Annoyance Of The Week

They are at again...

People are going on strike.

Since the start of this blog I have warned about the NHS going strike, Teachers, bloody petrol delivery drivers having a day off because they want to.....and now.....

NOW...

Children are on strike.

Kids!!!

It seems that a group of militant left wing tree hugging, horoscope reading, hug-a-hoodie championing breeders who have named their offspring things like Champagne and Liberace, have taken upon themselves to get their children out of education (which as far as I know is a crime) so that they can have a walk in the woods instead of "suffering PTSD" from doing bit of maths and English.

As far as I understand it, there has been a test for small children which required them to do some sums and answer some questions about verbs and whatnot.

Some of the questions were seen as being too difficult.

I can appreciate parents being a bit miffed about this. But they are blaming the government when they should be blaming the teachers.

I'm not going to claim that I know what subjunctive adverb is... and I don't really care.

I was never taught that kind of stuff at school.

I have never knowingly failed at anything due to my lack of understanding of relfexive pronouns or Qualitative adjective (yes I had to look those up). But that is not the point.

The point is that teachers are being asked to teach this kind of stuff and are failing.

AGAIN.

Is failing the right word... or should that be refusing?


It really falls into two catagories.

1) The tests ARE too hard, but when teacher have been preparing their class to take these tests, they have been unable or unwilling to do the graft required in order to achieve the required standards of knowledge the children need to cometently fulfil the task in hand.... ie- teach the little gits what an adverb is.

2) The tests ARE too hard, but instead of informing parent that these tests are actually a test of teachers ability to pass on knowledge and not a pass/fail for children, the teachers have sacrificed the potential for kids to learn things in lieu of having ANOTHER DAY OFF JUST AFTER A BANK HOLIDAY.

It has been noted before on this blog that strikes always occur in and around bank holidays or when the weather is nice.

This is no coincidence. 

I do have some sympathy for teachers and doctors and truck drivers and miners... but only so much.

Unions are fast as lightening to call a strike and make a big song and dance about fighting the powers that be and how nobody knows their struggles etc, but we all have difficult stuff to be getting on with.

I had to scrape human waste from a toilet today. It won't be the first time and it wont be the last, but that is part of my job and I crack on with it.

I have not had a pay rise in over 5 years.

I earn such a small amount for the work that I am not eligible pay National Insurance.

I doubt that if I knew the difference between a non-gradable adjective and a comparative adjective (still non the wiser for looking it up) I would have a less messy job and more money... as it is - I chose this work and I enjoy my life for what it is.

Allowing children to go on strike is exactly the same as saying "Don't bother doing anything you don't want to do because trying hard is not worth it. Just go off in a strop and eventually you will get your own way."

I'm glad I don't have kids because they would get bullied to high Heaven for being forced to go into school every day and learn stuff.

Licence To Beg and Steal

All Hallows Eve is just around the corner.

Yea...why not?

Which means so are the pock marked, ASBO destined glue sniffing grey skinned foul breathed sticky fingered evil eyed shadow lurching granny thumping cat stealing self harming window smashing shop lifting spitting sweary uneducated unloved un-evolved little rat bastards that will one single solitary night to have free licence to barrage on peaceful neighbourhoods and demand protection money from the old the frail and the infirm.

This so-called holiday that has invaded the UK from the USA has somehow been seen as a free ticket to urban terrorism by yoofs.

In America, as far as I can tell, Halloween is a chance for kids to dress up in pirate costumes or ghost outfits or any as one of the many Disney characters whilst chaperoned by a responsible adult and collect candy and sweets from those houses in the area that are brightly light with pumpkins and fake cobwebs and the like, and can clearly be seen to be well into the swing of joining in the fun.

By contrast in the UK a bunch – correction – a gang of lawless thugs punch every door of their OWN estate and demand money whilst dressed in hooded tops and Nike trainers they looted the other month.

"givusyerfugginmoney!!!"

Regardless of whether or not the house is decorated for the occasion, this will not stop the demands for all and any cash or light weight household goods that can be used for barter.

In past years some have thought to turn off all the lights and keep the volume down on the TV so the vicious little rabid animals would walk on by. But this dear friends only encourages the nasty soulless bastards to piss through the letter box or set fire to your door.

The warning signs will start any night now, with the annual fireworks being thrown at cats and fire engines which has become something of a tradition in the UK although it does not get same amount of publicity as the changing of the guard for some reason.

"yoyoyo. trick, or like, treat or what eva y'getme!"

Kids and depressingly, as seen in every local newspaper last year, more and more adults are arrested and/or taken to hospital with burns to their faces because they have less understanding of the dangers of fire and heat and a loud bang than a pigeon.

I have to ask myself why there is such a huge difference between two nations that speak the same language and share the majority of the same public holidays.

