The Numbers Should Speak For Themselves

In light of resent news events this week I feel it is pertinent to share this sobering fact.



Today (Sunday 30th August 2015) is the 242nd day of the year.

As of this date there have been 249 instances of mass shootings in the USA. (link)


The definition of MASS SHOOTING is when 4 or more people killed.



242 days...... 249 separate occasions of MASS KILLING.


!

I just deleted a big long rant about this, but decided it wasn't needed.

That factoid should speak for itself.

Cat and Mouse games

Somebody, somewhere has done a very stupid thing.

This can be said with a certain amount of accuracy as Human beings do stupid things all the time.

Usually nobody knows about it, or it is a small things of stupidity and is quickly erased or counteracted by another act of stupidity of equal value that cancels out the original act of dumbness.

This week, however, somebody did a very stupid thing and it has caused a small amount of questionable pondering.

There was the sacking of massive tool, Dick (I beg your pardon NICK) Griffin from the idiotic morons self help group known as the BNP.

This is not a stupid act in itself, but how racist/dumb must you be for other racists to say "WHOA, sorry dick (I beg your pardon - Nick), you've gone too far and made us all look stupid. It's time for you to go."

The slow realisation of idiots destroying themselves is not a bad thing.... in fact I for one welcome it. But something else happened this week that is almost along the same lines.

The act itself was reported on the BBC news website HERE.

It now appears that the beloved children cartoon Tom and Jerry is now racist.

Let that sink in a second.

A cartoon about a mouse outwitting a household cat is racist.

it is a little bit more complicated than that. It appears that because the cartoon sometimes featured the cats owner, who happened to be depicted as a large African/American woman, then it was racist.

It is said that the woman in question (who, to my knowledge was never named or shown above the petticoat) is seen a derogitory version of American culture.

it is quoted on the BBC site that she is a "black maid" but I don't think that is true.

As a child (and even as an adult) it never entered my head that the lady in question was a maid.

It appeared, and still appears to me, that she is a housewife, trying to get on with the jobs of the day. One of these jobs involves getting the lazy cat (Tom) to catch the one and only mouse (Jerry) that torments her.

There is nothing to suggest that this lady is in the employ of anybody but herself.

I am now forced to think about this issue in more detail and have very quickly summarised the following:

• The lady in question is called Bertha. This is because Bertha is a ladies name.

• Her husband is at work during the time of the cartoons and earns enough to both of them in a comfortable lifestyle so that she has no need to find work of her own.

• The couple have a cat in the house, not as a pet, but as a working member of the family. It's sole purpose is to catch and kill mice.

• The cat is not very good at it's job.

• In the evenings Bertha enjoys hosting bridge nights with some of the other folks on her street. Together with her husband, they put out buffet style foods for everyone to enjoy and some music is played.

• Every enjoys Bertha and her (nameless) husbands evenings. They are very well liked in their neighbourhood.

Go ahead. 

Go and watch any episode of the Tom and Jerry cartoons and point out to me where it shows Bertha to be a maid, or under the employ of anybody but herself.

Granted there is no direct indication of there being a Mr Bertha (or that her name is Bertha) but there is also nothing at all to suggest that she is a maid or anything less.

I thought we had grown up past this silly view of "looking" for racism where it isn't.

There are enough morons and idiots out there who need to be educated on the wrongs of racism, without making it up for the sake of it.

Tom and Jerry cartoons are full of COMEDIC and CARTOON violence. There are many scenes with smoking which have been banned by some and concussions and dogs and cats and mice smacking twelve shades of shit out of each other within a cloud of felt tip smoke.

What there is not, is racism.

The BNP, KKK, UKIP, anybody over a certain age, idiots, the ill informed and under educated, the ignorant and stupid are all racist....

... Tom and Jerry are not.

But that didn't stop somebody, somewhere insisting that a warning message appears on the TV when a cartoon is put on for the kids.

It's bad enough that nearly everybody who was on TV in my childhood is now locked up in prison for being a nonce without some busy body ripping apart my favourite cartoons.

