Coronavirus Humour
Discussion
Yes we all know it's bleak and depressing, but Is there a funny side?
We have a million depressing threads, how about a light hearted one.
Comments, Rants, Cartoons, Jokes?
Nothing has ever been off limit before, race, religion, disability, sexes etc etc.
'Coronavirus Customer Service Charter.'
We employ people to work and get the money for it. That’s all.
We do not employ people to monitor performance and check breaches of a Charter with consequent compensation of £50 a day, provided access to the premises was allowed and Civil Disorder or Panic Buying was not in progress.
We will probably come when we say, but do not dismount your bicycle, eject the dummy from the pram, or post a pathetic whinge on social media if we are classified as 'non essential', locked down by Boris and don’t.
There will not be a customer satisfaction survey following the installation, if it doesn’t work, you are still alive, society hasn't broken down, and the phones still work, then we will presume you have the sense to tell us.
We have certain legal obligations which we will abide by; we will not murder you or steal things (unless you have a moronic stockpile of toilet roll or pasta), and we expect the same courtesies in return.
We answer the phone and look at messages if we’re not busy, dead, or not there. You will not get a compendium of other numbers to press. Nor will you receive Greensleeves on the Stylophone or someone droning on giving helpful advice on social distancing and entertaining the family.
We do not seek to thrill and delight you, better leave that to the excitable crowds jostling for the last can of baked beans in Morrisons or your now solitary non existent sex life. Satisfaction is not guaranteed, you are not even guaranteed to live through the installation period, especially if you look a bit peaky when we call.
We will not be emblazoned with names, it can only be of marginal interest to you that 'Chas' was there and not 'Dave'. We do not hope you have a nice day, you probably do not need to be told, and anyway may well be having a day wallowing in self pity at the bleak future of humanity. We don’t care either way. You are not the most important person in the world, we are, or more specifically, I am.
We do not have a customer service department. We have an office where it is all done, except accounts. Ask for accounts if you have to, but they are not a debating society with all the time in the world to hear about your dire financial situation, that’s what paracetamol and the Citizen’s Advice Bureau is for.
You will not be called Sir Or Madam, If that’s what you like, then if posh restaurants ever reopen dine out at eighty pounds for a bowl of mushroom soup with crusts on. Keep out of the way of our staff. They are chosen for taciturnity, their ability to work, and not having a cough or temperature, not social graces.
They definitely do not need advice. In return they will leave you alone to get on making the Lasagne, doing the ironing or deciding which item on the lengthy lockdown DIY job list you should tackle first with your rickety ladder and power tools.
This does not affect your statutory rights, because you don't have any anymore and aren't allowed out to complain anyway.
We have a million depressing threads, how about a light hearted one.
Comments, Rants, Cartoons, Jokes?
Nothing has ever been off limit before, race, religion, disability, sexes etc etc.
'Coronavirus Customer Service Charter.'
We employ people to work and get the money for it. That’s all.
We do not employ people to monitor performance and check breaches of a Charter with consequent compensation of £50 a day, provided access to the premises was allowed and Civil Disorder or Panic Buying was not in progress.
We will probably come when we say, but do not dismount your bicycle, eject the dummy from the pram, or post a pathetic whinge on social media if we are classified as 'non essential', locked down by Boris and don’t.
There will not be a customer satisfaction survey following the installation, if it doesn’t work, you are still alive, society hasn't broken down, and the phones still work, then we will presume you have the sense to tell us.
We have certain legal obligations which we will abide by; we will not murder you or steal things (unless you have a moronic stockpile of toilet roll or pasta), and we expect the same courtesies in return.
We answer the phone and look at messages if we’re not busy, dead, or not there. You will not get a compendium of other numbers to press. Nor will you receive Greensleeves on the Stylophone or someone droning on giving helpful advice on social distancing and entertaining the family.
We do not seek to thrill and delight you, better leave that to the excitable crowds jostling for the last can of baked beans in Morrisons or your now solitary non existent sex life. Satisfaction is not guaranteed, you are not even guaranteed to live through the installation period, especially if you look a bit peaky when we call.
We will not be emblazoned with names, it can only be of marginal interest to you that 'Chas' was there and not 'Dave'. We do not hope you have a nice day, you probably do not need to be told, and anyway may well be having a day wallowing in self pity at the bleak future of humanity. We don’t care either way. You are not the most important person in the world, we are, or more specifically, I am.
We do not have a customer service department. We have an office where it is all done, except accounts. Ask for accounts if you have to, but they are not a debating society with all the time in the world to hear about your dire financial situation, that’s what paracetamol and the Citizen’s Advice Bureau is for.
You will not be called Sir Or Madam, If that’s what you like, then if posh restaurants ever reopen dine out at eighty pounds for a bowl of mushroom soup with crusts on. Keep out of the way of our staff. They are chosen for taciturnity, their ability to work, and not having a cough or temperature, not social graces.
They definitely do not need advice. In return they will leave you alone to get on making the Lasagne, doing the ironing or deciding which item on the lengthy lockdown DIY job list you should tackle first with your rickety ladder and power tools.
This does not affect your statutory rights, because you don't have any anymore and aren't allowed out to complain anyway.
'Low Hanging Lockdown Fruit.'
Are you sat in front of your computer 'working from home' desperately waiting for the bell icon to change or your mobile to bing. Indicating that thank God! someone you vaguely know, somewhere you vaguely care about, has reacted to something on Facebook.
We are only on day three of the lockdown, but already the tenuous prospect of a few crumbs of intermittent virtual cheer scattered on your sofa of despair was enough to lure you into my unfathomable sinister lair.
You're now going to be sadly disappointed when I tell you the title of this post is not some heinous, depraved or perverted (delete as appropriate) 'whack a mole' style entertainment to help get you through the quarantine period, involving your vivid imagination, extra virgin olive oil, a mallet and overripe fruit.
It's trivial, mundane, and an obvious choice for the situation. It's about boring and unending job lists.
You have probably got one as well, short, long, or if your a bloke and trapped at home with the partner/family, bloody enormous. Stuck up on the fridge door, skewered onto the cork pin board, or feebly clinging to your sweaty forehead on an ancient 'post it note' because you are still on the sofa glued like a zombie to episode 370 of Game of Thrones.
It's there though, hanging over you like the Sword of Damocles, and like your enforced confinement it won't be going away anytime soon unless you man up and confront it.
How men across the county now yearn to be an essential worker, ferrying the sick, delivering food parcels or pampers, anything other than having to start work on the domestic equivalent of painting the forth road bridge.
They know it will never be finished because the knobs will fall off the knackered wardrobe again as they hadn't got the right screws, the patio will need cleaning because it keeps going green, and by some unfathomable miracle that occurs each night, the job list just keeps growing.
So how to combat this dangerous growing menace and threat to civilisation? I mean the jobs list obviously, not the virus.
Knuckle down and tackle it with the rarely seen effort and gusto of a man on a mission to please, fortified by the Dunkirk spirit. (or any spirits??) but desperate inside to sail off alone into the sunset in a little boat?
That sounds like a plan, and a proper way to feel really good after a solid days satisfactory and rewarding work.
Nah... Bugger that.
Like most I expect I will peck at my growing jobs list like a scrawny squawking vulture jostling on the fresh corpse of a wildebeest in the Okavango delta. The juicy easy titbits first, and the tough sunbaked fly blown grissle much later, and only then if i'm really hungry, desperate or Netflix is buffering.
We surreptitiously or subconsciously rearrange the list anyway, so the easy jobs float up to the top like a dead bloated pet goldfish, and can be cherry picked easily like shooting fish in a barrel.
No worries I'll tackle the tricky banging in a few nails today before another four hours in front of the Star Trek Original Series boxed set. But I will leave the digging out the conservatory foundation trenches by hand until tomorrow, i'm a bit tired after my two tons of pizza and chips.