How an it be that in the USA Halloween is seen as a great night out for kids and adults alike. The joy of dressing up and being out at night, while grownups can share in the delight of kids by innocently offering little bars of chocolate without fear of being hounded a sexual predator?

Flip back to the UK and the exact opposite happens.

This is what happens when you give kids too much sugar

Anarchy rules. If you are brave enough to venture out to cease the insistent walloping of your door with the vain hope that you would be able to reason with them, you will be faced by a barrage of abuse and named every sinful act under gods blue sky before being dragged from your home and beaten to within an inch of your life, fading in and out of conciseness, waking in hospital with only the whispered memories of your TV DVD player and wife being taken from your home. Never to be seen again.

Once released from hospital you return to your home to find nothing but a brunt out shell of timer and rubble only the very same bunch of kids to walk up to you and say.... “Penny for the guy!”

Roll on bonfire night.

Happy  holidays – and good luck to you all.

Could be a firework... or it could be your car.

What Cost A Reputation?

What a week it’s been so far.

I am exhausted both in body and mind. And today I am going to tell you all about it.

We start our little tale on Saturday. Mrs Hogart came down to visit the dog...and me I suppose... and during our evening meal, reminded me that her sister was coming down to visit with the kids.

“Great” I thought, “it's been ages since I’ve seen the nephews and they love their Uncle Bumferry.”

And so I planned all the things we could with the little tykes on the two days they were here.

Day one... helped their mum and dad put the tent up. And task I had not performed for a long time, and with the briefest of instructions it only took us the best part of all afternoon to put the damned thing up and make sure it stayed up.

The afternoon was quite warm and the kids were already bored. With them being only 7 and 3 there is only so much my dog can do to entertain.

And part one of my fiendish plan to continue my mantle of Brilliant uncle was put into action.

  

“LET’S GO TO THE SWEET SHOP!”

The kids loved me. Or so I thought. On the car journey to the sweet shop I suddenly realised that the kids weren’t calling me “uncle Bumferry” instead they were simply calling me Bumferry.

Plain old Bumferry and that’s not right. I’m cool with kids. I’m not a weird uncle or crazy uncle. I’m the good kind. That takes time to play the games kids want to play. Eat sweets that they want to eat. Buy comics that they want to read and educate them on which superhero is who while having FUN at the same time!

I’m a cool uncle.

But on that fateful day.... I didn’t even make the grade of Uncle.

I was just another guy. A faceless adult in a world of telling off.

Something had to be done.

During the evening myself, Mrs H the kids and their mum and dad went out for a meal.

The kids wouldn’t eat their veg and it was time for Uncle Bumferry to cowboy the fuck up and reclaim his rightful title.

And boy did I!

Firstly upon noticing that the kids refused to eat any of their veg by order of mum and dad, Uncle Bumferry flew in to save the day. “I bet you can’t eat that broccoli before I eat all my chips.” I said. 

“Not bovered.” Was the essence of the reply.

Bugger.... my arch nemesis. Broccoli. I hate broccoli. Not only does it not look right when typed out but it’s awful to eat. It may look like tiny green trees but it tastes like stewed crap. I was up against it here and had to use my secret weapon!

Time to think fast...

“I bet you 50p you can’t eat that broccoli before I eat my chips!”

And bang!

The first of three massive green beg popped into his mouth and disappeared with enthusiastic chewing before I could drag my bowl of chips near enough to start eating.

I steadily ate my chips without any hurry.

The broccoli was finished and I lost 50p. But I had regained the respect of a small child with the result of bribery.

A small price to pay I think you will agree.

For the rest of their time with me I had to remind them of why I am just so brilliant. I had to tell jokes, play tricks, and spin the kids round and round and round and round and round for ages.

It hurt.

I got very dizzy and I ached.

Upon rising very early the next morning we all went to the local farm were the kids could see the horses pigs sheep and hens and rabbits et al.

There was also a giant snakes and ladders and real jeeps the kids could drive around in and at least three climbing frames and bouncy castles to potentially break ones neck on.

By mid afternoon the kids were tired out and my feet throbbed in the way they do when you begin to realise that you are no longer young and have missed your middle years and are in fact OLD.

I am old.

I am old, 50p down and have sore feet and knees.

But I am an uncle again – and for that I am grateful.

In the eyes of someone who doesn’t know better. I am fantastic.

This reputation of mine will not last forever. One day they will both realise that I am nothing more than a grumpy miser who hates everyone and craves attention and really hate broccoli.

But for now I am content with what I’ve got.

I also have a respect for people who have kids. It must be a very hard job dealing with screaming horrors that are either eating, pooping or throwing up or crying.

I’ve lasted two days and barely made it through. Some of these people have kids in their lives for YEARS!

Crazy!