Some waffle about June, but not much as my life is truly empty.
I’m still working at the recycling centre driving lorries, my belly is still expanding to match other truckers I have seen, and I’m still bored out of my mind – but not enough at the moment to go back to full time work.
Matt, Craig, and I decided to visit Normandy and walk round museums and shit like that, touching things and staring. On the day of departure we were ready early, and decided to get a head start, this was working on the premise that if we arrived early at the Channel Tunnel, we could get an earlier train.
But, no, no, no, the god of trains and tunnels doesn’t work that way. Three hours of clear roads, constant banter, and mockery, and we arrived two hours early, only to find there was a three-hour delay from our original departure time; fucking fantastic - a five hour wait.
While we were waiting to board the train, we saw a woman in her sixties who was either high or drunk. She kept getting out of her car and dancing around the car park/waiting area seemingly oblivious to all around her. I couldn’t but admire her being spaced out, and as someone who is crippled with arthritis, I was envious of her ability to dance pain free.
Once off the train the boys were shocked at the number of tolls the French have on their roads, and too be honest, I’d forgotten as well. Unlike last time I went, I made sure the hotel was air conditioned as lying naked and sweaty on top of the bed does not a good night’s sleep make. The hotel was basic and clean, the only problem was I got the smoking room and it stank of stale cigarettes, or as we like to call it - the French! but it was clean
Another issue was that our rooms contained two narrow single beds, each with a single quilt. I'm quite large now, and so spent the first night deciding which side to keep warm. After getting up twice to pee, it was clear that my kidneys were more important. The quilt was so narrow that was somewhat balanced on top of me like a large heavy hankie.
Now I don’t know about you, but I cannot fall asleep whilst lying on my back, I think the reason is my belly settles down in to the place occupied by my lungs and stops me breathing properly – it sort of leads to gasping and heavy breathing, but not in a sexy seductive way, more in a desperate strangled pig way.
So, the only way I can fall asleep is to lie on my side and drift away. The upshot was that for the rest of the nights there, I flopped over on to my side (usually the right) and kind of draped the quilt over my back and the top part of my belly.
I think the French have a problem with driving, Caen was full of speed bumps, but to give them credit, they didn’t seem to slow the average French driver down. The first speed bump Craig hit snuck up on him, and god bless him, although I swear at one point we were about six feet in the air and screaming like girls, he didn’t panic. He landed us on the front two wheels, regained control, and tried to play it cool. After that incident we all had a habit of mentioning whenever a speedbump was approaching.
We also noticed that they, the French, struggled with indicators, they either didn’t use them, or having used them, didn’t want to turn them off. At one stage on the motorway, I swear we were following four cars/vans all with their indicators flashing, it made overtaking a lot more exciting.
Like last time I was in Normandy, the default brekkie was MacDonald’s, and so it was this time. The first morning we were in there, the server had three massive sneezes into both hands and then carried on serving after wiping his hands on his trousers.
Another morning we were in MacDonald’s the server (same guy as above) was busy and struggling with the six or seven customers. Craig ordered hot chocolate and was given a cup of hot milk and a tube of chocolate powder and a stirring stick. It was all lumpy and powdery, in other words, it was shit!
MacDonald’s in France do a Croque monster, it's basically two shitty half-arsed pancakes, with a slice of ham, and a dollop of some Spunk-like, vaguely cheesey sauce dumped in the middle. In the history of things that taste like a sheet of cardboard that’s been wiped on someone’s rectum, that one’s in the top ten.
When I last visited Normandy with Pat and Julie, lunch was sit down at a picnic table, with a picnic basket, plates, knives and forks, and the selection was bread, ham, cheese, coleslaw, potato salad, cherry tomatoes, olives, red wine or beer, etc..
Not with the boys, they don't do gay shit like proper salad. It was a baguette stuffed with whatever meat we could find, some cheese, and a bit of mayo as a lubricant, all washed down with water or coke whilst standing around the boot of the car and staring at passers-by.
We visited Pegasus Bridge, and again the owners /staff of the Pegasus cafe couldn't be arsed to to serve anyone because they were having their communal breakfast, so we wandered over to the café on the other side of the road. I went there 13 years ago and got served okay, I went two years ago, and they couldn't be arsed to serve us until I went and asked for someone to serve. which they did begrudgingly. I wonder if the only reason the Cafe survives is the gullible tourists who will put up with such bad service.
We paid a visit to the Bayeux tapestry and both Matt and Craig were underwhelmed, right up until Matt discovered a nude squatting man with large genitalia (on the tapestry, not in the walkway). Then we found a horse with a large dangling penis which also helped to keep his attention focused. I note that the documentaries I’ve seen about the tapestry avoid lingering on those subjects.