So the low hanging fruit in this ramble is tackling the easy jobs first and leaving the tough pain in the arse stuff until much later, and preferably after a glass of wine or two.
Who knows? In three weeks time blokes across the country accompanied by rapturous applause from admiring crowds (of no more than two people) may be applying the finishing touches to the DIY masterpiece the partner has always craved. The jobs list will have vanished into the bin, completed in a puff of hope, optimism and enthusiastic determination.
Alternatively they will be being visited on the orthopedic ward in the makeshift army camp hospital, ironically being brought low hanging fruit to console them after the unfortunate incident with the rickety step ladder and grandads inherited ancient power tools. Luckily someone 'non essential' was filming it on their phone, so you can see the abject but hilarious DIY fail on youtube or 'You've been framed' at any time.
There is only one 'job' left, but this is on another's mythical list. A rare reward for that hard work and a job well done..
Are you sat in front of your computer 'working from home' desperately waiting for the bell icon to change or your mobile to bing. Indicating that thank God! someone you vaguely know, somewhere you vaguely care about, has reacted to something on Facebook.
We are only on day three of the lockdown, but already the tenuous prospect of a few crumbs of intermittent virtual cheer scattered on your sofa of despair was enough to lure you into my unfathomable sinister lair.
You're now going to be sadly disappointed when I tell you the title of this post is not some heinous, depraved or perverted (delete as appropriate) 'whack a mole' style entertainment to help get you through the quarantine period, involving your vivid imagination, extra virgin olive oil, a mallet and overripe fruit.
It's trivial, mundane, and an obvious choice for the situation. It's about boring and unending job lists.
You have probably got one as well, short, long, or if your a bloke and trapped at home with the partner/family, bloody enormous. Stuck up on the fridge door, skewered onto the cork pin board, or feebly clinging to your sweaty forehead on an ancient 'post it note' because you are still on the sofa glued like a zombie to episode 370 of Game of Thrones.
It's there though, hanging over you like the Sword of Damocles, and like your enforced confinement it won't be going away anytime soon unless you man up and confront it.
How men across the county now yearn to be an essential worker, ferrying the sick, delivering food parcels or pampers, anything other than having to start work on the domestic equivalent of painting the forth road bridge.
They know it will never be finished because the knobs will fall off the knackered wardrobe again as they hadn't got the right screws, the patio will need cleaning because it keeps going green, and by some unfathomable miracle that occurs each night, the job list just keeps growing.
So how to combat this dangerous growing menace and threat to civilisation? I mean the jobs list obviously, not the virus.
Knuckle down and tackle it with the rarely seen effort and gusto of a man on a mission to please, fortified by the Dunkirk spirit. (or any spirits??) but desperate inside to sail off alone into the sunset in a little boat?
That sounds like a plan, and a proper way to feel really good after a solid days satisfactory and rewarding work.
Nah... Bugger that.
Like most I expect I will peck at my growing jobs list like a scrawny squawking vulture jostling on the fresh corpse of a wildebeest in the Okavango delta. The juicy easy titbits first, and the tough sunbaked fly blown grissle much later, and only then if i'm really hungry, desperate or Netflix is buffering.
We surreptitiously or subconsciously rearrange the list anyway, so the easy jobs float up to the top like a dead bloated pet goldfish, and can be cherry picked easily like shooting fish in a barrel.
No worries I'll tackle the tricky banging in a few nails today before another four hours in front of the Star Trek Original Series boxed set. But I will leave the digging out the conservatory foundation trenches by hand until tomorrow, i'm a bit tired after my two tons of pizza and chips.
So the low hanging fruit in this ramble is tackling the easy jobs first and leaving the tough pain in the arse stuff until much later, and preferably after a glass of wine or two.
Who knows? In three weeks time blokes across the country accompanied by rapturous applause from admiring crowds (of no more than two people) may be applying the finishing touches to the DIY masterpiece the partner has always craved. The jobs list will have vanished into the bin, completed in a puff of hope, optimism and enthusiastic determination.
Alternatively they will be being visited on the orthopedic ward in the makeshift army camp hospital, ironically being brought low hanging fruit to console them after the unfortunate incident with the rickety step ladder and grandads inherited ancient power tools. Luckily someone 'non essential' was filming it on their phone, so you can see the abject but hilarious DIY fail on youtube or 'You've been framed' at any time.
There is only one 'job' left, but this is on another's mythical list. A rare reward for that hard work and a job well done..
Handy guide on how to tell if you have been doing too much lockdown diy, sorting, gardening, tidying, sawing, choping, erecting, fettling or whittling.
Symptoms. Tired, hungry, thirsty, sunstroke, backache, craving the sofa, wine and Netflix/Prime?
Nope... Wrong, think again..
It's much more high tech than that!
Infact your smartphone is so smart it will let you know immediately, because it won't bloody unlock using the fingerprint thingy.
It will issues dire warnings to the effect that you only have a rapidly decreasing number of tries at pressing your digit against it's G-Spot before it's 'not in the mood anymore', and goes into full social isolating sulk mode, refusing to communicate with anything, let alone you, your nearest and dearest, or the next world.
Reason. Simple. You are a lily livered namby pamby office desk jockey with Fairy Liquid hands. Used to nothing more energetic or taxing than loading the printer with the pesky 80g A4 paper or surreptitiously picking your nose and scratching your arse hoping colleagues don't notice.
Consequently you have worn your girlie featherlight fingerprints away with exactly 2.4 days worth of unaccustomed digital activity and manual handling, rather than as is usual after a lifetime of hard physical graft.
Your hands (if they are anything like mine) now resemble a butchers chopping block that's been attacked with a wire brush and the rotating knives from Boudica's chariot.
Covered with a plethora of nicks, cuts, gouges, bruises, grazes, but sadly no discernible fingerprints. The tips of your fingers have the feel of an ancient egyptian cats mummified tongue, and are as rough as that rusty old coarse rasp Grandad left you.
You might, like me, skilled in the art of DIY first aid, also have the odd appendage wrapped in insulation, gaffer or sellotape to stem the stubborn flow of blood after the earlier relatively minor incident with the hacksaw/drill/hammer etc.
Clearly it's now time to commit that perfect but heinous crime you have been planning for years, you don't even need gloves anymore. Raid Tescos for toilet roll, baked beans and super duper hand cream? Be my guest, but please get me some as well and leave it 2m from my front door. Thanks.
Let's hope that thanks to social distancing you don't need to do anything requiring a tactile sensitive touch anytime soon. The tough navvies digits you now possess can't manage anything more gentle than rubbing down the skirting board without sandpaper. People aren't going to appreciate that.
At least I can use my easy to remember password or lock pattern shape thing to unlock my phone. Oh merde!
What pattern or password did I use 18 months ago when I set it up after my latest frivolous and unnecessary peer pressured vanity phone upgrade?
Lock pattern? Probably a V sign or somethings else unsubtle.
Password? It must be the same as the standard one I use for everything including Google and banking. 'PleaseHackMe1'
Well I can't go out and buy 'non essential' hand cream, so I'll just have to go back to basics and use the ancient out of date 'Lurpak' lurking at the back of the fridge.
I hope it spreads onto my hands straight from the fridge like Penelope Keith says it does in the old TV adverts...
I'm not putting it in the microwave again, it took ages to clean it after the last incident when in under three minutes I created a personal tub of heaving volcanic magma margarine for my burnt toast.
Symptoms. Tired, hungry, thirsty, sunstroke, backache, craving the sofa, wine and Netflix/Prime?
Nope... Wrong, think again..
It's much more high tech than that!
Infact your smartphone is so smart it will let you know immediately, because it won't bloody unlock using the fingerprint thingy.
It will issues dire warnings to the effect that you only have a rapidly decreasing number of tries at pressing your digit against it's G-Spot before it's 'not in the mood anymore', and goes into full social isolating sulk mode, refusing to communicate with anything, let alone you, your nearest and dearest, or the next world.
