundabout at all.

Unless you drive one of those “Am I a car, a van or a caravan?  I don’t know, I moulded in to one” contraptions.  Which you pick a lane, and just as you get to the traffic lights, you change your mind.  And then, as you get to the next set, you change your mind again.  And you are STILL in the wrong friggin lane!  So Mr CaraVanaCaravan driver just goes where the hell he wants.  If you are in the wrong lane, and cant get over, try this one…go around the roundabout again.  It will add 20 seconds to your journey and will save the lives and insurance of others. 

Something needs to be done.  People like this are a danger to our sanity.  The best way?  The “Sunday only” driving licence. 

I believe if we let them ONLY drive on a Sunday we will be safer on the roads.  Except that all the things above happened on a Sunday.  So, they can only drive on a Sunday between 4:43am and 4:49am.  This covers people coming out of clubs not being run over by them as they will be home, and not late enough that people will actually be on the roads.

Oh, and they have to drive this:

And wear one of these:

I am sure you will agree that my butt looks awfully fetching in the mirror.   Please ignore the lack of “bulge” at the front there…it was very cold in that room.

I should mention that I am pretty sure the Volvo driver had one on already.

I read a ridiculous news story that says that you can lose weight by remembering your last meal.  The idea is that you can “Think” yourself thin by thinking of your last meal.  How it works I am not sure… I got bored.  The words “Scientists” and “are to be believed” in the same line/story/universe generally make me realise that some ridiculous study which was decided over a cup of cocoa and a nice Rich Tea biscuit is about to invade my brain.

But then, I thought “Hey, lets give this a go.  I am full of shit, so am perfect scientist material!”.  So I spent a few days that every meal, I thought about the one before.  Every meal was a bucket of KFC chicken.  Only 8 pieces, 4 sides of fries and a side of beans, because I didn’t want to appear greedy in my experiment.

Guess what.

I weigh a lot more then I did before my experiment started. 

Reverse psychology got off of it’s chair and kicked me where it hurts.  Then, with a smug look, it handed me more chicken and sat back down.  Yes, the more I thought about my tasty KFC meal, the hungrier I got.  The hungrier I got, the more I ate…and so on. 

But I was not to be outdone.  There was more studying that needed doing.  Take it to a level of everyday occurrences.  See if I can change the world.  “Where to start?”  I thought.

Porn.  Obviously.

Watching constantly for 4 days, it didn’t get any bigger (well, not permanently).  Instead, I got worn out from all the “viewing”, and got the munchies. I ate more chicken.

“Dammit” I thought.  “I have to turn this around to prove it can work!” and used the bar against the wall to help me get up from eating too much chicken.  I went over to the DVD player and put a disk in.

So I watched old games of football where England had actually won a game (it was a very old betamax video I had transferred to DVD) and thought hard.  Could I actually change it and make them make us proud?

It seems that the overpaid primadonna’s can’t change for the better.  They just get worse.  And worse.  Aaaaand worse.  Can you spot what went wrong?  Yup, in my major disappointment at the national team being a huge national failure, I went out and got me some chicken.  Comfort eating.

Using the pulley system, I managed to get on to my now aching legs, breaking under the strain of the weight I had put on.

I waddled off to see my wife to tell her of my “scientific study”, and over a cup of tea and a pack of Rich Tea biscuits, my wife told me that apart from being now seriously overweight, I am also now addicted to the family sized box of KFC.  I needed to fight my addiction.  So I thought long and hard about that box of KFC.  About the grease that collected at the bottom of the box.  At how I could see my face in my hands through the shine from the grease.

I had never been so hungry.  So I went and ordered some chicken to be delivered.  I can no longer drive my car.  Actually, I can’t even get out of bed.  I use a novelty keyboard to type on.  The buttons are 5 times bigger then a normal keyboard because my fingers are all chubby now.  I sound like Jabba the Hut when I talk, and think I have the same waistline size.