What's next, I wonder?

Postman Pat stealing mail?

Button Moon was all faked?

Sooty never spoke because he was in the witness protection program after selling out Bill and Ben the Flower "POT"men?

Eh?

When will this madness end....


This is just further proof that human race does not deserve the air it breathes.

I am Innocent

Today I took delivery of Mrs H's new mobile phone. It is a samsung smartphone.

It is causing me a headache.

A more correct statement would be that Mrs H is giving me a headache.

All night, all I have heard is "What does this do?" and "It's not working!" and "I can't...."

it's ridiculous. 

I know that some people (myself included) are not the most aware when it comes to new things, but what really frustrates me is when people don't even try and expect me to know exactly what to do when they offer insightful information like "Why is it doing this???" but then give nothing in the way of factual insights as to what the IT is or what the DOING is supposed to be.

My answer is always the same. "I don't know.... let me have a look."

I look at the device and ask the question "What are you trying to do?"

The reply is always the same. "I don't know."

And at this point I die a little inside.

How am I supposed to know what you want when you don't know what you want?

I don't know.

It has now got to the point where I don't know what it is that I don't know and what I am supposed to know about the things that other people don't know about the things they don't know what they doing on the things they are doing them.

It is very confusing.

Right now, as I type this, I DO know that I am being looked at. 

With one of THOSE looks.

It's not the same look as when I forget to do the washing up, or when I make "smells" WHICH I DO NOT MAKE BY THE WAY, but it is one of THOSE looks that is an accusation that I am responsible for something going wrong.

I am being made to feel guilty for something I have not done.

I AM AN INNOCENT MAN!

I am not, nor have I ever been on Coronation street, nor have I ever been a childrens entertainer of any kind. So why am I being made to feel like a criminal?

I don't know. But there's probably an app for it.

Not My Best Day.....

I was going to write about my Gran today because it is her birthday. I rang her up to wish her many happy returns and asked what she was doing today. her reply was this: "Well, I'm on the toilet at the minute..."

Thanks for that mental image gran. you are the best!

however - today has taken a turn for the worst and so you will know that conversation happened.

Firstly, this post is a little more sweary than usual.

I don’t mind a bit of bad language, but try not to let it rule my life (or blog).

I apologise to anyone who may not like the language used in this post but hope that by reading it you will understand why I am so angry.

If you don’t like swear words. Don’t read this post.

Thankyou.

One of the best parts of working for yourself (apart from having the keys to the shop and therefore having 24 hour access to the sweets in the shop) is knowing you have done a good job and getting recognised for it.

It does happen from time to time where somebody shows their appreciation for your hard work and dedication to ensuring everyone has a nice holiday, whether it’s for one night passing through or a two week break away from the hustle and bustle of the world with a simple thank you. It really is nice to be nice and doesn’t take much.

It was though, Issac Newton who said everything has an equal and opposite reaction.

This means that for every nice and friendly person who passes through my gates, there is one … what’s the word…. ARSEHOLE.. yes that’s the word, one arsehole who ruins it for everyone else.

The week has only just begun and the king of Arseholes has arrived today.

This particular shithouse has been before.

As he arrived I recognised his face, but couldn’t remember why.

It soon dawned on me that it was because he winds me up like nobody else.

He is so cock sure and arrogant about ..well everything… he refuses to listen to reason. Even when he scrapes his car against a stone wall and burns his clutch out.

I won’t bore you with the details, but it comes down to the fact that I was trying to do HIM a favour and save him the bother of moving his caravan around the place. I was willing to work around HIM. That wasn’t good enough it seems.

He wanted to make an issue of it.

He wanted to let everyone within earshot know that something wasn’t right.

Regardless that it was him at fault and I was more than able to put it right – this was his chance to look like a real man.

And so I snapped.

Proper snapped.

Shouting and a little bit of swearing snapped.

It was wrong of me to lose my temper the way I did, but like Popeye said “That’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more!” and I put this pillock well and truly in his place.