Reason. Simple. You are a lily livered namby pamby office desk jockey with Fairy Liquid hands. Used to nothing more energetic or taxing than loading the printer with the pesky 80g A4 paper or surreptitiously picking your nose and scratching your arse hoping colleagues don't notice.
Consequently you have worn your girlie featherlight fingerprints away with exactly 2.4 days worth of unaccustomed digital activity and manual handling, rather than as is usual after a lifetime of hard physical graft.
Your hands (if they are anything like mine) now resemble a butchers chopping block that's been attacked with a wire brush and the rotating knives from Boudica's chariot.
Covered with a plethora of nicks, cuts, gouges, bruises, grazes, but sadly no discernible fingerprints. The tips of your fingers have the feel of an ancient egyptian cats mummified tongue, and are as rough as that rusty old coarse rasp Grandad left you.
You might, like me, skilled in the art of DIY first aid, also have the odd appendage wrapped in insulation, gaffer or sellotape to stem the stubborn flow of blood after the earlier relatively minor incident with the hacksaw/drill/hammer etc.
Clearly it's now time to commit that perfect but heinous crime you have been planning for years, you don't even need gloves anymore. Raid Tescos for toilet roll, baked beans and super duper hand cream? Be my guest, but please get me some as well and leave it 2m from my front door. Thanks.
Let's hope that thanks to social distancing you don't need to do anything requiring a tactile sensitive touch anytime soon. The tough navvies digits you now possess can't manage anything more gentle than rubbing down the skirting board without sandpaper. People aren't going to appreciate that.
At least I can use my easy to remember password or lock pattern shape thing to unlock my phone. Oh merde!
What pattern or password did I use 18 months ago when I set it up after my latest frivolous and unnecessary peer pressured vanity phone upgrade?
Lock pattern? Probably a V sign or somethings else unsubtle.
Password? It must be the same as the standard one I use for everything including Google and banking. 'PleaseHackMe1'
Well I can't go out and buy 'non essential' hand cream, so I'll just have to go back to basics and use the ancient out of date 'Lurpak' lurking at the back of the fridge.
I hope it spreads onto my hands straight from the fridge like Penelope Keith says it does in the old TV adverts...
I'm not putting it in the microwave again, it took ages to clean it after the last incident when in under three minutes I created a personal tub of heaving volcanic magma margarine for my burnt toast.
)Chin up! Let's talk about the nations morale.
Which vacuum cleaner or cobbled together ventilator is better?
The Dyson Jobless 800 or the Gtech Air Ram..
Which political leader is better?
Boris, Corbyn...
Who cares. I don't. They are rhetorical questions, the answers are unimportant and of no consequence.
Now is not the time to suck up to pathetic public political point scoring.
None of the parties are exactly Hoovering up support at the moment.
OK, OK, enough tangled flex, weak suction, blocked filter, Hoover puns...
What we should be doing as a country is standing firmly behind whatever democratically elected leader happens to be in charge. Corbyn/Boris/the other one, in this difficult situation it actually doesn't matter two hoots which. At another time it could have been someone else, it's just the luck of the draw or roll of the sanitised Coronavirus pandemic dice.
We should be displaying proud stoic and resolute British pluck and determination, pulling together for the greater good to defeat the CV19 menace. Last time we had a vaguely similar crisis requiring nationwide action we also had evacuees, doodlebugs, squanderbugs, short hairy trousers and rationing etc.
We didn't defeat Hitler and Fascism by sitting welded to the sofa, quaffing Chardonnay, gorging on Doritos, fighting for the TV remote control, or bickering on social media about who built Spitfires. We did it by pulling together, drinking milk stout, living healthily on low calorie snook and turnip surprise for lunch, and working 14 hrs a day in the aircraft factories making them out of our great grandmothers priceless aluminium saucepans. All the while under the real and ever present danger of being bombed into oblivion by the Luftwaffe.
We knuckled down as a nation and got on with the collective job in hand, with some sadly like a few dedicated NHS staff recently making the ultimate sacrifice for our benefit. People gossiped over the garden fence like they always do, mainly about off the ration sausages, nylons and Mrs Smith at No 33 and the air raid wardens nightly visits. But defeatism and malicious rumour mongering was stamped on from a great height during those difficult years. The nations collective morale was rightly regarded as critically important to the war effort, and a lot of time and resources were devoted to boosting it.
In the cold light of day later when (if) it's over, and life gets back to some semblance of normality, we can assess how our Coronavirus campaign went and make our feelings felt in the subsequent debrief, democratic debate and electoral process, just like we did then.
We can ostracise the conscientious objectors and collaborators who went out for more than an hour a day or pretended to be essential workers. Anyone found with a smart haircut before the end of quarantine who isn't living with a hairdresser, can be shorn in public by the baying long haired mob and pelted with panic bought mouldy tomatoes.
As it turned out being a figurehead in charge at a time of crisis was a poison chalice for Churchill who didn't fare well in the 1945 election. That might well turn out to be true for the current prime minister.
Some smartarse always says they could have done it better.
Of course they could, but they didn't have too..
PS
I think Henry is probably the best Hoover.
Which vacuum cleaner or cobbled together ventilator is better?
The Dyson Jobless 800 or the Gtech Air Ram..
Which political leader is better?
Boris, Corbyn...
Who cares. I don't. They are rhetorical questions, the answers are unimportant and of no consequence.
Now is not the time to suck up to pathetic public political point scoring.
None of the parties are exactly Hoovering up support at the moment.
OK, OK, enough tangled flex, weak suction, blocked filter, Hoover puns...
What we should be doing as a country is standing firmly behind whatever democratically elected leader happens to be in charge. Corbyn/Boris/the other one, in this difficult situation it actually doesn't matter two hoots which. At another time it could have been someone else, it's just the luck of the draw or roll of the sanitised Coronavirus pandemic dice.
We should be displaying proud stoic and resolute British pluck and determination, pulling together for the greater good to defeat the CV19 menace. Last time we had a vaguely similar crisis requiring nationwide action we also had evacuees, doodlebugs, squanderbugs, short hairy trousers and rationing etc.
We didn't defeat Hitler and Fascism by sitting welded to the sofa, quaffing Chardonnay, gorging on Doritos, fighting for the TV remote control, or bickering on social media about who built Spitfires. We did it by pulling together, drinking milk stout, living healthily on low calorie snook and turnip surprise for lunch, and working 14 hrs a day in the aircraft factories making them out of our great grandmothers priceless aluminium saucepans. All the while under the real and ever present danger of being bombed into oblivion by the Luftwaffe.
We knuckled down as a nation and got on with the collective job in hand, with some sadly like a few dedicated NHS staff recently making the ultimate sacrifice for our benefit. People gossiped over the garden fence like they always do, mainly about off the ration sausages, nylons and Mrs Smith at No 33 and the air raid wardens nightly visits. But defeatism and malicious rumour mongering was stamped on from a great height during those difficult years. The nations collective morale was rightly regarded as critically important to the war effort, and a lot of time and resources were devoted to boosting it.
In the cold light of day later when (if) it's over, and life gets back to some semblance of normality, we can assess how our Coronavirus campaign went and make our feelings felt in the subsequent debrief, democratic debate and electoral process, just like we did then.
We can ostracise the conscientious objectors and collaborators who went out for more than an hour a day or pretended to be essential workers. Anyone found with a smart haircut before the end of quarantine who isn't living with a hairdresser, can be shorn in public by the baying long haired mob and pelted with panic bought mouldy tomatoes.
As it turned out being a figurehead in charge at a time of crisis was a poison chalice for Churchill who didn't fare well in the 1945 election. That might well turn out to be true for the current prime minister.
Some smartarse always says they could have done it better.
Of course they could, but they didn't have too..
PS
I think Henry is probably the best Hoover.
Edited by peterperkins on Wednesday 1st April 10:37
DIY black market and something off the ration.