So summing up the whole “Think about it and lose weight”, all I can say is that in my professional opinion as a “Scientist”, you guys suck.

If you can get past the first paragraph, the story is HERE.  Good luck.

Sometimes you read something.  And then you read it again.  Then you laugh a little, and then you go bake a cake or something.

Other times you read something and then say “What the hell?” and then go bake a cake.  Or something.

This is a “What the hell” moment, but being at work, I don’t have the ingredients for a cake.  Nor indeed the surface to make it and the oven to bake it in.  I might go do the “or something” though.  I am sure there is a spare cubical in the toilet, and I have a copy of “Anglers Monthly” and a mouse mat with a calendar on it on my desk.  Those ingredients are perfect!

But anyway.  Back to the plot. 

I do not care if you are gay.  Or straight.  Or like a bit of both.  Or wear a snorkel to your office job.  Some people are different to others.  It is a fact of life.  Some people even wear that snorkel during sex for instance.  Hell, it helps you come up for air.  So I heard.

All I do know is that when you read a story about the “lesbian, gay and bisexual advisory group said the action was “potentially discriminating”, you have to wonder what was done.  What evils have the local government done to these members of the community?

 Well, there is a bit of scrub clearance work being done on the Bristol Downs.  To make it prettier.  To attract more people.  To attract more wildlife.  And when I say wildlife, I mean flying things like birds, and other “naturey creatures” and not the wildlife it currently attracts.

Unfortunately, this means that people can’t have sex in public there anymore.  And they aren’t happy.  Or, as my favourite line in the article goes: 

“Concerns were expressed by the city council’s lesbian, gay and bisexual group that this action was potentially discriminating against gay and bisexual men whose activities on this part of the Downs were objected to by other members of the local community and Downs users.”

I agree.  When walking my imaginary dog, I often check in the scrubs for any lost ball that my puppy can chase.  Seeing a man’s bare arse instead has never really worked for me.  Although my imaginary puppy would often see some balls he wants to chase.  I shout “Naughty imaginary puppy.  How dare you stop them having sex.” and then we carry on with our imaginary walk, where he chases wood sticks…and not any other kind of wood. 

“We are working together with the Terrence Higgins Trust to make sure any work we will do is sensitive.

“We’re making sure people know what we are doing so we are not seen to be discriminating.”

How the hell is any of this discriminating?  Is it a designated “shagging zone”?  Of course it isn’t.  How comes we don’t care that we destroy land that wildlife needs, and endanger entire species, but some people want to get their end away in the scrubs, and I presume then go home and put cream on the scratches they incur, and that is a huge problem?!

Please.  Someone.  ANYONE.  Explain how this one works for me!

Full story HERE.

These are the adventures of the Starship KnickerSurprise and it’s ongoing journey’s to seek out new life and civilisations in places that just no man should be made to go….

*start Sesame Street theme tune*

*stop Sesame Street theme tune as it is starting to annoy me*

Captains Log:  Snorkdate 25,21,3,11.  We are nearing the vicinity of the “Hillary Clinton’s Knickers  (HCK)” region.  The region is named after an uninhabited region in the Disgusty Cluster.

Captain Snoggle requests that the KnickerSurprise goes in to “Probe Mode”, and they enter the void.  In the background, a sensor alerts them to a possible weapon.  A sensor sweep of the area alerts them to a huge ping pong ball holding contraption.  It seemed to be offline and a little rusty through a prolonged period of inactivity.  Proceeding with caution, the KnickerSurprise continues it’s journey.

They decide to settle on a planet which they have decided to call Ouranos.  It looked like a huge wart, but seemed capable of sustaining life.  Of some kind.  Obviously not human.  It seemed to be a soft squishy planet.  More like the puss filled boil on the anus of an excited dictator which is being given a good rub.  (Oh come on, I am trying to get you in the zone here.  It makes sense and gives you the vision of a squishy boil like planet which is ready to burst!)

