Jetta the Devil you know

Well it's that time of year again, go take the car in for it's MOT test and see which major organs I need to sell in order to be allowed to continue pumping CO₂ into the atmosphere.

Except this year I decided to forgo the official Subaru garage prices and the luxury of being given a courtesy car in the guise of a spanking new Subaru Forester, which I was seriously owed after they gave me that stupid 1.0 Automatic Toyota Starlet last year. Instead I simply organised taking the Legacy down to my friend's garage for it's annual test.

Now the first issue was getting up: after biking 10 miles through the dark woods the night before, with 10 other friends and ending up in the pub, getting up at 7am, when my usual time is about 8:50am, was not easy.

Then there was "the commute" - something I've not done in about 3 years... getting petrol, waiting behind a guy who took more than 5 minutes in the shop to pay and watching some weird Emo kid walk like a contorted stick-insect across the garage forecourt ("You'd be non-conforming too if you looked just like me" )

Driving to my friend's house to follow him to his garage was the next task and I hate being late for people, especially when I could potentially make them late too. So to be stuck behind people doing 69 in the fast lane to overtake 68ers... *big 'go with it' sigh*

It was OK, I got to Aldershot just in time, then drove to Liss in Hampshire for which we'd allocated a 45 minute drive but did it in 30. Not bad!

The car failed its test. I knew it would. And no, that's not pessimistic it's realistic. One of the brakes was seized. And that was it! My friend said that if I left the car with him he could check it out and maybe have it fixed for this evening.

And in the meantime he leant me a 1987 VW Jetta 1.3 4 speed manual. Man, is this better than last year's motor? LOL

He actually told me to thrash it. I don't like doing that, I always treat other people's property with respect. But he said again to thrash it, please! I drove home and, hey it is gutless, so I just had to thrash it otherwise it wasn't going anywhere.

So 5 hours later I get a call - and the car has passed. All fixed and, with a new battery too (didn't wanna lend the car to the Mrs and worry about her ever being stranded) it came to less than a oner. Nice one, cheers J. When can I have my turbo 4x4 back please?

20:57 UPDATE: I was gonna go get the Subaru back tonight but had to wait until all the blood was washed off the windscreen & bonnet - apparently there was a bird strike on the way home :o

Booble

Whilst trying to type in Google today, my finger slipped and I typed foogle instead, but managed to pause before I hit CTRL-ENTER, thinking... what if...? foofle... CTRL-ENTER. Haha, clever buggers.

Then I went on a tour of local key combos and tried doodle, OK, that makes sense, but coocle, voovle... blimey, weird typos but someone snapped 'em all up... and then I stopped when I got to (Warning: Certificate 18 site!! ) booble. LMAO!

Bring back Trotsky

My local postman is a good friend. He's also a bit of a socialist so I affectionately dubbed him Trotsky the Postman.

The thing is that he works overtime AND does a part-time job in the evening to feed himself, his wife and his kids, so when the local Royal Mail decided to 'cut costs' and merge his postal round with another one, he did the math, realised he'd be doing twice as much work for the same money and thought... Fuck That! So he moved to a shorter round.

And then they drafted in this other postie, but when I clocked him staring through the window at my PC setup it reminded me to turn the house into Fort Knox, add extra security bolts & deadlocks to the doors and get the insurance sorted. He also handed me a parcel one day telling me there was coffee & chocolates in it. The cheeky bastard, he'd had a good squint at the small print to have known that!

Now that he too has realised it's a crap round he's also gone to an easier route and we have our second new postman in as many weeks. And what complete muppet he is!

Seriously, this new guy is obviously a complete nob. Sorry, I meant noob; he doesn't have his Royal Mail uniform yet, just a fluorescent jacket, he runs like a mincer and he's always late. The mail used to get here between 8 and 9 in the morning, as regular as clockwork. Trotsky would always have time for a cheery hello and a chat once in a while.

But the new guy...? Oh no; he was here gone 1pm on Monday, well after midday yesterday and today... Ha, today was something else.

