Politically Fat Fritter

I’ve never been particularly fond of politicians. To me (and to 75% of the population according to statistics) they’re a load of egotistical, self-centred, self-serving, greedy sods, who are happy to drop anyone and everyone in the shit as long as it’s not themselves.

It seems now that they’ve created a government department for stating the bleeding obvious which today put out a statement to the effect that, “if you want to lose weight, eat less and exercise more.”

Well slap my arse with the electoral register and put a fresh tax on pork pies, I’d never have guessed. I would, however, be interested to know exactly how much that gem of advice has cost the taxpayer.

It appears that the Great British public is becoming a nation of tubs. Again this is not something I would have rumbled in less than five seconds. I thought all those fat arses waddling down the confectionery and fatty foods aisles in our supermarkets were a fashion statement.

Rather than admit that for many the problem stems from low self-esteem, often caused by politicians telling us how worthless we all are (MPs excepted) and low incomes, often caused by governments determined to keep pay levels at indecently low levels (MPs excepted) The Right Honourable Idiot for Stupid Ideas insists that creating more cycle lanes and green spaces will help. How? Is he going to get people grazing on the grass? And how will he get them on bikes when they’re carrying so much weight around that they struggle to get on a bus?

The one thing he has avoided is a fat tax. Now there’s a novelty. A government actually ruling out a tax. It’s difficult to see how he would implement it anyway. What are you gonna do, get everyone in the country to strip, see how many “inches you can pinch” and levy them at a fiver a millimetre?

We all know that ordering a Diet Coke with your triple whammyburger, double fries, and extra-fat ice cream is not going to shed any tonnage, but if the Westminster Wallies spent less time working out how they can shaft the rest of us, and less time pontificating, and instead tried to help the overweight, we might make some progress.

On a personal note, I’m overweight. Why? It’s because I can’t exercise. Why can’t I exercise? Because, Mr Right Honourable Dipstick for Big Mouths, my knees are shot. Why are my knees shot? Because back in the 60s I did what you and your ilk insisted I do. I went out to work.  For 45 years, come hail, snow, rain, or sunshine, I was out there grafting, and it buggered up my ability to even walk, never mind run or cycle.

And why has this problem not been addressed? Because in your determination to profit from it, you and your ilk have pissed about with the NHS to such a degree that like me, it doesn’t fucking work anymore.

 

Viagra Fritter

Do you remember the film Candyman? If you said his name five times, he’d appear and slash you to ribbons. Many people were so scared by this film that they found they really dare not say the word five times.

Well the same thing applies to Viagra. You dare not mention Viagra five times in a blog post or tweet.

Not that a large blue pill will appear from nowhere and slice you into strips. But the spammers will descend on your blog like seagull shit on a fully laden North Sea trawler.

I made the mistake of mentioning Viagra in a tweet about three years ago and within an hour, the emails began arriving, offering me cheap Viagra, herbal Viagra, wooden Viagra (that’s two lengths of 5cm dowelling and some straps to wrap round your todger and hold it up) penis enlargement tackle, stallion rings, erection creams, erection sprays, stamina pills, and turtle wax polish. I think the people at that automotive site misunderstood when I said I wanted to put shine on her face.

The spam has tapered off a little now. I get no more than about 300 emails a week.

So you see, never mention Viagra in a post. Not just not very often, but never.

Now all you spammers, let’s see if you’re paying attention.

I don’t want your Viagra, Viagra, Viagra, Viagra, Viagra.

There I’ve mentioned it five times.

Send me Cialis instead.

 

Heberden’s Fritter

Seems as how old Flatcap is not the only one suffering from arthritis. Her Indoors was at the doctor’s this week and she’s suffering from Heberden’s Nodes.

“How does Heberden smell while you’ve got his nose?” I asked.

I fed her the line and anticipated the standard response: “Awful. He never takes a bath.”

Instead she screamed at me. “Put your hearing aids in, you daft old sod. Nodes. No-d-d-d-d-es. With a D. D for dickhead.”

Rather than get into a debate on comic feeds and comebacks, I checked up on this condition. It’s linked to arthritis and the bone on the first joint of the finger grows osteophytes: lumpy projections. A bit like porridge just before it sets. On the whole it makes her finger look as if it’s been flattened with a hammer, and given her general prowess with a hammer, that’s exactly what could have caused it. The times I’ve had to re-plaster the walls when she’s been hammering a nail in to hang up her coat. I’m sure it would have been cheaper to buy coat hooks.

Getting back to Heberden’s Nodes, I asked, “Is it painful?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Especially when I’m poking you in the eye.”

“Serves you right,” I retorted. “You gave me arthritis in the knees.”

“I did not,” she argued.

