So here it is. The occasional Facebook rant that makes itself public is testimony to my lack of patience with the stupid, the banal or the arrogant. A lot of what I write on FB though is very much tongue in cheek, penned to raise the occasional laugh or even spark debate.
I write passionately about my children, about things that move me rarer than some would believe, and like to enjoy social media for exposing the apparent lack of humour in some. The number of times I have received facetious comments is now beyond the count of even the most brilliant mathematician but so what? It’s all about the craic. My writing on this site however often has a more serious undercurrent to it. Sometimes it doesn’t though. I will let you decide with regards to this piece.
So here we go again, through the door of Room 101 to view the exhibits labelled 11 – 20 of things that piss me off quicker than a vegan’s digestive tract empties itself.
(11) ULF
I love nature and spend hours watching and delighting in documentaries that highlight the vast array of wildlife on this planet. My favourite animal is the giraffe, followed by the pelican and the bear. I love animals, other than the slimy variety but even they have a strange form of beauty.
As a rule I love dogs too. All dogs share the same genetic background. That is not conjecture, it is fact. 40,000 years of domestication has seem them bred into various sizes and shapes, to suit the whims of their masters but they share one Latin name, canis familiaris. There are hunting dogs, there are retrievers, guard dogs, herding dogs, and well the list goes on. Then there are dogs that can be trained to do the most remarkable things, we have hearing dogs, guide dogs, huskies and many more.
Now I knew a dog called Suzie once, and she was amazing. A mixed breed who was not much bigger than ULF but I loved her dearly. She had character in abundance and could pull more than one face. You could tell her moods and when I saw her the warmth of greeting was always reciprocated. She may occasionally take pleasure in rolling in shit, or disappearing on long walks up the Garth causing you to feel enormous anxiety but seeing her come out of a bush with her legs covered in brambles and you would instantly forgive her
So where the hell did the Pug come into the equation, and even more specifically, ULF, the ugly little fucker that took so much pleasure in making my life a misery. It would piss on my jeans, shit in my shoes and hide my socks and yet every day when I came in from work pretend that none of that had happened. It was very much a love hate relationship. The little wheezing shit dropper loved me but no matter how many times I told it I hated it, it would look at me with the same expression.
Apparently they were bred in China originally. I don’t know why they bothered. It has that one fixed expression, like a rat with a fishes face superimposed on it. On the few occasions I deemed it worthy of attention and petted it I would stick strictly to the middle part of it. Either end was repulsive, and identical in appearance if not in purpose. A face like a gorilla’s fist, which wheezed and spluttered like an asthmatic marathon runner. A bark that was truly pathetic and a gait that would see even Stephen Hawkins prefer to remain seated than imitate this satanic spawn.
Some people like to dress their dogs up. They say it is cold and the animal must remain warm. Dogs do that by default. They live in houses with central heating and get fed better than most humans, in terms of quantity and nutritional value. People dress up their pug ugly pugs for comedy value surely, but not one of you has though to knit a balaclava for them have you?
So in you go you vile little animal, with your knitted accessories and bulbous eyes. Sit proudly on the shelf as the proud owner of two awards, ugliest and most useless creature ever, other than Katie Price.
(12)PUSHY PARENTS
I am proud of my daughters achievements, all of them, be they sporting or academic, musical or culinary. I will post on Facebook because not only am I rightly chuffed to pieces for them I want them to understand that the recognition they receive is not for the achievement itself, it is a tribute to the work that everyone is aware they must have put in to attain success. Besides, Facebook is not an open forum, it is a platform with which I communicate with friends and family. I do not talk with coaches at national or regional level because I have no reason to. If they decide my daughter is of the required standard they will contact me, never, ever the other way around. You will not see me tag them or mention them in Twitter comments because that is not the way things should be done, and anyone who thinks that is right is simply wrong.