I started by being nice – I really did, but very quickly it became apparent that this guy wanted to show his authority because I am about thirty years his junior and that means that he knows best.

Regardless of the fact that I do what I do 365 days a year and know what I’m doing, this chump has always had it in for me and is a know-all.

Not today.

Today the worm turned and showed his teeth.

As my blood began to boil I turned around, looked him straight in the eye and ensure without doubt that he would not be allowed to talk down to me like that again.

I would have thrown him the campsite off but although he is a massive dick, his money is worth having… just.

I feel wrong for having made a scene but there are times when you can’t let bullies win.

That is what he is. A bully. I hate bullies.

More than I hate Dave… and I REALLY HATE DAVE.

This bumhole is now on the black list and I have no doubt he will try and wind me up before the end of the week, but the staff know that any bad move on his part and he is off. He can have his money back and will be told never to return.

There are limits and this is it.

I’m the boss around here. I have a badge and everything.

Bullies must never be allowed to win. They must be told to shut up and behave.

No threats, no second warnings.

If you fuck up – you fuck off.

That’s my new moto. It’s a bit sweary but it’s catchy.

Since writing this post I have had a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit (custard creams don’t cut the mustard in these situations) and now I have written down my rage I feel a lot calmer.

Thanks for reading and I hope you don’t have to deal a nob head like this in your day to day life.

Stay alert - Stay Grumpy.

Talking - How To Get Out Of It

A big part of my job involves talking to people and as we all know People are idiots.

One such moron came into reception today.

“Do you remember me?” They shouted at me as they walked through the door.

Now before you read my reply to this question it is important to understand that this is asked of me at least once a week by any number of faceless twonks without warning.

The following is my exact answer word for word.

“nope.”

This response has been careful designed to ensure that the question asker is clear that they have asked a stupid question to which the only answer is one that is presented in the negative unless it is asked by somebody who I know rather well and would not be asked in any case as I WOULD KNOW THEM ALREADY.

Instead, I am presented with the following:

“Well I remember you.”*

This is a non-descript comment that does not require any reply as far as I am concerned. Upon hearing something like this I usually await until they have something to say that has the possibility of them giving me money.

I usually have to wait a bit longer.

“I came here last year.” It appears the fool in question wishes to continue this line of remembrance a while longer.

My reply is thus: “That will be why I don’t remember you then.”

You think I am being harsh or rude. I am not. I am, in fact, learning them good.

The Bumferry Hogart School of Learning Them Good (BHSoLTG) is available to everyone who wants to do away with useless small talk, pointless questions, small talk and any other type of communication that is not helpful, profitable or educational in any way shape or form.

The point of talking is to share information. This can lead to fulfilling relationships of a professional and/or personal nature.

Talk of weather (including but not exclusive to the direction of the wind, how the temperature has changed slightly from a couple of hours ago) traffic on a road that neither of those involved in the conversation are currently on, the cost of a particular item for sale in a shop you are not in or plan to go to (regardless of whether the item in question is something you plan to buy or not) can all be stopped, changed or avoided all together with the lessons of the BHSoLTG.

Lessons are provided over the internet, reducing the need to “make friends” with fellow course takers for the reasonable price of £ per lesson (minimum required lessons depend on individual requirements but it is recommended that students take a minimum of 12 lessons).

Cash is preferred, but seeing as how that would mean meeting in person, cheque, postal order, or principal naming in your will are all acceptable methods of payment.

Your time is precious and can not be wasted on small talk with people who put the strange into stranger.

It is estimated that the average person spends over 30% of their day trying to get out of conversations they have no intention of remembering.

Get that time back AND your life by signing up in the box below.

What is the worst that can happen?

By the way, did you see the match last night? How about that local sports team?

*this conversation actually happened. the man in question had been to the site ONCE before over a year ago and stayed for ONE NIGHT. I did not remember him because it just so happened that I was not on duty that day. I had not met this man before even though he insisted that we had. - proof of idiocy.

Its a No From Me...