We have all seen panic buyers waddling back from 'TescWaitBurys' trolleys laden with Andrex, pasta, beans and dangerous dog food. They emerged like locusts enmasse on day 1 of the crisis, swarmed all over the shelves, but thankfully died off as soon as the supermarket DDT and Agent Orange supply chains caught up, and their available storage and funds were exhausted. Now shops are relatively quiet, well stocked and normal people can get beans, bog roll and Beaujolais again, so no need to panic yet Corporal Jones. However...
Onto the serious first world supply problems the lockdown is causing.
If you're addicted to fettling, diy and tinkering you will be suffering from 'Screwfix' withdrawal symptoms. They drew in their horns and chopped to the bone all the non essential toys blokes could normally buy online pretty swiftly as the crisis unfolded.
Prior to CV19 you could mainline some rawl plugs or snort some PVA within minutes at the press of a 'Click and Collect' button and surreptitious swish of your contactless card. Screwfix and similar establishments became synonymous with grumpy tradespeople in a hurry, diy addicted desperados, and odd job van for hire men who roamed the thick catalogues and online shopping carts like a pack of hungry wolves on the savanna.
Now of course you can't get a bit of (22mm x 2400mm x 1200mm MDF sheet, just in case anyone has one) for that garage workbench or shelf project for love nor money.
(Note Screwfix don't sell MDF asfaik, but you get the gist)
Every other supplier in the DIY food chain has also gone into lockdown. Now of course i'm not minimising how serious this all is, social distancing etc. It's not vital to put up those shelves or fix the workbench, so suck it up you might say. Do nothing, slump on the sofa in front of a boxed set, become an alcoholic, and put on three stones like the rest of us. Fair enough. I can't and won't argue with that, it's not an altogether un-enticing prospect.
However consider the trapped poor long term DIY addicts. For them it's a deep physical and psychological problem.
We aren't talking here about the new wannabe gangsta I'm on a lockdown furlough lightweight ladyboys, who want to slap on a bit of cheap emulsion to impress their partner for 30 seconds.
We are talking hardcore long term DIYers with loyalty cards, battle scars, missing digits and at least three proper worn out power tools. They are trapped freaking out due to that un-mitred corner or chipped basin in the downstairs loo. The prospect of sitting slug like in front of Gogglebox is a complete anathema when a half finished garage project beckons or the family are driving you mad.
What about black market MDF then?
Well after a lot of behind closed doors curtains drawn digging on the dark interweb using my triple VPN incognito tin foil hat paranoid mode locked down faraday cage enclosed PC I have established their doesn't appear to be a black market for essential diy supplies. (Yet!)
Looks like a business opportunity beckons. I could forgo my own projects short term, rip out all the MDF etc in my house, cut it down into £20 6"x6" fixes with my blunt B&Q jigsaw, a bit like heroin and Persil washing powder, but with plywood offcuts and wood shavings, before knocking it out to the local 'MDF Heads' huddled outside B&Q at ten times the original price. Not a bad plan as DIY half baked plans usually go..
OK Maybe not. I'll just keep pitifully trawling Gumtree, E-Bay, and FB Marketplace buying other useless crap in the vain hope I might stumble upon someone, somewhere who has a spare MDF sheet lying around they can stealthily deliver under cover of darkness to HU68BJ for an extra fiver. Shhhhhh... 🤫
Trouble is that irresistible black market MDF might turn you into an ostracised blackmailed MDF leper. Shunned by society when your despicable addiction and crimes to assuage your habit are uncovered. Those burly swarthy foreign types with a conscientious work ethic driving slowly past the house in a white van and silent phone calls, are just a fearful prelude to the brown envelope slipped through the door, and the demand for £500 in used but well sanitised £20 notes or else.
"We know what you were sawing last night! We've got video of you, that dodgy MDF, cheap Milwaukee plane and broken dust extractor. If you don't want us to tell everyone and put it on YouTube you'd better cough up pronto."
'Coughing up' is pretty easy though if you have been working with MDF it's bloody horrible deadly dusty stuff..
I better get a respirator.
Oh b
ks they are out of stock!
We have all seen panic buyers waddling back from 'TescWaitBurys' trolleys laden with Andrex, pasta, beans and dangerous dog food. They emerged like locusts enmasse on day 1 of the crisis, swarmed all over the shelves, but thankfully died off as soon as the supermarket DDT and Agent Orange supply chains caught up, and their available storage and funds were exhausted. Now shops are relatively quiet, well stocked and normal people can get beans, bog roll and Beaujolais again, so no need to panic yet Corporal Jones. However...
Onto the serious first world supply problems the lockdown is causing.
If you're addicted to fettling, diy and tinkering you will be suffering from 'Screwfix' withdrawal symptoms. They drew in their horns and chopped to the bone all the non essential toys blokes could normally buy online pretty swiftly as the crisis unfolded.
Prior to CV19 you could mainline some rawl plugs or snort some PVA within minutes at the press of a 'Click and Collect' button and surreptitious swish of your contactless card. Screwfix and similar establishments became synonymous with grumpy tradespeople in a hurry, diy addicted desperados, and odd job van for hire men who roamed the thick catalogues and online shopping carts like a pack of hungry wolves on the savanna.
Now of course you can't get a bit of (22mm x 2400mm x 1200mm MDF sheet, just in case anyone has one) for that garage workbench or shelf project for love nor money.
(Note Screwfix don't sell MDF asfaik, but you get the gist)
Every other supplier in the DIY food chain has also gone into lockdown. Now of course i'm not minimising how serious this all is, social distancing etc. It's not vital to put up those shelves or fix the workbench, so suck it up you might say. Do nothing, slump on the sofa in front of a boxed set, become an alcoholic, and put on three stones like the rest of us. Fair enough. I can't and won't argue with that, it's not an altogether un-enticing prospect.
However consider the trapped poor long term DIY addicts. For them it's a deep physical and psychological problem.
We aren't talking here about the new wannabe gangsta I'm on a lockdown furlough lightweight ladyboys, who want to slap on a bit of cheap emulsion to impress their partner for 30 seconds.
We are talking hardcore long term DIYers with loyalty cards, battle scars, missing digits and at least three proper worn out power tools. They are trapped freaking out due to that un-mitred corner or chipped basin in the downstairs loo. The prospect of sitting slug like in front of Gogglebox is a complete anathema when a half finished garage project beckons or the family are driving you mad.
What about black market MDF then?
Well after a lot of behind closed doors curtains drawn digging on the dark interweb using my triple VPN incognito tin foil hat paranoid mode locked down faraday cage enclosed PC I have established their doesn't appear to be a black market for essential diy supplies. (Yet!)
Looks like a business opportunity beckons. I could forgo my own projects short term, rip out all the MDF etc in my house, cut it down into £20 6"x6" fixes with my blunt B&Q jigsaw, a bit like heroin and Persil washing powder, but with plywood offcuts and wood shavings, before knocking it out to the local 'MDF Heads' huddled outside B&Q at ten times the original price. Not a bad plan as DIY half baked plans usually go..
OK Maybe not. I'll just keep pitifully trawling Gumtree, E-Bay, and FB Marketplace buying other useless crap in the vain hope I might stumble upon someone, somewhere who has a spare MDF sheet lying around they can stealthily deliver under cover of darkness to HU68BJ for an extra fiver. Shhhhhh... 🤫
Trouble is that irresistible black market MDF might turn you into an ostracised blackmailed MDF leper. Shunned by society when your despicable addiction and crimes to assuage your habit are uncovered. Those burly swarthy foreign types with a conscientious work ethic driving slowly past the house in a white van and silent phone calls, are just a fearful prelude to the brown envelope slipped through the door, and the demand for £500 in used but well sanitised £20 notes or else.
"We know what you were sawing last night! We've got video of you, that dodgy MDF, cheap Milwaukee plane and broken dust extractor. If you don't want us to tell everyone and put it on YouTube you'd better cough up pronto."