I have encouraged, I have at times criticised but I have been fair. Make no mistake, the achievements of my children are theirs and theirs alone. If I could pull a string to make them achieve their dream, I would refuse to. The moment you start playing puppet master instead of parent you are committing the most heinous of parental crimes. A child has their goals and those goals may change over time so to push your child in one direction may limit their actual ambition not focus it.
Pushy parents are the worst. I don’t mean the sort who support their children and try to inspire them, I mean the sort who are blinded to the reality that their child may not be the next Messi or Ronaldo. As good as some of these kids are at age 13 and 14, they are at least two to three years from even thinking of senior level football. As a parent you do not need to be talking to the coaches at national level, or even regional level ones on a personal basis. They are not your friends and your daughter is purely a commodity to them, and should you lose sight of that then you are fooling yourself. When people get paid money to do a job, and those people are judged on results, there will never be room for sentiment or emotion.
It is always worth remembering no matter how much you try and curry favour by inserting your tongue up someone’s arse, there will always be somebody with a longer tongue. Flattery and bullshit are no match for talent and determination. Life is tough enough for kids today without placing unreal levels of expectation upon their young shoulders. To encourage them to strive to better themselves is noble and right, to elevate to them a platform on which they cannot hope to perform is cruel.
Words like ‘expect’ are bandied about as though the potential of a young child is proof enough of their ability to realise it. It isn’t. Let them be kids first and foremost, let them enjoy what they do and if that materialises into something in years to come great, but if not, well, they have happy memories to look back on rather than the nostalgic hindsight of pressure and criticism. Do the right thing, it really isn’t that difficult.
So there we go, two down. Pushy parents are a scourge, so in they go.
(13) BANDWAGONS
Bandwagons are being thrown in because there are so many people jumping on them at the moment there is a chance of the world’s axis being reversed. I will cite one example to start. Welsh Rugby. Once every year, and twice every four years, people who have never been to a match in their life and wouldn’t know a hooker from a rent boy become the most patriotic people in the world. They dress up like flowers and vegetables, and stock up on phrases such as ‘Of course Gareth and Phil’ as though they know the players intimately. That is another curious thing about rugby ‘fans’, they only refer to players by their first names. If you say that you prefer football then you are accused of being anti Welsh by the most fervent of the fair weather Welshies.
Now here is the thing, I am proud to be Welsh. It is tattooed on my skin. It is something that I feel in my heart, but it is an everyday occurrence, not because we currently have a half decent squad. Being Welsh means a huge amount to me, but it doesn’t mean I have to become a myopic little Strongbow drinker. The look of bewilderment on the diehard rugby fans face when they encounter a furry dragon is sheer delight. There is so much that can give you pride in being a Welshman or Welshwoman, the language, the mythology and the history, the rugged countryside or the hidden villages with unpronounceable names. But, no, it would appear that the real passion that sums up a Welsh rugby fan is the desire to drink to the point of absurdity. Each to their own, as I do enjoy a game of international rugby but it is not the thing that defines me as a Welshman. It is as phony a stamp of patriotism as those who say Penblwydd Hapus and think they are bilingual.
Of course there are other bandwagons and plenty of plums to fill them. Those who are staunch advocates of the need to bomb other countries into oblivion because they once watched Top Gun, shop floor lawyers who once read a John Grisham novel and the rabid anti smokers/drinkers/meat eaters.
Bandwagonistas are a new plague devoid of rational thought and reasoned argument. They are the ones who can usually be found with a copy of the Daily Mail in their hands.
(14) BIG GAME HUNTERS
Most of us have seen the pictures on social media. The slaughter of one of nature’s beasts by a thirty three stone fat American, or an equally as odious bottle blonde bimbo with the mental alacrity of a bowl of broth. One that struck me as being particularly macabre was the tramp that tried to strike a sexy pose next to the giraffe she shot.
I understand the compulsion to collect trophies. It is something that exists in all of us to a varying degree. Who hasn’t collected souvenirs at some point in their life? Train tickets, football programmes, records: the list is almost without end as to things that we can collect.