I can tell by my Facebook and Twitter feeds that Xfactor is back on. (it could be the other one – Talent Trek or whatever I can’t be bothered to check)

Or to give its full title “Ohnonotthatbloodystupidxfactorrubbishagain.” As it is known in my house.

And so begins the unbelievably long countdown to Christmas.

Within a matter of weeks, if not days, our televisions – which for most of the year have been faithful companions on merriment and mirth and education, will turn upon us all by showering our eyeballs with piss and shitting in our ears with the god awful squeaking of oxygen thieves who know neither how to dress, sing or act appropriately in public mixed with the faux compassion and praise of a panel of what is supposed to be judges.

The judges themselves will start by being sympathetic to those who have wandered in off the street with tales of woe about dead pets and missing mums and, as is the human condition, will very quickly grow weary of the never ending queue of desperation.

The researchers of this show will have done their paymasters proud by segregating the deranged from the mildly talented.

The editing crew will mix in a kaleidoscope of singing ability crossed with egocentric gob shites that will haunt your TV all the way to the end of the year.

The part that really annoys me is when the show changes from a Victorian freak show montage to something that closely resembles the American evangelist churches where you the viewer is urged if not brain washed to VOTE FOR WHO MAKES IT THROUGH TO THE NEXT ROUND. Giving you a sense of ultimate power like some kind of demi-god. When in actual fact you are spending £1.50 to keep a mentally ill person in the lime light when they should be seeking medical and professional help.

I don’t blame Simon Cowell though.

He is just the drug pusher. It’s the idiots who watch this tripe who continue the never ending cycle … giving hope to the hopeless, the continuing free fall into instant gratification and proof that hard work and effort mean nothing if you are prepared to open yourself to ridicule to the nation you too can be famous and end up on celebrity Big Brother.

THIS is now the ultimate pinnacle of the Great British public. The Americans have their dream. Us Brits have an absent minded second thought and dismiss it because some fat lass from Leeds is about to be told she is useless and isn’t worth Simons Cowells time or attention.

I hate Xfactor.

I hate people who watch Xfactor.

I hate people.

I wish I could sing….

998 Cheeky Bar Stewards

A WORD OF WARNING ON THIS POST:

Geddit?

I've had a bit of bad day, which is what this post is ultimately about and is a little bit dry as I rant on. Feel free to stick with it or just enjoy the pictures.

Here we go.

Working on a campsite can be quite rewarding.

Working in the great outdoors, the sunshine, happy people on holiday giving me money… it all adds up to a great way to spend your days.

However, sometimes it gets ruined by certain types.

I don’t mind the angry people, in the end they always loose.

The sort of people who get very close to ruining my day are the sort I like call Cheeky Bastards.

CB’s come in two types.

I know how she feels.

The first are the downright nasty pieces of work. The kind who think they OWN you because they have given you money. They are the sort who shout and scream down the phone at customer services because the paid a pittance for something and therefore think they have the right to say stupid things like “I pay your wages!”

The correct response to this moronic statement is “Well, I need a wage rise to put with this sh*t!”

That usually works to encourage to a coronary heart attack, but if said with enough venom can really put some numpties in their place, especially when you remind them that you have access to their name address and bank details.

The other sort of fool who gets up my nose is the sort of CB who thinks absolutely fine to DEMAND a discount or favour while offering nothing in return.

These come in many shapes and forms. Most want to borrow my best screwdriver or other tools to do something they were not designed to be used for resulting in a broken hammer or missing drill bits.

Others have the nerve to ask for a discount.

Two examples of these can be found in the experiences I had on both Sunday and Monday (this evening).

Picture the scene if you will… PICTURE IT…

Yummy!

It’s a nice sunny evening. All the campers are in and having BBQ’s or reading a nice book while the sun settles on the horizon. All is calm and as it should be. When all of a sudden and without warning a shadow appears.

It is the unmistakable shadow of an ice-cream van.

“hmm…” I thought to myself internally. “We don’t have an ice-cream van coming to the site.”

Instinct takes over and heroically, much like Indiana Jones from the Indiana Jones films, I pounce in front of the moving vehicle and raise my hand in order to stop the offending paedophile mobile.