“Oh no? Then who was it who used to drop her knickers in the damp grass behind the abattoir?”

The upshot of this is that the things she’s always done with her index finger are now much more painful. This includes poking me in the eye, pointing a threatening finger at me when I forget to record Strictly Come Break Your Leg, and tapping out numbers on the telephone, so now I’ll have to pay for the misdialling, too.

There’s no peace.

 

Spin Fritter

I’ve been following the NHS debate recently (hasn’t everyone?) and as usual the major problem with the NHS is political meddling, this time by the Tories who smell a profit. Dave and his pals deny this, but too many of his big mouths have opened their traps within earshot of the media to take the denial anything like seriously.

Admittedly, they didn’t start it. Blair did. As a Labour PM Blair was the biggest Tory we’d seen since Thatcher.

That’s history. Let’s look at the here and now.

One of the phrases bandied about is “free at the point of delivery.” They’re cutting it short. The founding principles of the NHS said, “Free at the point of use and based on clinical need, not ability to pay.”

Cutting off that latter phrase doesn’t half shift the goalposts.

How? Pay attention and Flatcap will guide you.

My gas is free at the point of delivery. I don’t put shillings in the meter. I pay my bill monthly. Ergo, my gas is free until I receive the bill a month later. My dentures were free at the point of delivery. The dentist didn’t stand there threatening me with a drill, showing me the dentures and saying, “poppy up or that’s the last you see of your gnashers.” My forthcoming holiday in Tenerife is free at the point of delivery. Those nice people at Mastercard are picking up the bill. All I have to do is work out how I’m gonna pay them back.

So you see, “free at the point of delivery” does not mean you’re not going to get stuffed for it.

The technical term for this practice is political spin. It’s also known as a half truth or being economical with the truth. When I was a lad it was called deceit, or more simply, lying.

We’re all brought up not to tell lies, but we soon get out of that habit when we realise that porkies are more fun, expedient in certain cases and in extremes, life-saving.

For instance.

When trying to impress some woman: “I’m a fraud specialist working for a multinational corporation.” (I work as a security officer for the local branch of a Hong Kong bank.)

When caught speeding: “I thought the sign said 50.” (I didn’t see you parked in a side street, you prick.)

When explaining away a pair of frilly knickers found in your pocket: “I thought they were yours” (I knew I should have left them in the glove compartment.)

Politicians and the ungarnished truth go together like paraffin and a match, and it’s the one thing that really irks me about them. Will the day ever dawn when we meet one who will answer a direct question with a straightforward, simple and above all, truthful answer?

But then, I do tend to daydream about the day when pork pies will be available on a free prescription.

Tramp Fritter

I was having a wander round town yesterday with no particular purpose in mind other than getting out from under Her Indoors’ feet for an hour or two when I spotted a young lad of about 30 picking up dog ends from the street.

For those of you unfamiliar with British vernacular, dog end is an old colloquial term for cigarette stubs. I explain it so you won’t run away with the notion of this kid picking up bits of dogs that careless owners might have left behind.

Now that reminds me of the time I left my silencer on a level crossing. It was hanging on by a twisted thread of mangled steel but it was mostly downhill to the exhaust centre, so I took a chance and drove there. I only had 50 yards to go when I rumbled over the level crossing and the bastard thing fell off.

Being the law-abiding soul that I am, I stopped to walk back and pick it up. I couldn’t leave it there. Like my underpants, it had my name stencilled into the waistband. As I got out of the car, some old git from across street said, “Your exhaust’s dropped off.”

Considering the silencer-less car had been making more noise than a main battle tank on repeat fire, and that I could see the offending muffler laid on the railways tracks, you’d think he might suss that I’d already guessed. What is about people that they insist on stating the bleeding obvious?

However, I digress. Let’s get back to the kid in the street picking up dog ends.

You could be forgiven for thinking that he was a conscientious soul determined to keep the streets clear of unwanted cigarette butts. But my interested was aroused when I saw him put them in his pocket. My suspicions were further confirmed when I took a last pull on my smoke, dropped it to the pavement and brought my foot down to crush it out. Before my foot reached the ground, he dived across like Petr Cech stopping a Wayne Rooney penalty, and snatched the still smoking tab from under my shoe. Then he rolled expertly to his feet and went on his way.

The next I saw of him, he was in the tobacconists buying a pack of Rizla cigarette papers and breaking up his ill gotten stubs and taking the dregs of tobacco from them to roll a cigarette.

I’m a man of the world. I’m used to seeing tramps, bag ladies et al, pull this sort of stunt. I’ve done it myself. Years ago, working on a holiday camp it was the night before pay day and no one had any money. I’d already raided the bins and the ashtrays in the bar and I’d run out of smoke. Some guy offered me a shot of Erinmore Flake (a pipe tobacco) and I rolled and smoked it. It was like taking a drag of Mt Etna on full reheat.