I understand the thrill of hunting. It is something that is born into us from our distant past. However, there is a reason we are programmed to hunt, because a thousand millennia ago we had to. Over those millennia the programming that saw us thirst for meat has transformed into the gentle pastimes of thimble collecting or swapping football stickers. However, some Neanderthal throwbacks still have the lust for blood in their veins. Again. I can see this trait as a genetic malfunction but would ask this: why would someone feel they sate that animalist craving by shooting an animal from half a mile away with a high calibre sniper rifle.
If I wanted to prove my mastery over nature, then surely I would take on the animal with my bare hands. I would go fang to fang with the lions of the Serengeti, I would pit my strength against a grizzly bear, wrestle a crocodile with my own fair hands and box a kangaroo. Except I wouldn’t would I? Because I would lose every time. I also have no need to prove my worth to an animal. I would much rather admire them in their natural habitat doing what they do best, eating, breeding and shitting to their hearts content.
If you want to kill an animal in cold blood it really does prove just one thing, you are a twat. A foul throwback to when we were part of the food chain, as opposed to sitting at the top of it. So, with their stuffed heads and glass eyes, I would like to decorate the walls of Room 101 with the heads of big game hunters, amongst the most despicable of humankind.
(15) PEOPLE WHO MOAN ABOUT THE WEATHER
What is the bloody point? There is so much that we can change in the world around us. We can choose where we live, what clothes we wear and what we eat. We can pick which TV programme to watch, which books to read and even who we choose to spend our time with. What we cannot choose however is what the weather is going to be like, so why moan about it?
If it rains you put a coat on, if it is hot you take your coat off. If it is snowing you put big boots on and if it is icy you stay indoors. It is not a riddle that cannot be answered, and it is not something that can be changed because you bleat on about it like a flatulent lamb. With all that goes on in the world you have to take a look in the mirror and ask yourself whether you have an actual grip on reality of the weather can affect you that much.
If it is your wedding day I have a degree of sympathy. If it is your funeral, you won’t know anything about it. Other than that, I am afraid you are living in a country that is notoriously wet, notoriously cold and that is all there is to it. You keep an umbrella by the door if you want to keep your hair dry in the rain or a sunhat to keep the sun out of your eyes. Or, you do the most peculiar thing of all, you just embrace whatever nature throws at you, thankful that you can feel the rain on your skin, the heat on the top of your bald patch and be thankful you are alive.
I love the rain, I am a pluviophile. I love the snow, I love the balmy summer days that give rise to thunderstorms and give the air that charged ion smell. I love the steam that rises from fallen leaves after a summer deluge and I love the crisp frost that paints the world an opaque shade of white at the years turn. The fallen leaves that are like a children’s 99 pence paint palette are a sight that never gets old or clichéd.
So for all those plonkers who wish they were born somewhere else in the world, you weren’t. You are where you are and rather than bemoan that which you cannot control, embrace it and delight that you live in a land that never allows you to become complacent about your insignificance to the world around you.
(16) BAD DRIVERS
Bad drivers are everywhere. The ones who make the news are the ones who speed and cause accidents through recklessness, and in the worst instances death. There is no excuse and the prison sentences are always too lenient. There is a far bigger plague on our roads though.
There are speed limits for a reason, and whist I don’t encourage anyone to speed, I also cannot abide it when Mr Magoo sits in front of me on a 60 mph road driving at a pace that see’s snails cross the road at a leisurely pace in front of them. The worst culprits are old people who insist on buying brand new cars with more horsepower than the days they have left alive. It is like giving a priest an elephant’s appendage and a nun the body of a pin up girl, a complete and utter waste. They drive at twenty miles an hour so they should be forced to drive a vehicle more in suiting with their ability to drive, like a Ford Ka. They are not the worst though.