'Coughing up' is pretty easy though if you have been working with MDF it's bloody horrible deadly dusty stuff..
I better get a respirator.
Oh b
ks they are out of stock!Mitchell & Webb
'Working from home..' Not sure they spelt this title correctly. 😲
https://youtu.be/KGg1567fzTY
'Working from home..' Not sure they spelt this title correctly. 😲
https://youtu.be/KGg1567fzTY
Tin foil hats at the ready? OK, lets begin...
I have a nice new fashionable anti-conspiracy theory tin hat.
I had to make it 'presto con moto' out of bacofoil during a recent alcohol fuelled evening video conference, when someone unwittingly mentioned Chinese state sponsored undercooked bats and pangolins.
Luckily I had time to dart out into the kitchen between cracking musical repartee and flagons of wine to quickly practise my award winning turkey foil origami skillz. The jerky stop motion animation lag on the state of the art fibre broadband internet video was so bad I think I managed to get back from the kitchen freshly adorned in silver before they had even seen me leap up from my seat. Anyway enough of that and onto serious stuff.
Do you have a Google account and smartphone/tablet etc?Yes? Then click on Google maps and go onto your timeline to see big brother in action. ?? Reams of Intriguing and at the same time disconcerting information on places you have visited and 'non essential' journeys undertaken in the last 5 years.
We all knew 'they' (Greedy huge faceless internet corp) collected data to monetise people, personally it doesn't bother me. I don't care if people can see I went to B&Q instead of Wickes, Lidl instead of the Co-op, or the pasty shop instead of the gym, but what a lot of data 'they' must have. It's interesting to see this small sample of it laid bare in all it's movement tracking Stasi inspired North Korean reeducation camp glory.
Ironically it might really help in the current pandemic crisis as Google and the other behemoths makes anonymised data available to governments and health officials to help track population movements, trends in behaviour, and infection hotspots (presumably where the chavtastic Sunday morning Andrex and hand sanitiser car boot sale is held).
In the UK Boris will be able to tell if we all stayed at home this sunny weekend like he asked. Or if we tried enmasse because we had been trapped inside for a week, to commit suicide like Lemmings by taking the extended family with grandad in the boot to the 'Chessington world of adventures' for a ride on the new Batman themed CV19 white knuckle attraction.. 'Dry tickly cough in the bat cave!' ??
It's a real draw, as you plunge terrified into the stygian darkness lashed less than 2m apart from the peaky looking family with croup. Belted into a wheeled steel coffin before being assailed by animatronic flying Chiroptera models that cough on you every time one of the children screams.
Unfortunately unlike normal rip off theme park rides which cost a paltry £80 and last 14 seconds, this one lasts 14 days and costs you Gran, your job and your sanity.
Once the ride is over you can relax though as I think they serve a hearty luke warm Pangolin stew in the joyless cafeteria, so it's a double CV19 bonus.
OK back to the mapping data and the clusters of red spots in my example photo.. Oh and by the way, I'm not zooming into my travelogue offending history, so dream on.
Do not click on the most visited places icon like I did.
You will instantly be outed as a total hypocrite with many more visits to Gregs, Bargain Booze and Screwfix than your friends and family.
Luckily only you can see where you have been, or shouldn't have been as the case may be. No wonder sneaky private detectives and the authorities with court orders at the ready love idiotic terrorists and dumb criminals with smartphones..
If you do break the lockdown embargo for your own nefarious reasons (you shouldn't of course) for goodness sake leave your phone at home or put it under your tinfoil hat.
If you don't you will be on a very long list at GCHQ within a 20ms ping as a socially unacceptable subversive germ spreader. ??
I have a nice new fashionable anti-conspiracy theory tin hat.
I had to make it 'presto con moto' out of bacofoil during a recent alcohol fuelled evening video conference, when someone unwittingly mentioned Chinese state sponsored undercooked bats and pangolins.
Luckily I had time to dart out into the kitchen between cracking musical repartee and flagons of wine to quickly practise my award winning turkey foil origami skillz. The jerky stop motion animation lag on the state of the art fibre broadband internet video was so bad I think I managed to get back from the kitchen freshly adorned in silver before they had even seen me leap up from my seat. Anyway enough of that and onto serious stuff.
Do you have a Google account and smartphone/tablet etc?Yes? Then click on Google maps and go onto your timeline to see big brother in action. ?? Reams of Intriguing and at the same time disconcerting information on places you have visited and 'non essential' journeys undertaken in the last 5 years.
We all knew 'they' (Greedy huge faceless internet corp) collected data to monetise people, personally it doesn't bother me. I don't care if people can see I went to B&Q instead of Wickes, Lidl instead of the Co-op, or the pasty shop instead of the gym, but what a lot of data 'they' must have. It's interesting to see this small sample of it laid bare in all it's movement tracking Stasi inspired North Korean reeducation camp glory.
Ironically it might really help in the current pandemic crisis as Google and the other behemoths makes anonymised data available to governments and health officials to help track population movements, trends in behaviour, and infection hotspots (presumably where the chavtastic Sunday morning Andrex and hand sanitiser car boot sale is held).
In the UK Boris will be able to tell if we all stayed at home this sunny weekend like he asked. Or if we tried enmasse because we had been trapped inside for a week, to commit suicide like Lemmings by taking the extended family with grandad in the boot to the 'Chessington world of adventures' for a ride on the new Batman themed CV19 white knuckle attraction.. 'Dry tickly cough in the bat cave!' ??
It's a real draw, as you plunge terrified into the stygian darkness lashed less than 2m apart from the peaky looking family with croup. Belted into a wheeled steel coffin before being assailed by animatronic flying Chiroptera models that cough on you every time one of the children screams.
Unfortunately unlike normal rip off theme park rides which cost a paltry £80 and last 14 seconds, this one lasts 14 days and costs you Gran, your job and your sanity.
Once the ride is over you can relax though as I think they serve a hearty luke warm Pangolin stew in the joyless cafeteria, so it's a double CV19 bonus.
OK back to the mapping data and the clusters of red spots in my example photo.. Oh and by the way, I'm not zooming into my travelogue offending history, so dream on.
Do not click on the most visited places icon like I did.
You will instantly be outed as a total hypocrite with many more visits to Gregs, Bargain Booze and Screwfix than your friends and family.
Luckily only you can see where you have been, or shouldn't have been as the case may be. No wonder sneaky private detectives and the authorities with court orders at the ready love idiotic terrorists and dumb criminals with smartphones..
If you do break the lockdown embargo for your own nefarious reasons (you shouldn't of course) for goodness sake leave your phone at home or put it under your tinfoil hat.
If you don't you will be on a very long list at GCHQ within a 20ms ping as a socially unacceptable subversive germ spreader. ??
The Daily Mash site is quite good for a satire fix.
https://www.thedailymash.co.uk/news/lifestyle/five...
Veganism and six other things that aren't really happening right now
3rd April 2020
THE last month has been a bonfire of high-minded intentions in the face of reality. So what have you given up on?
Being vegan
There’s a time and place for making a radical change to your diet, and it turns out a global pandemic isn’t it. All those people preaching about plant-based diets three months ago are back on the sausages, and loving it.
Only reading books by women
Did you resolve to spend 2020 only reading books by women to give you a fresh perspective on the world? And yet here we are two weeks into lockdown and you’re balls-deep in re-reading Sven Hassel’s panzer regiment books.
Pop-ups
Whether it’s a vintage clothing boutique, an Indonesian street food stall or a neo-R&B club night, there are no pop-ups. There are barely any permanent shops. Pop-up online if you want. See how that works for you.
Duolingo
What the f**k would be the point of learning a new language now?
Extinction Rebellion
In one sense, the Extinction Rebellion environmental protest movement has stopped dead. In another more direct sense, half the world is quietly rebelling against extinction right now. Just without glueing themselves to roads.