Craig wasn’t happy as he paid 9.50 euros for, as he put it, ‘for a piece of tatty cloth, an old sword, a small boat, and some matchstick models’. Also, the numbnuts paid twice, because the previous day we bought discounted tickets, but he left his ticket in the car and couldn't be arsed to walk a hundred metres back to pick it up.
The next day we visited Arromanches 360. First the fucking Tom-Tom took us in to the town itself and refused to accept it had it wrong, so we had to use Google maps, which bloody well agreed with it; bollocks!
We went old-school and had a quick shufti at the map, a change of course and we were there in two minutes. Once we there, Matt and I went all weak and unmilitary and needed a wee as soon we got arrived. The toilet was a delight, no toilet seat, no toilet paper, no soap, no hand dryer/towels, no light – Yaa! way to treat your cash cow!
Staying with the subject of SatNavs, Google maps and Tom-Tom tried to kill us several times, at least according to me, and I found the Tom-Tom the most un-intuitive thing ever.
On the subject of urinating, Craig demonstrated a remarkable ability not to piss when the sun was up. He was (and I hate to use the word) literally capable of going all day with no drinks and no piss stops; Matt and I were drinking and pissing like prize cows in a *Hindu cow piss farm.
One of the main reasons we visited Arromanches was so Matt could see the Mulberrys, however it was super foggy, and we couldn’t see a damn thing other than some vaguely black shapes in the distance. We drove on down the coast to Juno beach and wouldn’t you know it, in less than an hour after we left, the fog cleared up.
One of the cheap and easy places to eat in France is a restaurant chain called Flunch. Our first evening in the Caen branch, Craig looked up at the board and ordered Steak Hache, because, you know, it's got the word 'steak' in the description. It wasn’t a steak, it was a flat rectangular block of mince, but because he thought it was steak, he ordered it medium rare, and ended up eating a slab of bloody mince.
The next evening in a Chinese buffet the boys tried frogs legs, but since they were covered in chilli sauce, there was no real taste and the boys wondered what all the fuss was about, Matt (or it could have been Craig – who cares!) thought it tasted like chicken, but not the good stuff from Aldi or Tescos, but the shitty stuff from the likes of Farm Foods.
For those of you who don’t know how Flunch works:
- Walk in, ask “Do you speak English” point up at the board, and say “I’ll have that one”. At that stage the lady behind the counter vanishes for a couple of minutes and then returns with someone who can speak English (and probably a couple of other languages) who listens politely and then serves us all the while keeping a running commentary to her colleague.
- If you point at a picture of a plate containing burger, fries, and peas, what you are actually ordering is just the burger or meat of choice. The order is sent through electronically to the chef who cooks the burger/meat. You then go up and collect it, then you go to the vegetable and carbohydrate counter and attempt to pile as much of the veg and fries on your plate as is safe to do so. The other good thing was it served beer, so was a cheap evening for us.
We got back on a Friday, and on the Saturday, I went in to the recycling centre to work the night. The lorry I was using has no air-con and I spent the first few hours battling against the flies infesting my cab. I have never seen so many flies having sex all at the same time. It was like a fly orgy, they were even landing on me to help with their fucking.
That’s it for June.
Feb - May 2018
There has been no blog for the past couple of months because I genuinely have nothing to say, as surprising as that sounds.
First off, an update on my bowel screening. The day after I had the screening, I did nothing but break wind more, at least more than normal. It turns out they pump your arse full of carbon dioxide (or something) to get your entrails to inflate.
So anyway, this past month or so I have witnessed the definition of stupidity and/or lack of thought. I was walking back from Tessies and trailing behind a family of five. Fat mother, fat father, two young fat kids, and a clearly well-fed toddler in a pushchair. They put me to shame with the size of their bellies, collectively, they probably weighed the same as a small family car. Make no mistake, I'm no Twiggy myself, but unlike them I don’t top my Dominoes with sugar or whatever extra calories*.
We were walking alongside an extremely busy main road when they stopped about twenty yards short of a pelican crossing to cross the road – genuinely, about twenty yards! They just stood there watching the traffic for a gap, and I repeat this part, they had stopped to cross almost next to a crossing.
I walked past and approximately ten seconds later pressed the button to cross. Once the traffic had come to a halt, as a result of me walking twenty yards, they squeezed (absolutely correct use of the word) their way past the car blocking them and carried on. It had to be a lack of intelligence that drove them.
My son and his friends knew by the time they were three years old, that the best way to cross a busy main road was to walk the extra twenty yards and press the button. But then from what I could see that family most likely approaches calories in the same way as they approach busy roads - carelessly!