Climbing out of the KnickerSurprise, Snoggle surveyed the ground.  “It’s a damp wet environment which my handheld Skankometer device is telling me should not be touched as it could require medical attention” Snoggle said.  His eyes starting to turn to watery mush from the permeating smell which resembled a festering vegetable which had spent too much time wondering what to wear to the prom and not enough time looking after personal hygiene.

Just then, he heard a sound in the distance.  Running back up the ship ramp like a big screaming girl, Snoggle sent his Second Mate (his First Mate was having an invigorating bath of essential oils and dipping bread in the water to make a light mid-bath snack) Jaffer Snuggleworth, out to investigate.  “Here, take my Uzi.  If it moves, shoot it”, Snoggle ordered. 

Snuggleworth was confused at this.  Of course the gun was going to move!  Did this mean he had to shoot himself?  Was someone aboard the KnickerSurprise going to fire a SnuggleWinding missile at him?  Snoggle had a history of saying stupid things.  Many a time people would hear him in the toilet talking to an invisible person about the “captain’s log” and saying things like “Warp 5.  ENGAGE!” as he pulled the chain.  That, along with the words “Only Stephanie, the queen of the squirrels can help us now”.  Although this was his “Guys, we are pretty much screwed on this one and there is nothing that can help us” phrase.

Armed with the Uzi, Snuggles’ wandered the area.  He saw someone or something move and chased after it.  His arms waving in the air like he just didn’t care and shouting “I’m a coooomin’ to get ya!” in a voice resembling that of a hardened smoker on helium.  Chasing down the person, he asks him who he is.

“The name’s Shatner.  William Shatner.  But you can call me pumpkin” he replied.  “No thanks, I will call you little Willy if that is OK” Snuggleworth replied.

It turned out that little Willy had been stranded on the planet many months ago after he got lost in his spaceship, because he really wasn’t a very good captain.  Willy began to tell him about the planet. 

“There are bad things here.  The primitives are evil crab like creatures who will suck out your brains and then roast your legs and then pour orange sauce on them before devouring them.” said Willy.

“Sounds fun!  I might stick about for dinner!  I love roasted leg! Snuggleworth replied.

He also showed Snuggers a map he had created.  On the map he could see a mysterious cave which he decided to check out.  It looked like a dark cave, which little Willy had reported he had seen asteroids coming out of and huge loud rumbling noises and the air would fill with a stench.  Snuggleworth made his way there.

On getting to the cave, he ventured in, but by now his torch was running low and he couldn’t see a thing.  Snuggeleworth dug deep in his pocket and pulled out his trusty Swan Vesta matches.

“This’ll do the trick!” he said as he started to strike the match.

Unsurprisingly (being that this is already too long and I need to bring it to an end), there was a huge explosion and Snuggleworth, Willy and the Starship KnickerSurprise were destroyed.

 

Look, don’t blame me for this post.  THIS PERSON gave me the words 

“William Shatner, ping pong balls, Hilary Clinton’s knickers, and an Uzi submachine gun. Oh and a box of Swan Vesta matches. Anything about The Starship Knickersurprise”

to work with.  What were you expecting?  Shakespeare?  Exactly. 

I do. 

Why?  Because I am smug like that.  It is all about me me me me meeeee.  I have an ego the size of a large thing, which means it is going to take many years to get to the end of it.

So I am moving to Norway.  Kinda.

Actually, I am moving to the little arctic town of Longyearbyen.  Not because it sounds like a nice place, but because it is actually forbidden to die there.  You can’t go wrong with a law like that.

And I am a law abiding citizen. 

In fact, if you don’t take in to account my speeding when driving, swearing in public, downloading of music online which I might not have paid for and my dance moves, which are a fire hazard as they are so hot, I am pretty much the golden boy of the world.