Training for a Tough Mudder or whatever
Difficult as it is to accept, nobody gives a toss about your Tough Mudder or Himalayan trek or whatever anymore. And even harder to accept, they never did.
Brexit
Face it. Nobody cares. Everyone’s moved on. You’ve got the excuse you’ve been praying for, Boris.
https://www.thedailymash.co.uk/news/lifestyle/five...
Veganism and six other things that aren't really happening right now
3rd April 2020
THE last month has been a bonfire of high-minded intentions in the face of reality. So what have you given up on?
Being vegan
There’s a time and place for making a radical change to your diet, and it turns out a global pandemic isn’t it. All those people preaching about plant-based diets three months ago are back on the sausages, and loving it.
Only reading books by women
Did you resolve to spend 2020 only reading books by women to give you a fresh perspective on the world? And yet here we are two weeks into lockdown and you’re balls-deep in re-reading Sven Hassel’s panzer regiment books.
Pop-ups
Whether it’s a vintage clothing boutique, an Indonesian street food stall or a neo-R&B club night, there are no pop-ups. There are barely any permanent shops. Pop-up online if you want. See how that works for you.
Duolingo
What the f**k would be the point of learning a new language now?
Extinction Rebellion
In one sense, the Extinction Rebellion environmental protest movement has stopped dead. In another more direct sense, half the world is quietly rebelling against extinction right now. Just without glueing themselves to roads.
Training for a Tough Mudder or whatever
Difficult as it is to accept, nobody gives a toss about your Tough Mudder or Himalayan trek or whatever anymore. And even harder to accept, they never did.
Brexit
Face it. Nobody cares. Everyone’s moved on. You’ve got the excuse you’ve been praying for, Boris.
New from Hasbo 'Coughopoly'
It's like 'Monopoly' but even less fun and harder to hack than the original.
Featuring essential/non essential destinations instead of those boring old streets like Mayfair and Old Kent Road.
Tesco's, Chemists, Dentist, Bargain Booze, Waitrose, B&Q, Council refuse site (closed), scenic layby on unnecessarily long way round to the shops, Dr's Surgery, Care Home, etc.
The 'Jail' is a telephone hold line with annoying music and state the bleeding obvious advice about not calling in the first place because they are experiencing a high call volume and it's a crisis. Boo Hoo.
Do not land on 'Income tax' as you have to pay 500 billion pounds over the next two generations of your family.
'Chance' cards.
'Arrive back ten minutes late from daily hour's exercise. Fined £60"
"Risk trip to garden centre for essential compost but get caught by officious jobsworth official. Go direct to jail, do not go on furlough, do not collect £200 from HMRC"
"Seen standing on pavement 2M outside your boundary by nosey neighbour and reported. Fined £30."
"Held in telephone queue for 4 hrs trying to make DR's appointment for piles. Miss a turn and don't sit down."
"Airline refund for those 'non essential' flights to your second home in Spain finally come through after you threaten them with a credit card chargeback and the small claims court. Collect £300."
"Develop tickly cough (but it's not CV19). Miss a turn worrying about it."
"Fail to get repatriated by Home Office from gap year jolly, and whine like a big girl on FB that you're stuck in a tropical paradise with your by now ex-partner.. Miss two turns."
"Caught fly tipping your grass cuttings on the huge compost pile at the village hall cricket ground. Fined £30."
'Community Chest' cards.
"Take plated meal and prescription to elderly neighbour you've never spoken with in the last ten years. Feel satisfyingly smug and collect £100."
"HMRC Error in your favour. Collect 80% salary until there is a knock on the door and they catch up with you once this mess is all sorted."
"Drag yourself like a sloth off the sofa and give the NHS a clap for 7.8 seconds then retire back indoors to carry on bingening. Collect £50."
"Your essential 'Just Eat' order arrives 5 minutes late. Collect two pizzas and don't pay the delivery driver because it's late and you're a miserable tight git."
Instead of the dog, ship, boot we have..
A face mask.. (To be worn at all times when playing)
A Hospital Bed (If you're lucky)
An essential worker. (Limited availability)
A non essential worker. (Millions in stock)
A ray of hope.. (May not be available in your area)
A nosey neighbour. (Every bloody where!)
Guaranteed fun for all the family until Grandad lands on the 'Care Home' and goes off on one because it's game over for him.
Edited by peterperkins on Friday 17th April 11:50
Virtually anything virtual is pants.
Humans are tactile, interesting, loveable, inquisitive, annoying, frustrating, passionate and perplexing in very unequal measures.
Don't get me wrong, I love all my virtual friends with all my virtual heart.
But like most I long for freedom, to drink deep at the 'well of souls' (Check your Indiana Jones references) and to quench my thirst with the cup of human kindness. We can bond again cheek by jowl with real people, doing real things, in real places, over real pints or cocktails, accompanied by amusing conversation, and overpriced pretentious food.
I don't want to sit like an indolent blubbery pasty sloth for the next year in my broken freecycle office chair (which by the way has worn a hole in my carpet under my computer desk) watching Netflix, Pawn or Star Trek and subsisting on Co-op out of date reductions and chocolate. (But I will force myself for our mutual benefit if I have too)
Frozen in time, in front of my stuttering intrusive webcam, feebly clicking on 'FB Messenger', 'Zoom' or 'House party', craving a fleeting unsatisfying crumb of pathetic social distancing interweb interaction.
'Virtual' like the constantly regurgitated '3D' of the 'desperate to sell us anything' home cinema aficionados world, will become a euphemistic urban dictionary definition for 'total pants' and not a patch on the real thing. I.e. Physical contact, face to face meetings, and satisfyingly sweaty missionary style horizontal gymnastics.
Oh well. I'm shrewdly buying shares in 'UK Crap Holidays PLC' and 'Bognor Bargain Bucket Breaks' because no one is flying anywhere anytime soon, and ships are like floating 18th century prison hulk petri dishes.
Branson (thank God for small mercies) landed on Monopoly 'Mayfair' with two hotels, 1000 grounded Virgin planes and HMRC on it, so that's him screwed and off back to his tax haven desert island.
O'leary and Ryanair never gave a monkeys. He won't fly again until airports are begging him with cap in hand proffering enormous subsidies, whilst we all pay an extra £100 for facemasks on the plane, and sit on top of a strangers laps there and back. (Ok it might not be all bad.)
Only the channel tunnel offers any hope of escaping this concentration camp sceptered isle. But I expect the French will be stopping all the trains as soon as they tortoise head out of the tunnel to do some Gallic style gleefully enthusiastic 'Whack a mole' invasive virus orifice testing on all us miserable Brits.
Pass the test and you trundle slowly onwards to the 14 day internment camp at Songatte run by the migrants for some R&R before you head to your final destination. Fail and it's straight back down the constipated tubes to dear old blighty.
On day 1 of Lockdown release (16/03/2022 according to the ever reliable Nostradamus and ancient Mayan calendar) we will all be like lemmings, nose to tail on the A1 for ten hours desperately visiting a dingy 1970's UK Seaside B&B. Run by an arms folded grumpy old landlady who makes the elite 'Waffen SS' look like the Andrex Puppy or the Dagenham Girl Pipers, and her wizen chain smoking hen pecked husband.
We will all be eternally grateful that two weeks half board crammed into one room with the kids only cost as much as a new small car, that hot water was supplied between 3-4pm daily, breakfast was at 08.30am prompt heralded by a gong, and we weren't allowed more than a Kenneth Williams 'Carry On' style 6 inches in the bath.
Oh Err Missus!!!
Humans are tactile, interesting, loveable, inquisitive, annoying, frustrating, passionate and perplexing in very unequal measures.
Don't get me wrong, I love all my virtual friends with all my virtual heart.
But like most I long for freedom, to drink deep at the 'well of souls' (Check your Indiana Jones references) and to quench my thirst with the cup of human kindness. We can bond again cheek by jowl with real people, doing real things, in real places, over real pints or cocktails, accompanied by amusing conversation, and overpriced pretentious food.