The indicators on a vehicle are there for a bloody reason but there is a breed of inconsiderate chisel that simply refuse to use them. A case in point is at the pathetic little roundabout that tops Pantmawr Road where it joins with Rhiwbina Hill. You wait at the top, aware that the number of vehicles that turn left to head towards Whitchurch are far more numerous than those who head straight on over the mountain. You cannot assume though so you wait, patiently as a car approaches only to turn left without indicating. WHY?? What is so difficult about switching your indicator on thirty or forty yards before you hit the roundabout. I do not suffer with road rage, but I tell you, I would willingly drag every Audi driver that refuses to indicate out of their car and insert boot them onto the fourth green of Whitchurch Golf Club that is hidden behind the trees.
Almost as bad are those who simply refuse to acknowledge courtesy afforded to them when you allow them into a stream of traffic, or wait in silence as they pass through a congested street. Put your hand up to acknowledge an act of kindness, raise a quick headlight or even beep but have the bloody good grace to realise someone has done you a good turn.
And then there are the middle lane hoggers, the motoring crime that is now illegal but rarely enforced. Overtake, then get back into the inside lane. Really simple. It stops idiots undertaking or forcing people to speed to overtake. It is simply a display of arrogance that you think you can do what you want, you can’t. Arseholes of the highest order and deserving of their place in Room 101.
(17) POOR MANAGERS
There is a tendency in life to promote people beyond their means, and I have seen it happen in too many differing work environments to think it coincidental. The problem is that some people can be exceptional at their day to day role. They may be the best accountant, lawyer, burger bun flipper or lollipop man but that does not mean they have the wherewithal to manage. In fact, in most instances they are often the worst candidates of all.
You can read books on management, you can go to seminars and you can pay thousands in tuition fees to gain high level qualifications. Ironically though, those who you need to manage will be the judge of whether you can manage or not because managing is an art that cannot be taught. If there is a strand of ability, it can be honed and crafted, but if it isn’t there to start with in the first place it is as convincing as Donald Trump’s hairpiece.
Of course the ‘trained’ manager knows when a joke should be inserted and has a stockpile of motivational phrases and inspirational quotes but they are delivered just slightly out of kilter. Watching a poor manager is like watching a Stepford Wife. There is something that simply screams out ‘fraud’! A good manager has the ability to do all of the things mentioned above without thinking about them. They instil a sense of trust and integrity is paramount as it allows the team they manage to believe in themselves as individuals. They are convinced that they matter and are not just a number.
This is why a bad manager is such a bad thing to encounter. They act as a morale vacuum, removing any sense of team ethos, taking a whole and dividing into lesser parts. What can you do about it? You can pray, you can wish and you can sell your soul but the reality is you are in a bad place if you are managed by someone who is unfit for purpose.
Man management is the most important principle, and accepting that everyone is different and therefore respond differently to your approach. Treat everyone the same and you may be the socialist icon, but you are a poor manager. I wish there was a magic wand that could be waved to gift people, genuinely nice people I am sure, the abilities they need but very apple has its branch and some people are best suited to hanging low and looking good, rather than being tested by the high winds and the hungry bird.
(18) PLASTIC SUPPORTERS
I have touched on the farcical nature of national support in certain arenas already but there is one sport that inspires such a blatant lack of human substance as to leave me dumbfounded, and that is my favourite of all, football.
I have been a season ticket holder at Cardiff City, though finances dictate that I am now an armchair fan as opposed to the more vociferous match goer. Why do I support Cardiff City? It really is the simplest of things. I was born in Cardiff, I played for Cardiff and I live in Cardiff. Are there better teams? Hundreds. Better clubs? Just about everyone to be honest. It has become a laughing stock in recent seasons with rebrands and Malaysian megalomaniacs, our biggest rivals are better than us on and off the field but so what. They are the club I fell in love with and I cannot abandon that as readily as some.
