The Pits

This is also where I court with controversy I guess. These annoying little things are not in any order of personal frustration and, on the surface, not all of them appear to have a tremendous amount in common apart from the fact that in their own way they have (and still do) totally unimpressed me one way or another. I have tried not to offend too many people here ... if I do, then fine - there's nothing I can do. I've also tried to be moderately polite - but to feature on this page does mean that the item or person in question is fairly high on my loathe list.

Hunting (aka Slaughtering Innocent Wild Animals). I was born and brought up in the rural Westcountry. In fact I am very much a 'country lad'. But (and this will probably annoy a few readers here) there is, in my opinion, nothing more loathsome about the British way of life than the hideous 'sport' of recklessly killing living animals purely as a sport. I dislike the activity and the high and mighty, relic, out-dated followers of it. At least it's been outlawed - but as many in our green and pleasant land seem to lead a life that is devoid of any semblance of reality, I wouldn't been surprised if there is a large amount of law-bending going on.

Chavs. Britains dangerous unpleasant peasant underclass that are taking over our towns and cities. Also known as Neds, Townies, Kevs, Charvers, Steeks, Spides, Bazzas, Yarcos, Ratboys, Kappa Slappers, Skangers, Scutters, Janners, Stigs, Scallies and Hood Rats. Chavs have such a tribal dress code that you can spot one inches away. Now what makes the Chavs attire so funny is that they think they are at the cutting edge fashion and that by adorning their body with hunks of worthless 9ct gold tack they look rich. They are the pits and have permanently wrecked the image of a certain well known clothing company as well.

Plug 'n' Go. Sales patter for "even a monkey can install it". Don't you believe it.  I have the usual selection of gadgets - in fact I love gadgets -  but I have never ever bought anything that is simple to "install". Some of the instructions read like 'War and Peace'. In fact I bought this piece of kit once that I was convinced will help me greatly. How wrong I was - the book was actually larger than the gadget and I have never been able to get it going. Worse of all is having to admit defeat at one's logical attempt to get the kit going and having to ring the "Advice Line" where, if you are lucky enough to get through and afford the extortionate 'Premium' number, you are either patronised like a ten year old or you resort to screaming like a deranged hyena down the line because the call centred is half way round the world and the operator cannot hear you and you can barely hear the operator. Should be called 'Plug 'n' have a total wobbly'.

Big Brother. Tedious and mind-numbing Channel Four reality show. It should have been killed off at the end of series one as a semi-pleasant tv memory and that's all. If you are outside the UK - chances are this terrifying format has hit a television station near you. Now this boring, lengthy reality telly feast seems to be a regular summertime event in the UK although it does seem that the format is gradually beginning bore even the most hardened viewer. Big Brother is a chance to really, really get to know every little boring, ghastly detail of these celebrity hopefuls. Will they? Won't they? Can they? Should they? It drives me bloody crazy and fills me with dread. I watched a 26 part series about paint drying once - it was infinitely more thrilling.

John Major. Meet 'Mister 'Family Values'. Former British Prime Minister, former leader of the UK Conservative Party and lover of, but not married to, former Cabinet Minister  Edwina Curry (cringe.). More raging inflation and rampant unemployment. His time in Downing Street was marred with countless political scandals and his oh so ironic "family values" policy. In 1997 Major and his sleaze ridden Conservative regime was finally swept from power in the largest ever Labour majority. After 18 long, long dark and dismal years of Tory misrule Johnny Boy final buggered up any hope of the Conservatives showing the remotest sign of a large Tory ruling majority for an extremely long time. John Major was the man who buried his own party. In 1997 once again there was fresh hope and new expectations as the Labour Party unceremoniously wiped the political floor and re-built confidence in British life and British values. Blimey. Anyone would think I was a socialist.

Railway Station Announcements. Instant audio information to assist the traveller. You be can wondering around the forecourt (is that the right expression?) of a railway station (let's take Waterloo as an example). You are on time, you've planned your day, you've made allowances for delay and then you arrive at the station to be thrown totally off the mark by some muffled, echoing, nasal allegedly urgent announcement that's bound to cock-up the most organised plan. I have never been able to ever understand the actual words in these announcements - they echo around the station and they are totally inaudible.

Call Centres. Designed to greatly assist the consumer. If I hear some ghastly synthesized version of the 'Hey Jude' whilst on hold again, I'll commit something extremely anti-social. You press countless buttons on your phone to make the correct 'option', you finally get through to a human voice somewhere between Aberdeen and Delhi only to be told you will be put 'on hold'. In my vast experience BT is painful and a certain bank is unbelievable. You are totally in the hands of these operators ... holding and holding ... listening to some ghastly repetitive muszak whilst wondering if the person 'holding' you has gone off for a tea break or maybe the weekly shopping. Automated telephone systems have done more than anything to wreck the tattered remains of certain company's public relations. If I know I have to go through this hell I make a point of not using the available services. They are a pain in the neck and quite occasionally responsible for really high phone bills. Automated? Convenient? Don't you believe it.