He parked up at about 11am, delivered some parcels first, came back to his car, delivered the letters, dropped an empty envelope on my drive, came back to pick it up, realised it was empty, left it, minced up the road to deliver more letters, came back to his car, drove up the road, delivered more post, minced a bit more, came back and handed out the letters he'd forgotten to give to my neighbours, got handed back a letter from a passing neighbour that had gone in the wrong letterbox, drove away, came back 30 minutes later, popped another package through my door and drove off again...

He might be doing his best, god bless him, but without a doubt he is totally fucking useless! Can anyone recommend a name for this new guy?

Bring back Trotsky, that's what I say.

Every cheap hood strikes a bargain with the World

Monday.
18:15 hrs.
The phone rings...

Polite Asian Lady: "Hello, Can I have...?"

She hears the sounds of "Death or Glory" by The Clash blasting out of the sound system in the background.

Polite Asian Lady: "Is that a hotel?"

Obviously not.

Lever: (laughing) "No, but I've got a spare room you can have for a few nights"
Polite Asian Lady: "Er, no thank you."

End of conversation.

Right. Beer & Pizza for the football tonight, methinks.

The World's Biggest...

I was writing an article yesterday on the demise of takeover of The Body Shop, that great brand of social responsibility that has apparently slid a little from it's core values over the last few years, probably due to the genuine needs of shareholders over & above grass-roots ethics, and which is now in the clutches of cosmetics giant L'Oréal in a deal worth £625M! (because she's worth it; she=Anita Roddick, it=£140M)

And then I had this dilemma explaining L'Oréal and Nestlé...

You see, I wrote that L'Oréal was the world's largest cosmetics company and that Nestlé, part owners of L'Oréal, were the world's biggest food company... and then I wondered if I should use the same phrase twice rather than one of each to give the article greater weight for that keyphrase if people search the Internet for it...

So I hopped over to the handy Keyword Suggestion Tool which gives you the number of searches for that term, thus helping you choose for yourself from the most popular or most niche phrases or even those suggesting connotations you hadn't considered... and I entered the phrase World's Largest... hmm, only one result returned... let's try the other one... World's Biggest...

And I now realise that innocence is dead... no more looking for the world's biggest liar, world's biggest man, the world's biggest diamond or the world's biggest airplane for the Internet is a digital cesspool of filth & utter depravity...

So, being a well-mannered British boy and upstanding netizen, please don't ask me about the world's biggest boobs or the 154lb testicles, I won't know what you're talking about.

My head is full of...

...nothing this week. But wait... there's something... clouds?

[click image for enlargement]

PEANUTS © 2005, United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

Achtung, Spitfire!

[Spot the irony in this picture]

I say, chaps & chapesses, listen up.

70 years ago to this very day the Supermarine Spitfire made it's very first flight from Eastleigh Airfield, Southampton where the Vickers factory rolled out a pre-production plane that flew a circuit 'round Southampton water.

Today, to mark the ocassion, a lone Spitfire re-enacted the maiden flight before being joined by another 4 Spitfires. And it was a marvellous sight & sound I can tell you.

Now, for those of you who don't know, this marvellous contraption the Spitfire was one of Britain's best fighter planes of WWII, upholding the honour of this island kingdom so that future generations of little chavs would be free to infest inhabit towns up and down the country. Well, it was either that or we'd all be speaking German, don't you know? (sind sie sicher wir trafen die rechte entscheidung, Herr Lever?)

So yes, the Spitfire & the Hawker Hurricane, piloted by dashing Brits, Canadians, Free French, Czechs & Poles and the odd American (but not that bl**dy Tom Cruise) valiantly defended these shores against the Bosch during the Battle of Britain in 1940, giving them a damn good thrashing, bloodying the Hun noses and sending the sausage-eating Nazis back to Germany with their tails between their legs, thus thwarting that naughty chap Hitler's Operation Sealion and his attempts to invade England. Hip hip Hoorah!

Now I hope you'll join Chalky, Ginger, Smudge and I in the mess tonight at strictly 21:00 hours, where we're going to be celebrating, tinkling the ivories with a knees up Mother Brown or two and downing a few Spitfires of our own. Chocks Away!!

(And finally, chaps & chapesses, don't forget to make your vote count for the 3 remaining contenders in the Great British Design Quest, there's a good egg )