Lets get back to Longyearbyen.  If you get ill, they don’t look after you.   They stick you on a plane and get rid of you.  If that isn’t the flight of doom, then what is!  You have to wonder though, if that plane was to crash, just how much effort would they put in to a flight full of people on their last legs?  And what if one of them didn’t even have legs?  The connotations are endless, and very scary people. 

But it is why they are not allowing people to die is the weird part.  The graveyard is not full.  And they have obviously never heard of a cremation.  Or indeed fried leg of human on a tasty bed of lettuce leaves and covered in orange sauce.  I am of course kidding.  I couldn’t possibly condone eating lettuce leaves, let alone call them tasty. 

But human leg covered in orange sauce?  Well, lets just call it a hidden treasure that you may well never get to experience.  And boy have you lost out.

Anyway, I was talking about the whole people being dead thing wasn’t I.  Yes, they wont let anyone else be buried because they aren’t decomposing.  (So are they saying it is a field sized freezer full of human legs ready for my special orange sauce?)  They are actually being perfectly preserved by the permafrost.

Scientists recently removed tissue from a man who died there and found traces of a flu virus from 1917.  (read: hungry travellers who don’t like skin on their chicken dug up dinner)

So I think this is perfect proof that cannibalism is alive and well in my house.  Now.  Where is that bottle of Chianti.

In Britain, the home of the free (if you are foreign and want to come and get a house that us taxpayers pay for) we take political correctness to levels like you wouldn’t believe.

Political correctness is a wonderful thing.  With a few exceptions.  These are:

• It is a stupid idea
• Things get messed up for no reason
• It is a really stupid idea
• It makes all the stupid people get some power
• It is a REALLY stupid idea
• It ruins life for the rest of us.

In part I agree with it.  It is a really small part.  But at least it makes sense.  And then you get the people who use it for everything.  Religions saying we should change who we are to meet their misguided faith. Or my favourites like:

Instead of singing “Baa baa, black sheep” as generations of children have learnt to do, toddlers in Oxfordshire are being taught to sing “Baa baa, rainbow sheep”.  When is the last time you saw a rainbow coloured sheep?  More on this one HERE.  Yes sir.  I have rainbow coloured wool.  And some magic mushrooms.  Here, take a mouthful.  I will look eeeeven prettier.

OR

A council saying you can’t use the words “Political Correctness as it can be related to the KKK”.  More HERE. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think the KKK was “politically” motivated.

Or we use it to give jobs to people it is totally unsuitable for.

Imagine you are sitting in a nice big Boeing 777 with a few hundred other people getting leg cramp and DVT.  You are flying over international waters watching the in flight movie and drinking as much free booze as you can.  Your mobile phone (or cell phone for the rest of you) is turned off, your laptop has turned off so you don’t keep getting annoying requests from Facebook because someone installed an app that requires you to share it with 900000 other people for you to see the results of “Am I a hermaphrodite” after you answered the 10 questions.  Life is just sweet. 

What you don’t know is that the pilot is talking to a blind man in air traffic control. 

No.  Really. 

“Equal Opportunities”.  Two words that are used because “We will employ anyone we can get to work for peanuts.  Mr M. Onkey welcome to apply” is too long to put on an application form.

Or in the case of a small British airport, you can apply for the job of Air Traffic Control Officer and the application pack can be supplied in BRAILE. 

Now.  I work at an airport.  Not the one in question, but if I knew that they were allowing a blind person to decide where the planes were to go, I would be leaving the country before you know it. 

By boat. 

What next?  “As a security guard, you will be expected to listen for dodgy devices, and search people.  Application also available in Braille and audio format.”  Audio format.  For people who can’t read I assume?  Lets get these people educated before we give them important jobs. 

Oh, no don’t be silly.  This is multicultural Britain.  Anyone can do anything…

Was this post politically incorrect?  Know of political incorrectness gone mad?  Leave a comment.  I get excited over this stuff.  And not dodgy excited…well, not always.