For those of you who think I’m being too harsh, try this simple experiment yourselves – walk twenty yards, and tell me that’s too far to walk to safely cross the road. Twenty yards is (and I hate to use the word) literally twenty steps.
Staying with the theme of chunkiness, I needed a new pair of chinos for my new part-time job, so I went to M&S (it's where old people go to shop or die) and bought a pair. The good thing about M&S is that a lot of their trousers have an expanding waist built in with strong elastic that stretches as your (my) belly does.
However, instead of advertising these as trousers for fatties, i.e. ‘Are you a fat git with a love of chocolate, beer and pizza, and have no will power? Then these trousers will pander to your weakness and grow with you’, they are advertised as ‘Active Trousers’ what a load of bollocks, the only active part is the journey to the fridge and back.
Bad news, judging by the amount of water and white spunk coming out of my bacon, it seems as if Aldi are now using the same supplier as Tescos.
I now work a couple of nights a month driving LGV’s at a rubbish dump/recycling centre and for anybody who strongly believes in Brexit, be aware that the place would fall over if it wasn’t for the Eastern Europeans. The other night I was one of only two Brits working, the other fifteen or so were from Poland, Romania, or Bulgaria.
The Poles were pissing off the other Eastern Europeans by speaking Polish over the walkie-talkies, and as a result you would hear a burst of something intelligible (unless you were Polish) and then another voice come in a few seconds later saying ‘Speak Engish, you bas…’ the last part would be cut off, but I have it on good authority it was a swear word.
Quote of the month from a Portugesy chap:
• What he said: "When I watch Japanese films, I have to keep pausing them for the Soup Toilets."
• What he meant: "When I watch Japanese films, I have to keep pausing them for the Sub Titles."
That’s it for now, I just hope my life gets more exciting, not dangerous or anything, just more interesting. Matt, Craig and I are off to Normandy soon, so hopefully I’ll have some material from that.
*It is of course, conceivable that the people in question are collectively suffering from thyroid problems, in which case I apologise and send my thoughts and prayers
Greeting all, more waffle and titillation from King's Lynn.
Staying with the playing games theme from last month, I have discovered another game on Steam - Genital Jousting. And i quote from their web site, 'Genital Jousting is an online and local multiplayer party game about flaccid penises and wiggly anuses for up to eight players at once.'
I am now worried that the next game will be vagina wobbling. This is a game where up to eight player online attempt to cross obstacles using a variety of vaginas. the game could have synaptic feedback, and the more exciting the game, the slicker the controller/keyboard, and therefore the quicker the vaggies move.
I tried to use Microsoft paint to express myself with regard to Vagina Wobbling, but it just ended up being creepy. I also googled ‘Drawing of a vagina’ to use here instead – and even by my standards there was some weird shit on there.
Or what about one called The Cunt Hunt, where teams have to track down vaggies across the dry wilderness of an all too real land called Sexscape, and excite them enough that they’ll come back with you. But then I thought about it, and with the record men have of exciting vaginas in real life, there will be a good few games left dry and unfinished, and the Boss level will be soul destroying for all males under the age of twentyfive.
I have a confession to make, every morning I check both Google, BBC news, and YouTube, to see what pedantic fuckery the orange buffoon across the ocean is up to. Some people may say ‘Gee/gosh/achtung* Jim, he’s the president of the USA, not the PM of UK, it’s none of your business!’ and they’d be wrong!
When you have somebody who has failed at every thing he’s ever done, and then was surprised when he won the presidency, and he has control of the strongest military in the world, and we, the UK, have a history of sycophantic PM’s who blindly follow, then I have cause to be worried.
Definition of irony:
Anon: Well, I voted for Brexit as there’s too many foreigners coming over here.
Jim: Ok. I need a haircut, let’s swing by the barbers to see what time they open.
Anon: Ok, that reminds me, I need to find out where the Turkish barbers are, as they do the whole package.
Ahh, good old Brexit, feeding off the deepest darkest desires, but not affecting the daily needs and wants.
Anyway, in the United Kingdom when men and women hit age 55, they get offered bowel screening. I’m now 55, so I got my appointment through. As part of the procedure, you are sent an enema kit by courier. There are instructions as to how to self-administer, which I followed.
A question – why courier it – is there a real danger that the regular postmen and women will realise what it is, steal it, and then have enema parties?
In the pantheon of shitty undignified things I have ever done, self-administering an enema whilst laying on my side on the cold bathroom floor has got to be the right at the top.
I lubed up the very thin and flexible tube and then spent a couple of minutes trying to bend it in my arse, problem was, it was all slippery. At one point I thought it was In, only to water the back of my ball sack.