What got me about this kid was he wasn’t dressed like a tramp. He wore what looked like a brand new hoodie, trackies and trainers with lime green laces. I don’t know if the lime green laces are important. I just thought I’d better mention them to add to the overall atmosphere.

This young feller knows nothing. If you’re going to be a tramp at least try to look the part. A pair of open-toed sandals, or boots with the toes missing, and no socks to demonstrate that you haven’t washed your feet since Oxydol was taken off the shelves. A flea-bitten reefer jacket that you found in a skip behind the Army & Navy Stores in 1973. A pair of trousers that were baggy when they came out of the factory in 1951. And forget the belt. String is the ultimate tramp fashion accessory. As for a shirt. Well, the first priority is to make sure it’s full of holes, and it should be collarless. If it has a collar, cut it off, and if you can’t afford scissors, scrounge a plastic knife from the fast food joint as a condition of you moving on.

Young uns, y’see. They don’t know how to do the job.

Simpsons Fritter

From America comes the dire news that The Simpsons cannot continue unless the cast take a drastic pay cut.

“Aye, aye,” thought I, “another corporation pleading skint.

I make no apologies for being a Simpsons fan. If nothing else, Homer restores my faith in the ability of human beings to fuck the job up no matter how simple it is.

When I read the report, however, I learned that the voiceover artists are earning such sums as to make Frank Lampard, Wayne Rooney and Carlos Tevez look like street urchins.

Still, and all, it’s not fair asking the cast to take a huge cut in pay. I meanersay, what can you buy these days when your pay is a lousy $400,000 per episode (allegedly)?

I wonder if Fox, the company that produces the show, have thought this through properly. There must be other areas where they can make cuts.

Education, for instance. If ever taxpayer’s money was wasted it was on Bart, Nelson, Milhouse and so on. Get the lazy buggers out to work and make them earn their place on the show.

Then there’s Homer. If you trimmed back his doughnut consumption, got him off the Duff and onto cheap, Mexican lager, they’d save a fortune as well as getting his weight down.

Marge’s visits to the hairdresser won’t be cheap either. How much does Maggie cost in dummies (comforters) and if Lisa is so smart, how come she isn’t looking over the balance sheets to see where savings might be made.

If all else fails, they could always approach Monty Burns for a loan… but they should make sure they’re carrying a couple of squeaky toys just in case Monty lets the hounds loose on them.

Symbolic Fritter?

As always, this is a genuine spam comment from this or one of my other blogs.

EP writes:

Small-businesses could glanced for your performance main city within the last decade appear to have been manufactured to stroll the female periods ‘crooked’ road to identifying involving seed money loan products. Most profitable loan institutes like non-bank SBA loan that diminishing through out both to convey lending options desires these great business opportunities a couple common are finding all of their to discover feels merely usable.

Flatcap responds:

When I study the comment, it’s quite esoteric and I’m sure there’s a linguistic gymnast somewhere who could make sense of it. Knowing some of the writers I socialise with, they could probably turn it into a literary novel.

For my part, however, I feel this is a comment on United’s poor home performance against Norwich yesterday. It mentions a couple (and United did win 2-0) it also says “appear to have been manufactured” and that’s an obvious reference to City’s spending compared to United’s, whereas “seed money loans” demonstrates the efficacy of lending players like Cleverly and Wellbeck out to other clubs last season.

On the other hand, this clown could have drunk a coupla of pints of Fucking Hell and followed them with Pissen chasers.

What’s in a Name?

Plenty, but it depends where you come from.

Earlier this year Spiegel Online reported Franz Meindl’s dismay at an EU ruling which is likely to increase the fame of his Austrian village. You may be scratching your head at this until you learn that Herr Meindl is the mayor of Fucking, and the ruling permits a German company to register a beer as Fucking Hell.

We all know what this means in English, but in German “hell” can refer to a light ale.

Yes, I’ve drunk many a light ale like that.

I’ve also ordered many a pint of Fucking Hell. It usually runs, “I’ll have a pint of… fucking hell, where do you get the brass balls to charge that much?”

Herr Meindl’s worries stem from the theft of town signs. A dozen or more have gone missing in the past, when visitors took them as souvenirs. It’s become such a problem that they’ve taken to setting the signs in concrete, or welding and riveting them in place.

The article concludes that the Bavarian towns of Kissing and Petting have similar problems and so does the East German town of Pissen, but so far no one has come up with plans to name a beer after them.

Pity. It’d be worth going into the pub and asking for a pint of Pissen just to see the barmaid’s face.

