Bit of a Rant

D'you know what's rubbish?

A very pertinent question indeed, and even though I hear you audibly groan and think "Here he goes again", I shall persevere. What exactly am I talking about when I ask 'What is Rubbish'? Obviously I don't like much, that's pretty clear, but I am 30 years of age and feel inclined to have a go at things. Now, I could say 'everything' pisses me off, but that would make me the most miserable sod on the planet. Lots of things are rubbish though, and right now I would like to focus on one particular venomous swine. So like it or not, Simon is going to have a jolly good gripe.

The Tax Man. Even the most macabre scribe would fail to come anywhere close to this vile devil, a being so utterly despicable that children whimper in fear and grown men tremble and cry in his wake. Bizarrely, he even seems to be above the law, the thieving bastard. Think of it; I do my time between the walls, earning my way, doing my 40-odd hours per week. At the end of the month the wage slip comes along and instead of a merry "Good amount earned this time round, the first drinks are on me chaps!", the first frenzied exclamation is "He took HOW MUCH??!!". The 'He' in question is of course that foul smelling character, the Tax Man. Of course, Mr Tax Man himself states that the taxes are required to fund a great many public sector services, like the Police and the Fire Brigade and the NHS. Fair enough. I'll happily donate a portion of my hard earned wages to fund these vital departments. But if I am stumping up the money for them, why can't the government get their heads out of their asses and run them f***king properly?
Instead, mismanagement runs rampant, strange rules and guidelines are invented that hamper productivity and the country continues to go straight down the proverbial toilet. Youths clad in sinister tracksuit uniforms roam the streets spreading intimidation and destruction. Hospitals find themselves lacking supplies and beds, turning patients away and underpaying badly needed staff.

Before I go on, if anyone does come across this blog and decides to (God knows why) read the bloody thing, as a disclaimer to the comments stated here I would like to point out that I actually know bugger all about the workings of Taxes. I don't know the full extent of where they go, I don't know how the classifications are worked out and I certainly have no clue about the authorities behind them. All I know (and care about) is that someone somewhere takes a cut from my wages and I don't bloody like it. Mind you, along with other taxes, we still have to pay National Insurance too, which is a bit of a joke as the way the economy is headed, there won't be a state pension when I finally get round to retiring.

And what about the amount of tax payer money pumped into social services? Things like Job seekers Allowance. That really pisses me off. I am not proud to say that I once went on the dole before, times were tight and jobs were scarce, but I got the feeling I was getting the rough end of the stick because I was actually looking for a job. Far too many dossers sitting around all day and drawing on benefits (source material: tabloid newspapers). In my view, that is to say in the view of someone reasonably secure in employment, the Government needs to take a much firmer stand against anyone looking for a handout. You want free money because you can't find work? Screw you, look harder. You want free money because you can't work due to illness? Screw you, prove it. Easy. True, some people are genuinely incapacitated due to disabilities or injuries or the like, that should be reasonably straight forward to deal with, but everyone else can grab a shovel and start diggin'. Oh yeah, 'stress' and 'depression'? Not proper reasons. Go take a walk in the country and learn to goddamn smile more. (Disclaimer: once again, these views may not necessarily be the views of the blogger so don't hold me to them).

Well, I have spouted of a good deal, some of which which makes sense, some which doesn't, and some which will probably annoy a few folk. Nothing like a good rant. Next time, i think I'll have a pop at organised religion. Or rap music. I like this game.

Post Paddy Blues

Ahh, the 18th of March. Not really anything to point out about it, it's not special or magical or unique (unless you are a big fan of Queen Latifa who turns a year older on this day of days), it could in fact be one of those days that just pass you by without making much of a fuss. However, the 18th of March comes right after the 17th of March (the more astute readers may have figured this out already, but there's nothing wrong with a bit of catchup for the rest. And the Americans) and the 17th is of course St Paddy's day, which means that today is probably one of the special days of the year when most of the western world is nursing one huge hangover.

And, despite promising myself to restrict the booze intake, I am no exception.

Now, where hangovers are concerned, I must say that I'm not too bothered about that thudding behind the eyes as long as I'm warm, have nice food and can lounge about for most of the day. Maybe even a trip to the supermarket. Brilliant places, supermarkets. Nice and bright with lots of colour, very safe and they don't even charge you to get in! Bargain! I especially love the condiments section, loads of bottles and jars and the like... I digress however, so to recap- hangovers are not so bad as long as the day is geared to the recovery.

But on the flip side of this coin we have days like today. Upon waking, you find that all the lights in the house are still burning bright, you did make it to bed but seem to have forgotten to get out of your clothes and the contact lenses that you have neglected to remove from your peepers are now quite dry and the eyes are starting to go 'a bit crusty'. Worse than that, you realise that work is imminent and the twelve hour shift will not magically disappear if you just stay in bed. So, unceremoniously throwing your world-weary bulk out of bed, its a quick dress (or a least as fast as the head will permit. And a good deal more swearing too) and out the door without a wash, breakfast or much in the way of sense.

Twelve hours is a long time. And when hungover, it's roughly five times as long (worked that one out with a very calculated equation). So the thing to do is make sure that everyone else knows you are hungover by moaning and griping and generally being a bitter and resentful person, so that they will wish, almost as much as you do, that you were not in work that day.

Oh, by the way, if my mum should be reading this, it's not about me, I definitely wasn't drinking last night.

And one more thing; with regards to supermarkets, I do love the places, but not the supermakets in Sweden. They are rubbish.

Still Here

Hey, guess what?

I have finally tracked down the username for this Blog and managed to log in!

We are now in the year 2009, I have turned 30 and the economy is heading straight to hell.

More posts are sure to follow...

Watch this space.