It's at times like these I really wished I was In a relationship, after all there is the old saying 'When stuffing something up your bottom, it's better to have someone else do it.'
The whole procedure, from the self-administering, to the camera going up, wasn’t as romantic as I thought it was going to be/could have been. I don’t know how gay men, adventurous couples, and porn stars do it. The second the camera pushed its way past my sphincter, all I wanted to do was have a poo, or at the very least, fart.
I had to wonder, does it depend on the girth, the thinner the ‘stuffy-up-there’ object is, the more you want to fill the space with something, hence the overwhelming longing to shit myself; and therefore, the fatter the girth, the more full you feel, hence the satisfied sounds coming from those ladies starring in porn films.
I turned up for the procedure about ten minutes early, and whilst the receptionist checked my paperwork, I had a quick look at the magazines on offer in the waiting room, you can tell a lot about an institution from its reading materials. It turns out that the March 2017 edition of Good Housekeeping is the go-to magazine for people who are going to have other people in their bottoms. I would have been worried if the selection was Chat, Bella, or Take a Break, as i would have then expected to read my story in one of them.
When it was my turn I was walked down to the changing room by a very nice Health Care Assistant, and given a pair of navy blue paper shorts with a long slit down the bottom, and also a backless hospital gown to protect what dignity I could have whilst a team of four (very professional) nurses inspected my lower colon. I wonder if they score their clientele afterwards?
The camera was lubed up and switched on before it descended to my bottom, and as it swooped down towards its target hole, I was amazed at how hairy my arse was; it looked like it was ploughing thro’ a monotone jungle. It reminded me a little of the helicopter scene in the new Jumanji film.
I laid on my left hand side and got to watch the camera explore my nice clean pink tunnel. It seemed as if the camera thrust itself in for a good few feet, but in reality was only a few inches. As it probed and wiggled its way deeper, I started to see what looked like rust on the side walls, it took a few seconds for me to realise it wasn’t actually rust.
Near the end of its journey, the camera found a polyp, and it took the nurse seconds to remove it; for those of you fascinated by the whole procedure, just go on to YouTube and type in ‘polyp removal colonoscopy’ and you can follow a myriad of others on the journey.
And that was my Monday.
Stepping back slightly, on Friday 12th January I got a phone call from a company called Munnellys saying they had my CV and would I like a job driving mini buses and a road sweeper at RAF Marham? Hell yes. It’s a chance for me to put to good use the LGV license I paid 2000.00 for. Due to having the camera up my arse (as detailed above) on the Monday morning, I started Tuesday 16th Jan, and immediately ran in to a problem.
As it was my first day, I started at 0730, instead of 0700. They called me at 0715 to ask where I was, and I said ten minutes out. They gave me a name, Tony, and a number to call when I got there. When I got there I walked in and asked for Jack, realised I had asked for the wrong name and corrected myself to Tony. Both blokes looked at me and said ‘No one of that name here!’ I then showed them the text message from their head office with the details, including the name Tony, and they shook their heads in denial.
For the next fifteen minutes I sat in the car dialling the number the text message had given me, but either no answer, or pre-recorded message telling me their office hours. Then one of the blokes I had spoken to a few minutes ago came wandering out and asked ‘You our new driver?’ I confirmed I was and he replied ‘I’m Tony, come in to the office and we’ll sort you out.’ And..... Just like that, my cunt detector switched on.
I was technically self-employed, but the company paid the tax and NI for me, so there is no messing around. There were however, four negatives to this wheeze:
- No holiday pay.
- No sick pay.
- They charged me 17.50 per week to process my pay (17.50 x 52 weeks = 910 quid), in other words, nearly a bloody grand a year!
- I also had to pay an Apprenticeship Levy of 1.61 per week.
- Somebody mentioned that I also have to register with HMRC as Self-Employed (this one I have to check up on).
And the fuck, fuckity kicker is – they haven’t had a road sweeper in eighteen months. Either the guy in the head office lied – in which case he’s incompetent, or he didn’t know they had got rid of it, in which case, somebody else who reviewed the job specifications is incompetent. Either way, there’s incompetence.
So long story, still long and whingy, I handed in my notice on the second day, and worked until Friday afternoon. I ended up working 4 days and, after deductions, took home 281.72.
We had a poker evening the other night, and for the first time ever, Pat won. It was also the night he didn't get absolutely blotto (a normal occurence for him when playing poker), so perhaps there's a lesson there. Thinking about it, we have been playing poker on and off for about seven years, and although this is the first time he's won, it's a hollow victory. All the money we've taken off him in the past, and all that we're going to take off him in the future, will not be compensated by this one piddly win.
That's it for January.
*Select according to nationality