You can read the whole saga here.

Pain Fritter

 

I was back at the doc’s yesterday. I spend so much time there I have my own chair in reception.

It was the age-old problem: pain. We read and hear a lot about those people that can’t get help because they’re just above the safety net. Well I’m one of ’em. The damage to my knees is not bad enough to warrant surgical intervention, but it’s bad enough to prevent me walking more than a few yards before I start to hurt.

The doc apologised but there’s no more he can do than prescribe ever stronger pain killers. To me, pills are not the answer, mainly because they don’t work. I have some super-duper, all-singing, all-dancing miracle pills with a name that’s so complicated they could be a village in Wales.

They leave me groggy, vapid, unable to concentrate, sitting staring into space for long periods at a time. Unkind souls say they don’t notice the difference. Whatever the pills do, they don’t kill the pain… well they do, but not for long.

A friend, the very same Maureen Vincent-Northam who torments me on my standards of written English, suggested heat treatment, but I’ve tried that and it didn’t work. Mind, it was a bit awkward trying to get my knees in the oven. The same thing happened when I packed my knees in ice. They were still hot from the oven, so the ice melted and my lower legs got wet. And the pain still didn’t go away.

A former workmate loaned me a heated, vibrating massage pad, but that didn’t work too well, either. It vibrated the bolts loose on my chair. I was sitting in the chair when I used the thing and I only just got out in time. Another six hours and there would have been a disaster to rival the Titanic.

Oddly enough, Her Indoors found a use for the vibrator. I think she fitted a sanding disc to it before she painted the doors.

They tell me I’d improve if I lost weight. I try, believe me. Sometimes I go a whole two hours without eating, but it makes no difference. My weight is absolutely static at 15 stones. It doesn’t go up, it doesn’t go down. If the FTSE behaved like this the world’s bankers would be scratching their heads.

We all know there’s no such thing as a miracle cure, but essentially what I need is a miracle cure. It can’t be that complicated. I mean, if I have a rusty joint on, say, the car, a drop of 3-in-one penetrating and lubricating oil usually does the trick, but when I tried that on my knees, my socks kept slipping down.

Ah, well, such is life. Time for a coupla pies and pints to drown my sorrows.

Lincolnshire At Random

The lavatories in our van were leaking, so naturally I complained. When they did nowt, I complained again. “I’m not paying good money to spend a week paddling every time I go to the lavatory,” I said.

“But you got the van half price,” she protested.

“So what are you saying? If I’d paid full price would the carpet be twice as wet but the sink mended in half the time?”

***

I watched a young lass going into Boots and she was wearing these fancy new tights they all wear. Grey, these were. Couldn’t see her knickers but they spelled out the shape of her backside just perfect. And she did have a lovely bottle.

I wouldn’t want you to think I’m one of these dirty old men who go around eye up young women’s behinds. I’m not old.

Truth is, I wouldn’t even have noticed but for one thing. She kept pulling her coat down trying to hide it. What is the point of wearing clobber that spells out your magnificent legs and arse if you’re going to try cover them up? Why not just wear trousers to begin with?

***

Let’s see how much attention you’re paying. Here are two pictures of Flatcap. Can you spot the difference?

That’s right. I’ve taken my shirt off. I’ve also changed my cap. The pale one is brand new and a sign that the Flatcap wardrobe is expanding. I’m also more irritated and a little shorter in the second picture. Both facets have the same cause. Her Indoors was taking the picture and hadn’t a bleeding clue what she was doing. What else is new?

***

On our way to Cleethorpes from Mablethorpe, I noticed a signpost reading “Grimsby 20”. Two miles further along the road, another sign read Grimsby 22. Grimsby was obviously moving away from us and faster than the 60 mph I was doing. At that rate, Grimsby should have been somewhere near Aberdeen by the time United kicked off against Leeds.

***

A house in Skegness was valued at £132,000 and a part of its appeal was, “close to the beech.” No mention of oak, larch or elm, but definitely beech.

***

And finally, we always find shoe repairs and key cutting together. Why? The skills are not mutually inclusive. You repair shoes on a last by tacking new soles to them. You turn keys from blanks on a small cutting lathe. So why do they go together. It’s not as if Her Indoors wanders along the street thinking I need new soles on my shoes and while I’m at it I’d better get a new key cut for the outside lavatory.

Shoes and keys simply do not go together. Imagine the scene outside Barrett’s for their New Year sale. Free, with every five lever mortise key, a pair of stickasoles cut to your specification (max size 11 pit boots).

What would happen if other businesses decided to diversify like this. Auto repairs and needlework. Free with every full service, your best socks darned.

Whatever you do, beware the girl who offers massage and floorboard sanding.