“Can I help you?” I asked, knowing full well that I won’t.

“Yea, jus’ fort I’d drive around y’know..” slurred the offensive offender.

“No.” said I. (this is a very abbreviated version of the story but go with it)

“Well, that’s the last time I do you a favour. I helped build that fence when you first opened.” Said the child snatcher gesturing toward the fence at the entrance to the site.

May steal your children...

“That would have been five years ago.” I quipped (I have never quipped before and it felt good. I hoped to do it again soon.) “And you would have been paid for your time as well.” I added.

“Plus,” I continued “We sell our own ice-creams and this is a quite campsite. We don’t want people driving around uninvited. Now sod off.” I didn’t actually swear at him, but I wish I had.

This guy is safe.

Off he went. Hopefully never to be seen again.

      1-0   to me.

This evening saw a different type of CB. It could well have been the king of CB’s as this was the moment my jaw slackened at the outrageous demands thrown at me.

Pitching a late arrival I noticed a man in a red shirt trying to direct the campers. I had walked infront to guide them onto a pitch (I’m good like that) and turned around to see this oik stopping them. I waved the campers on and they left this fool behind.

Once pitched I walked over and caught the man in order to ask him what he wanted.

“Oh, I just arrived and pitched up over there” he smirked(it is not important where he pointed).

I stared at him. This is not how things are done around here. As mentioned just before, we don’t like people just driving around. This is a quite peaceful place to camp.

I informed him of such things and he should know better assuming he was a member of the club. He then shows me an out of date membership card and starts asking for a discount.

“No.” I quipped. (It didn’t feel as good this time. Maybe I should have quipped at bit more or with more gravitas.) “I should really charge you full price if you can’t show your card. Tell you what though, I’ll just charge you normal price.”

This face - Again, In 24 hours??

“Do I not get a discount for cash?” the CB asked.

“NO. I’m already letting you off with the extra charge. You can pay the same as everyone else.” I stood firm but I don’t think he noticed as I was wearing loose fitting pants.

The CB got quite irate and demanded…yes DEMANDED a discount.

“Feel free to leave if you like.” I wasn’t as polite as that sentence sounds but you get the idea.

“Oh.” He surrendered upon seeing the utter rage brewing across my face.

“Oh, okay. How much is it then?”

Suffice to say I over charged the cheeky bastard by £5 and called it 2-0 to me.

But it is a hollow victory.

There are cheeky bastards everywhere. It annoys me.

Thankfully I have an extra five pounds in my pocket and there is a kiddy fiddler and old coot somewhere in the world who are both out of pocket in one form or another.

We all need to do our bit to eradicate these scum sucking scourge’s of society.

It's no wonder I'm a grumpy old man.

They are all a bunch of Daves. (I hate Dave)

Is this the beginning of the end?

What a curious curiosity it is that there are some people in this world of ours who chose to allow themselves to become infatuated with the mystical and illogical beliefs of horoscopes.

Not only that but superstitions can effect a good number of right minded individuals to a point of near catatonic hysteria.

For some it the number 13, or the date of Friday the 13th.

Good product placement or just bad luck?

For others it is any given number of black and white avian creatures that happen to congregate near to where they might be at that time, resulting in a myriad of strange rituals and salutes.

Crossing felines, disrupting the coherent structure of polish metal incased in glass, putting shoes on tables. All of these and more can bring some folks to a complete stand still if the correct procedure is not partaken within a nanoseconds thought.

Bad luck, good luck, fate and my own particular favourite – DESTINY, are all complete and utter toss.

I fail to understand how anyone can believe themselves to be so important in the grand scheme of existence that other living creatures who live primarily on instinct alone for most of their fleeting lives are able to collect together in groups of four and settle just within viewing distance of your eye to inform you that “it’s a boy”.

Who the flipping heck, if they had the power to utilise a half dozen mindless creatures in such a way, would spend their afternoon arranging four magpies to sit and/or fly across your field of vision to let you know “Gold” is the answer.