I don't want to sit like an indolent blubbery pasty sloth for the next year in my broken freecycle office chair (which by the way has worn a hole in my carpet under my computer desk) watching Netflix, Pawn or Star Trek and subsisting on Co-op out of date reductions and chocolate. (But I will force myself for our mutual benefit if I have too)
Frozen in time, in front of my stuttering intrusive webcam, feebly clicking on 'FB Messenger', 'Zoom' or 'House party', craving a fleeting unsatisfying crumb of pathetic social distancing interweb interaction.
'Virtual' like the constantly regurgitated '3D' of the 'desperate to sell us anything' home cinema aficionados world, will become a euphemistic urban dictionary definition for 'total pants' and not a patch on the real thing. I.e. Physical contact, face to face meetings, and satisfyingly sweaty missionary style horizontal gymnastics.
Oh well. I'm shrewdly buying shares in 'UK Crap Holidays PLC' and 'Bognor Bargain Bucket Breaks' because no one is flying anywhere anytime soon, and ships are like floating 18th century prison hulk petri dishes.
Branson (thank God for small mercies) landed on Monopoly 'Mayfair' with two hotels, 1000 grounded Virgin planes and HMRC on it, so that's him screwed and off back to his tax haven desert island.
O'leary and Ryanair never gave a monkeys. He won't fly again until airports are begging him with cap in hand proffering enormous subsidies, whilst we all pay an extra £100 for facemasks on the plane, and sit on top of a strangers laps there and back. (Ok it might not be all bad.)
Only the channel tunnel offers any hope of escaping this concentration camp sceptered isle. But I expect the French will be stopping all the trains as soon as they tortoise head out of the tunnel to do some Gallic style gleefully enthusiastic 'Whack a mole' invasive virus orifice testing on all us miserable Brits.
Pass the test and you trundle slowly onwards to the 14 day internment camp at Songatte run by the migrants for some R&R before you head to your final destination. Fail and it's straight back down the constipated tubes to dear old blighty.
On day 1 of Lockdown release (16/03/2022 according to the ever reliable Nostradamus and ancient Mayan calendar) we will all be like lemmings, nose to tail on the A1 for ten hours desperately visiting a dingy 1970's UK Seaside B&B. Run by an arms folded grumpy old landlady who makes the elite 'Waffen SS' look like the Andrex Puppy or the Dagenham Girl Pipers, and her wizen chain smoking hen pecked husband.
We will all be eternally grateful that two weeks half board crammed into one room with the kids only cost as much as a new small car, that hot water was supplied between 3-4pm daily, breakfast was at 08.30am prompt heralded by a gong, and we weren't allowed more than a Kenneth Williams 'Carry On' style 6 inches in the bath.
Oh Err Missus!!!
Coronavirus: Dorset knob-eating contest held online amid lockdown.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-dorset-52571...
Another 'Carry On' style budding Olympic event beckons.
Words fail me! They haven't actually, but my rambling wordy observations are far too strewn with innuendo and double entendre to post.
It's been very hard to resist the temptation to post something suitably unsubtle and in your face about it.
To be fair the BBC beat me too it. They didn't put the knob gobbling story up because it was cutting edge vital public interest CV19 news.
Someone posted it because it's funny, seaside saucy, and a bit of light relief from lockdown doom and gloom.
There are a thousand possible knob gags and captions for the photo most of them unprintable and unrepeatable. I'll let you make up your own.
A million people will now be logging onto the ZOOM and YOUTUBE livestream meetings for this event.
Some likely badly misinformed and expecting a rather different kind of competition that doesn't involve small crusty bread knobs.
Some junior news editor might get a bit of a spanking in the broom cupboard by the Director General for posting it at 3am when no one was looking, but it was damn well worth it. Hats off to them whoever they are.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-dorset-52571...
Another 'Carry On' style budding Olympic event beckons.
Words fail me! They haven't actually, but my rambling wordy observations are far too strewn with innuendo and double entendre to post.
It's been very hard to resist the temptation to post something suitably unsubtle and in your face about it.
To be fair the BBC beat me too it. They didn't put the knob gobbling story up because it was cutting edge vital public interest CV19 news.
Someone posted it because it's funny, seaside saucy, and a bit of light relief from lockdown doom and gloom.
There are a thousand possible knob gags and captions for the photo most of them unprintable and unrepeatable. I'll let you make up your own.
A million people will now be logging onto the ZOOM and YOUTUBE livestream meetings for this event.
Some likely badly misinformed and expecting a rather different kind of competition that doesn't involve small crusty bread knobs.
Some junior news editor might get a bit of a spanking in the broom cupboard by the Director General for posting it at 3am when no one was looking, but it was damn well worth it. Hats off to them whoever they are.
And we have a virtual innuendo strewn winner in the knob eating contest.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-dorset-52571...
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-dorset-52571...
CV19 Lockdown Internet Rabbit Holes. Have you ever been down one?
You know! You click on something, then that leads to something interesting, then that leads to something else interesting, etc etc, ad infinitum. Before you know where you are 4 hours have passed, you're cold, it's dark outside, you have forgotten to ring your mother, cook tea, go to bed, your back aches and you're busting for the toilet.
You've been engrossed by the flow of intriguing information, mystery, knowledge, images, sounds and videos at your fingertips. One click of the mouse or swipe of the finger and like 'Alice in Wonderland' chasing the elusive white rabbit you disappear down the internet rabbit hole into a fantasy world and embark on a mysterious fantastical internet adventure.
I've been doing a lot of falling down internet rabbit holes during lockdown. I really should pay more attention and look where I'm going. Bored, lethargic, tipsy and lazy sat in the computer chair or on the sofa for hours, i've been idly browsing a vast and eclectic range of random, weird, obscure and not so obscure subjects.
During the journey I've drunk heartily from the mysterious bottle that says 'Drink me', it also has a label on the back that says 'Tesco Value White Wine 13% abv £4.99' it has shrunk some things but perhaps not what Lewis Carroll envisaged. I've also gorged on the Victoria sponge and pasties labelled 'Eat me' and 'Greg's 2 for £1', they certainly have made my paunch so big I can't fit through my shrinking doors.
I've stumbled on and read up on stuff as diverse as priceless vintage scientific instruments on E-bay to penniless Somalian goat herders in Somalia of course. The world really is your M&S lobster in this digital, wired, wifi enabled and connected modern society. The sum total of Human knowledge is basically laying in wait for you and the unwary hordes in the vast unexplored rabbit warren of links, threads and documents.
No subject is obscure or bizarre enough not to have an internet presence, web page, blog or Wikipedia entry. In fact I challenge anyone to suggest a subject that is not covered on the internet in some form or other. I'll even offer a tenner to the first person to think of something that with a Google search doesn't simply come up with a definition of the word itself.
I challenged myself and tried to think of weird minority interest subjects, but failed miserably at the first feeble click. Even the most esoteric topics and cursory searching lead to a minefield of information and addictive websites packed with detail and dangerously compelling potential new slippery rabbit holes. Ironically and revealingly the more, shall we say, 'specialised' the subject matter the more 'content' was available.
I started looking at mechanical toy robots ?? on E-bay, and then quickly got craftily side tracked by a link onto some nerdy blokes page with details of about 10,000 makes and models of toy robots from the dawn of time to the present. It must have taken a lifetime of top level annoraking to have accumulated and documented such a huge amount of obscure but interesting 'Terminator' cyborg material.
I took off my own orange cagoule and tipped him a nod though. He has now secured his own small piece of digital immortality. Forever indexed in search engines and buried away in the 'WayBack' internet archives, his name and material will likely now exist as long as we humans do.
A bored researcher in the year 10,000 AD will be able to mind link with the internet of the day from their sensory flotation pod. They might think about toy robots for a nanosecond, before the images drawn from the deepest recesses of remote quantum storage flood into their
consciousness, causing a tsunami of confusion and bewilderment at our ancestors primitive obsessive antics.