So I struggle when a man born in my city can support a team from another country and pretend it is the same thing. It isn’t and it never could be. Why would you support another club when they have no connection to you? It is simple. You are a plastic fan, a glory supporter who wants nothing more than to bask in the glory of victory, to feel you are part of something special. That is fine, I get it. Other proper football fans get it too. The sort that support Rochdale, Crewe and Tottenham, teams that never win a thing.
How can you identify with a club that you never visit? You can wear the shirts, you can wear the scarf and you can learn the songs but you don’t know the smell of the seats, the feel of the swaying stand or the name of the over officious steward. This is what it is to love your own club. You know it is flawed, you know it is sometimes rotten but it is yours and runs through your veins. Ask any Cardiff fan how he felt when Ben Turner got THAT equaliser at Wembley, or when Andy Campbell scored the goal that ended twenty years of abject misery.
Each to their own and there are instances where a team is supported because they have a family connection or the like and I accept that as a reason but for those fair weather, glory hunting trolls, shame on you!
(19) Speed Cameras
Speed cameras, the GATSO, or whatever you want to call it is the biggest rip off in the history of motoring. Originally introduced to reduce road traffic accidents I remember their introduction only too well. Little yellow boxes that were meant to be in plain sight to act as a deterrent to speeding motorists in areas where there were a history of accidents.
A noble cause that was soon corrupted into what it is today. A means to extort money ‘legally’ from motorists who already pay through the nose at overpriced fuel stations. They are everywhere and are often hidden from view. Duplicitous ‘temporary’ speed zones on motorways. There may have indeed been a reduction in road deaths within the immediate vicinity of the cameras but that is only half the story. When a car leaves the vicinity there is no record of the increase in speed. You see, there may be a reduction to the speed for a small distance but most drivers, young ones especially simply make up for lost time between the camera sites. There was a 60 mile an hour road in Lincolnshire. There were fixed speed cameras at set intervals. The speed at the camera sites sixty miles per hour, but between the sites cars would often hit ninety miles per hour. What you gained n in one hand you lost in the other.
Of course there is a requirement to limit speed. Speed kills, but there is yet to be any concrete proof that these yellow money boxes that fund the annual police ball and pay for more policeman to sit in laybys on motorways waiting to catch the unwary, have actually had any impact whatsoever. Both RAC and AA independent reports fail to categorically confirm they have even had an impact. Burn them all and burn them now.
(20) ONESIES
Nothing says ‘twat’ more than a fully grown man dressed in a onesie. There are exceptions to this rule where the adornment of a zipped up felt bodybag is acceptable, if you are a small child aged between zero and six. That is it. The idea that they look cute or are humorous is as misplaced as the notion that lycra is for everyone.
What makes a man, a proper man, think that dressing up in a Babygro that makes him look like a panda or a pig, or a superhero or a gimp, is suddenly risqué or hysterical? It makes him look like a hugely inflated baby. You can call them onesies, fun suits or anything else but the reality is you are eschewing your natural age to appear like a baby. BABYGRO. The clue is in the title.
The next regression back from the Babygro is the nappy. Why bother with zips when you can go the whole hog and actually be a baby and just shit yourself to your hearts content. I just don’t get it. Teenage girls are beginning to cotton on to the idea and as bed wear I must admit they MAY have their place in this demographic, but some are now wearing them out. It is one step away from actually believing you are a baby or a dragon or whatever hell else the design of the costume is. I actually stood behind a five foot three turtle in Tesco the other day. The turtle had this look on its face that suggested it was flouncing the rules, that it was cocking a snoop to society.
It wasn’t. You smelt like a turtle, but that was as close as the resemblance went and as for a revolutionary stance against authority, you were more Chay Blythe than Che Guevara. I struggle to understand the logic behind Crocs, but they keep the feet protected I suppose. The only logic I can find in the adult onesie is that there is some attempt at irony, some vague attempt at raising a smile. It is mirth for the simplistic, a break from the banal or, as I would rather see it, a complete break from reality.
The onesie, the fun suit or whatever moniker you put on the fart collecting suit must immediately enter Room 101, and never been spoken of again.
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