Idiots.

Piss off you.

Walking under ladders I understand. There is a logical reason for not walking under a ladder, but it nothing to do with bad luck.

Bad luck does not exist.

Nor does good luck.

A mutated trifolium leaf can not in any way shape of form bestow upon a person any form of better fortune.

It can not.

That does not happen.

pretty, but it's just some weather...

Nor does refracted light from a downpour of water that offers a double spectrum of visible colour make things special.

Its just nature and science.

It is what it is.

People who believe in lucky numbers and live by those self imposed restrictions when offered said numbers are simpletons at best.

Having said that I do think the end neigh for Bumferry Hogart

(it could be sooner than I think if I catch myself using the third person narrative like that again!)

DOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The portents of doom have been hovering around me this week.

First of all, and possibly most disturbingly, on returning from a shopping trip I discovered my bag for life had ripped.

All in all, not a good sign, I’m sure you will agree.

No, you really don't want to see my singed gut!

Then on Thursday whilst burning some incriminating evidence/ business paperwork in the searing mini heat wave we have all been enjoying, I found myself stood too close to the bin and burnt my belly button. (you really don’t want to see a picture of that!)

A close call indeed.

They say bad luck comes in threes, so this weekend I will ensure I will be keeping my distance from any black cats, ladders, broken mirrors, upturned knives, slippery floors, and loose electrical fittings.

You just can’t be too careful these days.

I’ve never considered myself the sort of person who believes in luck or good fortune.

I am not a believer in any religious  faith (although I have great admiration for those who do) and only choose to utter the words of a deity when stubbing my toe upon a corner of a table and such.

Luck is not something that follows around. Fate is a construct of the human mind. Destiny is just a simple device used by literature and the fantasy media to give meaning to a loosely formed plot.

That said, I have bought loads of tickets for this weeks Euro lottery so - Fingers crossed!!!

ps- Sorry if the colour of the words is a bit weird but I don't know what I have done to break the internet again. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

DONT PANIC!

It seems that my blog is not reaching the powers that be.

For some reason people think its absolutely fine to act like chumps and be greedy. In a time where people are loosing their jobs and homes due to the global economic face palm, there are those in power (yes unions I’m looking at you) who think now is the best time to demand more money when there is none to go around.

Warning: right wing paragraph approaching....

 

I’ve previously mentioned my loathing of unions on this blog, but here we are again. if unions used their clout when nurses were struggling with MRSA and patients were dying in the corridors I would have been right behind them, but unfortunately they only chose to flex their muscle when it comes to pensions and increasing wages so they can ask for more charges to part of their little bully clubs.*

Um.. sorry about that...

In the news today some bunch of truck drivers have seen the good weather and decided that now would be a good time to lie in the sunshine reading the daily star eating a Greggs pasty while wolf-whistling at underage girls and have a strike rather than bothering going into work meaning that petrol stations won’t get their regular delivery of fuel as normal.

It’s amazing that people decide the only action available to them is to have time off work when there’s a bank holiday looming.

But what’s even more amazing is the fact the general public flush their common sense down the toilet and go straight into panic mode without thinking things through.

So with a  heavy sigh *sigh* I hereby offer this free advice to every idiot and bubble head out there in the hopeless effort to stop the Great British public from doing something stupid and end swallowing their tongue.

Step one: when the news or more importantly the papers tell you a strike is imminent, try to work out if there are any other important news stories of the day – i bet you £20 there isn’t.

Step two: this refers directly to the current “fuel crisis”. Do you actually NEED fuel? If the answer is yes, then you are an idiot. Why have you not got enough fuel to last you until the end of the week? If I’ll bet you another £20 that you have got tea bags or biscuits in your cupboard. Go and check. – yes you have haven’t you.

If you do have enough fuel skip straight to step six.

Step three: if you actually need fuel, go and get some. But think before you go. Where are the nearest petrol stations to you? Find at least two or three that are near each other and not the main supermarket ones. That’s where everyone else will be. Try the little independent ones. Nobody ever uses them and therefore they are less likely to have queues. They may be more expensive but tough titties you need fuel.