It's the same for all the stuff you, I and everyone else posts or uploads as well. Like this rubbish, and my other random literary ramblings, forever archived and accessible in some form to remind us or our pasty descendants of tragic miss spent youth and wasted fleeting Facebook dominated lives.
Beware though! The internet rabbit hole also has a dangerous and contagious side effect that manifests itself with symptoms including: Sweating palms, itchy mouse finger, salivating over desirable objects, surreptitiously checking available funds, researching alternative items or products, seeking out discount codes or friend bargain referrals, and hiding arriving parcels from your partner. It's the scourge of the internet, the compulsive unnecessary drunken purchase.
Peter. Do you really need that £10 1970's toy robot money box? You can't afford the proper rare boxed genuine 1960's walking talking £1000 Japanese model they had on the Antiques Roadshow last week. Pull yourself together and go and do something productive in the garage instead.
Oh dear! Too late, another glass of wine later and as my eyelids drooped and sleep beckoned I clicked Buy it now!
Sadly as I don't have a cat, I couldn't claim later it walked on the keyboard as I was in my alcoholic stupor, and like Shakespears energetic typewriter monkeys, pressed the exact combination of keys in the correct sequence to login, bid for, buy and pay for the item.
So inevitably the clockwork robot money box will soon be adorning my groaning lounge gadget shelf. Joining a growing collection of other weird techy tat, and hoping to ingest vast quantities of unsuspecting visitors lose change unobserved.
I hope you find a way out of your own personal internet rabbit hole sooner rather than later, and can turn to some other diversion to fill these remaining CV19 lockdown days.
You know! You click on something, then that leads to something interesting, then that leads to something else interesting, etc etc, ad infinitum. Before you know where you are 4 hours have passed, you're cold, it's dark outside, you have forgotten to ring your mother, cook tea, go to bed, your back aches and you're busting for the toilet.
You've been engrossed by the flow of intriguing information, mystery, knowledge, images, sounds and videos at your fingertips. One click of the mouse or swipe of the finger and like 'Alice in Wonderland' chasing the elusive white rabbit you disappear down the internet rabbit hole into a fantasy world and embark on a mysterious fantastical internet adventure.
I've been doing a lot of falling down internet rabbit holes during lockdown. I really should pay more attention and look where I'm going. Bored, lethargic, tipsy and lazy sat in the computer chair or on the sofa for hours, i've been idly browsing a vast and eclectic range of random, weird, obscure and not so obscure subjects.
During the journey I've drunk heartily from the mysterious bottle that says 'Drink me', it also has a label on the back that says 'Tesco Value White Wine 13% abv £4.99' it has shrunk some things but perhaps not what Lewis Carroll envisaged. I've also gorged on the Victoria sponge and pasties labelled 'Eat me' and 'Greg's 2 for £1', they certainly have made my paunch so big I can't fit through my shrinking doors.
I've stumbled on and read up on stuff as diverse as priceless vintage scientific instruments on E-bay to penniless Somalian goat herders in Somalia of course. The world really is your M&S lobster in this digital, wired, wifi enabled and connected modern society. The sum total of Human knowledge is basically laying in wait for you and the unwary hordes in the vast unexplored rabbit warren of links, threads and documents.
No subject is obscure or bizarre enough not to have an internet presence, web page, blog or Wikipedia entry. In fact I challenge anyone to suggest a subject that is not covered on the internet in some form or other. I'll even offer a tenner to the first person to think of something that with a Google search doesn't simply come up with a definition of the word itself.
I challenged myself and tried to think of weird minority interest subjects, but failed miserably at the first feeble click. Even the most esoteric topics and cursory searching lead to a minefield of information and addictive websites packed with detail and dangerously compelling potential new slippery rabbit holes. Ironically and revealingly the more, shall we say, 'specialised' the subject matter the more 'content' was available.
I started looking at mechanical toy robots ?? on E-bay, and then quickly got craftily side tracked by a link onto some nerdy blokes page with details of about 10,000 makes and models of toy robots from the dawn of time to the present. It must have taken a lifetime of top level annoraking to have accumulated and documented such a huge amount of obscure but interesting 'Terminator' cyborg material.
I took off my own orange cagoule and tipped him a nod though. He has now secured his own small piece of digital immortality. Forever indexed in search engines and buried away in the 'WayBack' internet archives, his name and material will likely now exist as long as we humans do.
A bored researcher in the year 10,000 AD will be able to mind link with the internet of the day from their sensory flotation pod. They might think about toy robots for a nanosecond, before the images drawn from the deepest recesses of remote quantum storage flood into their
consciousness, causing a tsunami of confusion and bewilderment at our ancestors primitive obsessive antics.
It's the same for all the stuff you, I and everyone else posts or uploads as well. Like this rubbish, and my other random literary ramblings, forever archived and accessible in some form to remind us or our pasty descendants of tragic miss spent youth and wasted fleeting Facebook dominated lives.
Beware though! The internet rabbit hole also has a dangerous and contagious side effect that manifests itself with symptoms including: Sweating palms, itchy mouse finger, salivating over desirable objects, surreptitiously checking available funds, researching alternative items or products, seeking out discount codes or friend bargain referrals, and hiding arriving parcels from your partner. It's the scourge of the internet, the compulsive unnecessary drunken purchase.
Peter. Do you really need that £10 1970's toy robot money box? You can't afford the proper rare boxed genuine 1960's walking talking £1000 Japanese model they had on the Antiques Roadshow last week. Pull yourself together and go and do something productive in the garage instead.
Oh dear! Too late, another glass of wine later and as my eyelids drooped and sleep beckoned I clicked Buy it now!
Sadly as I don't have a cat, I couldn't claim later it walked on the keyboard as I was in my alcoholic stupor, and like Shakespears energetic typewriter monkeys, pressed the exact combination of keys in the correct sequence to login, bid for, buy and pay for the item.
So inevitably the clockwork robot money box will soon be adorning my groaning lounge gadget shelf. Joining a growing collection of other weird techy tat, and hoping to ingest vast quantities of unsuspecting visitors lose change unobserved.
I hope you find a way out of your own personal internet rabbit hole sooner rather than later, and can turn to some other diversion to fill these remaining CV19 lockdown days.
Drawweight said:
Urchin "f
k knows...Sorry Mr Scrooge Sir!"Scrooge (smiling) "What a delightful boy."
Urchin "I'm just scarpering off home because Mr FuzzyWig the prime minister has said we have to lockdown due to the nasty plague. Tiny Tim's has had his benefits cut, and the workhouse food bank say that if we don't get there before the nightwatchman starts his round there won't be any cold gruel left."
Scrooge "Do you know the poulterer’s shop at the corner, the one between 'Greg's' and 'We cash ye olde cheques'? And do you know whether they’ve sold the big turkey that was hanging up there?"
Urchin " What, the one as big as me? I doubt it Sir, as feeding poor assorted Cratchit's wasn't considered essential by the MP's. But the rich lobbying bookmakers in the slums is still open if you want to flutter a groat on the Hansom cabbies knackered nag annual race to the glue factory."
Scrooge "Go and buy it anyway and come back with the man that I may give them the direction where to take it. I’ll give you a shilling for it. Come back with the man in less than five minutes and I’ll give you half-a-crown!”
Urchin "Sorry Sir I can't do that. I'm on furlough from begging in the street and accosting fine gentlemen to cut their purses. If I take your half-a-crown Mr Sunak will fine me a full ten shillings, and send me to a rotting prison hulk on the Norfolk Broads near Wroxham so I can pop up later in another of Mr Dickens depressing stories!"
Scrooge (Slams the window shut and shuffles back to his cold damp bed.)
"Oh b
ks then. If this is a taste of Christmas yet to come it's back to plan (A) Being a miserable old tight git. Bah Humbug."Edited by peterperkins on Sunday 20th December 18:20
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