Water. I have to say that I am afraid of vast volumes of H2O. Swimming baths have always terrified me - I can't stand the smell and the fear of drowning is too much. I love looking at the sea. I hate having any personal contact with it - especially as it's likely that little Joey has more than likely urinated in it. Moreover if you are on some sunny resort - are you sure that seawater is safe from sewerage and other nasties? Argh. The thought of it. I'm okay on small boats on rivers, ferries crossing short sections or in calm bays. But I had a genuinely terrifying experience during Christmas / New Year 1985 on board a very famous and extremely large liner in the middle of the Bay of Biscay. I shan't bore you with the hideous details but needless to say I didn't watch Titanic (in any case I knew the plot - unsinkable boat sinks in 1912, major tragedy, many casualties).

The Computer Hacker. Slimy creature with nothing better to do. These nasty little cretins plant little programs on our computers and we end up by spending a fortune ridding our systems of them. They have the capacity to steal your money and creativity. They are dangerous in the extreme. They can wreck your computer and drive you to total distraction while you fumble around trying to get the nasty little bug or 'worm' of whatever it's called off your system. The Computer Hacker is the scourge of the internet. Ironically they are quite talented I guess to have this capacity. If you are reading this page - please spend 5 minutes to read this page as well and you could learn how to rid your system of these morons. Personally, I can't see the point somehow - what pleasure or sense of satisfaction does anybody get out of planting something on a computer. I blame the genes.

Bungy Jumping. If you are over 18 you write your will. You tie some stretchy stuff around your ankles. You dive off from an extremely high place in the hope that you'll survive. What a completely stupid thing this is. What the hell does anyone get from jumping from a great height with a bit of elasticated (?) material to save them from crushing their skulls and terrifying the poor onlookers? And what does 'bungy' mean anyway? Apart from the plain foolhardiness there's no 100% guarantee you won't get permanent brain damage or any other impairment come to that. What happens if the elastic breaks? You die and the poor audience end up on therapy. Bloody stupid idea.

Mobile Phones On Trains In Confined Public Place. The ability to waffle like a prat into a piece of plastic whilst in a busy railway carriage. This has to be one my biggest gripes. Mobile phones are useful. Crucial in an emergency. But that's as far as it goes. I was sat in a railway carriage at Paddington one Friday afternoon with the prospect of a couple hour journey to the Westcountry. The train was about to leave. Most of us were sitting quietly. Then this person decided to call her sexual partner for some aimless tittle-tattle. The entire carriage had to hear the most intimate (and quite revolting) details of her relationship and some truly embarrassing explicit rubbish. Then seconds after this call, three mobiles bleeped (one with the tune of Hey Jude) and the carriage turned into a zoo of passengers with plastic stuck to their ears.  There should be a law against it and the culprits should be forced to do a course in comprehensible railway station announcements.

Alleged Music Noise. Extremely repetitive 'musack'. I cannot get my head around it. It's got nothing to do with the fact I am facing 54 head on - it's just I have never ever understood it. To me it's neither melodic or poetic. I don't hate it, I just don't understand it and, frankly, I don't particularly want to either. (I was recently sent an email from a friend of mine to ask me why I've used a picture of Mother Teresa to represent this issue. Give me strength.). The other week I watched a story on local television about how the younger folk could modernise the most traditional music. From what I could gather the little darlings (the future of our country) were given a 'grant' to enable them to develop their 'skills' (local televisions words, not mine). And the result - The Sound of Music done to some nasal annoying beat rhythm noise. Money well spent (not). Should of spent the cash getting them away from drugs and into an apprenticeship so years later they won't be wasting their time moaning about stuff on the internet.

Margaret Thatcher Regime. Former Conservative British Prime Minister. Not unlike Queen Mary on speed. Some interesting late night reading is Margaret Thatcher: The Downing Street Years. I actually bought this volume in the vain attempt to try and understand the person and her period of rule over the UK. Trouble is, reading it before sleep might give you nightmares - it did me. Hers was a regime of rampant inflation, out of control interest rates and raging unemployment. Can you really sit there, read this and genuinely believe that those were the good old days? She might be a sweet old widow now (please use your imagination) but her term in office was, for me at least, very dark indeed. Amazingly, she has built up quite a large number of fans - I remember being involved in several heated discussions beyond these shores with ghastly out of date expats and it never ceased to amaze me how many people abroad (especially in the former Empire(.)) actually revered her. Give me strength.

Celebrities. Irritating people we are supposed to recognise or adore. Folks we are meant know every tiny intimate detail about. We have an extremely unhealthy obsession in the UK with these D-list allegedly well-known people who have risen from obscurity through some dreadful reality show. They are all over the tabloids and permeate the countless number of B-rate cable or satellite stations as 'presenters' or 'special guests'.  You know who I mean ... spotty, sicky, out of work actor Darilyn from 'I'm An Unknown ... Get Me Out Of Here' ... or incomprehensible, drug-ridden, sniffy,  Shaznee from 'Big Brother series 96' (famous because she's got the biggest tits in Tottenham). I don't want to know about them (especially them.) or the incestuous, silly little reality programme they have bored the nation with. Blimey mate. Where's the remote?