Step four: if you find yourself in a queue for petrol, turn off your engine and the radio. Don’t sit there wasting fuel. Also don’t drive with your radio on and the windows down with the air conditioning blasting all the dust off your dashboard.

Step five: keep calm. Don’t beep your horn or drive like a cock. It wont get you anywhere other than a hospital waiting room with a suspected heat attack or a broken nose (depending on if the woman in front of you is having one of her monthly issues and belts you one)

Step six: drive safely and don’t act like a nob. I’ve said it already in this list, but it really does need saying. If you act like ass you will get your just deserts and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT.

Step seven: please send your £40 in cash to theussual address where I will use it to buy loads of diesel.... I’m desperate!

*If you are pro-union, please dont take this personally. Unions DO have their place but they dont seem to use their power in a way that benefits anyone. We all have to work together - NOT strike together. Nothing gets done that way. 

Carry on.

Bumferry Day: In Review

Last weekend I declared a public holiday for one and all. I hope you had a better time than I did.

Travelling to Manchester was not itself a horrid journey. Mrs H and myself were singing (otherwise known as shouting and howling) to tunes by Queen and James and Jon Bon Jovi. Rocking out all the way to the grey skies of oop north.

We arrived at the hotel, only to be met with lies, anger and hatred.

After breaking a door and swearing at the car parking machine, we were awarded a free staff parking permit for the weekend.

Sometimes it pays to kick off – but remember to be grateful and thank the staff for their help when problems are resolved.

EEE-aaaar yo...

Having sorted out the fiasco of the parking we hardly had time to pick up our bags from the floor before a drunken Mancunian welcomed me home with the offer of a fight.

I didn’t have time to do a double take before being told “I’ll take you outside and f*ck you up” which was nice.

I opened the door for the man, and promptly told him to hurry up. It turned out he had interrupted my request for the car parking situation to be resolved to ask for the third time that afternoon if his missing wife had turned up. She hadn’t.

Posturing over, he buggered off and left me and Mrs H to go to our room.

Our room greeted us with equal distain.  Missing pillows and no hot water only exasperated our joint desire to re-pack and journey home.

Lenny Henry can kiss my arse if he thinks I'm coming back here!

Things didn’t get much better once we were out in the city centre.

What with the two premiership title contenders pushing each other for dominance in the league of kicking ball it seems that the desire to be in front has seeped into the mainstay of each and every idiot in the town.

No more so than the tricky task of buying pints of beer at a bar did this instinct bring itself to the fore.

Having been next in the queue to be served, I took my eye of the game and instantly found myself stuck between three bigger boys.

I gave up.

We went somewhere else.

The night ended a bit of a damp squib and Saturday was rubbish.

Sunday however – official Bumferry day was a much better affair.

Waking up with Mrs H’s cold, I found that breathing required more concentration than it should.

But it was Bumferry day and I was not going to beaten!

Thanks Mrs H... Thanks a lot!

We met up with friends (and Dave) and we drank and drank and drank...

We drank so much. And it was good. Even Dave, who never buys a round – bought a round!

It was unbelievable.

DAVE BOUGHT A ROUND OF DRINKS!!!!

True, Dave left before it was his turn again, but still. Dave buying drinks is like a solar eclipse. A rare event by any standards. (we shall learn about Dave in the future)

Hating Dave is a full time job.

In summary, we drank, we laughed, we coughed and sneezed. But we had fun until kicking out time.

There was no fighting, no pushing and shoving, no overly loud music. Just simple happy times.

That is what Bumferry day was supposed to be about.

Bumferry Eve was crap.

Bumferry Day was Great.

Bumferry Boxing day however, brought with it the biggest downfall of my immune system in years.

As I write this I keep hacking up bits of lung and other inside bits.

Worse thing of it is I’m not even ill enough to have the day off.

I’m just on the right side of having to carry on regardless.

Only another year to go.

I doubt I will be going back to Manchester for a long while though.