Annoying People
Do you get annoyed by certain people? I do, not just annoyed or even angry but apoplectic, furious, embittered and barely able to control my rage. There are people that make my blood boil and this section of my website is about them. I hope that you will identify with at least some of these miserable characters and with the feelings that they evoke when I meet them.
Sometimes it’s their incompetence that annoys me, sometimes it’s their attitude or arrogance. And sometimes these people just get up my nose by being there. All too often it’s the sanctimonious garbage that spouts forth from their mouths that irks me and now and again it’s simply because they are egotistical, opinionated, pompous idiots. The people that I am talking about are vile, reprehensible, feeble-minded, mean-spirited, shameless human beings who have outstayed their welcome. I loathe and despise them.
These are the people who, if I were to suddenly lead a coup, overthrow the government and install myself as dictator, will be the first to go. They will be taken to a place of safe-keeping. They will be taken on boats and by hovercraft to their new home where they will be able to spend the rest of their lives with similar minded people. Come that glorious day, they will be taken from the UK and transported to the Isle of Wight (IOW).
At first glance you might think that this is unfair on the people currently living on this relative oasis off the south coast of England. But no, this has always been a place where the country’s oddballs and undesirables have drifted to and I feel sure that they will make their new visitors welcome. It is a dead-end place where, according to the results of a recent DNA testing programme, the population is all related to two people living in Ventnor. As such it is the perfect location for the worthless bunch of obnoxious ne’r-do-wells that I will be sending there.
I am confident that you will not be surprised at the people who have been selected and that you will find some similarity between my choices, and the groups of people for whom you have a personal dislike. Who, for example, doesn’t hate BMW drivers? I have never met anyone, other than another BMW driver, who has ever had anything good to say about these reprehensible miscreants. And what about dental hygienists? Is there anyone who enjoys visiting these hideous, perverted creatures? And then there is white van man - that brainless moron that you see in the rear-view mirror sitting just millimetres from your bumper. You are doing 70 mph while he is eating a garage pasty in one hand and attempting to text his ‘bird’ with the other and still, somehow, managing to continually flash his headlights at you! These idiots shouldn’t be allowed on the streets, let alone be able to drive anything on the road faster than a four year old’s pedal car.
You may be more surprised by who is not included. Perhaps the biggest omission is a group of people who come in for the most criticism of any, who are the butt of all jokes and who we come up against every day - women drivers. I know that they don’t signal, I know that they can’t reverse, and I know that they are unable to judge the width of their car or read the road ahead. But are those good enough reasons to banish them from his fair isle and transport them to the IOW? I’m not so sure and although they may not be able to carry out these pretty basic and important elements of driving you have to admit that they have certainly mastered the art of always using their rear-view mirror – albeit just to check their make-up.
I haven’t included Social Workers either. So, what if they only eat couscous (organic gluten free) and always wear sandals no matter what the weather; that’s “cruelty free” sandals of course. Personally, I’ve never seen a “cruel” sandal but take my word for it they exist. So, what if they are all gay and members of the Socialist Workers Party. Does it matter? Does that mean that they should join the likes of Premier League footballers or slim women with a one-way ticket to the Island? No, it doesn’t. I don’t see anything wrong in going to Glastonbury each year or taking the odd child away from a feckless parent. Live and let live I say.
As you read through my reasoning you may think that I am being a little unkind here and there. Please do not feel even the merest jot of sympathy for any of these people. They are not just irritating they are irritating beyond compare. They have no redeeming features. They are social pariahs and they fully deserve their inclusion here. Do not feel sorry for them. They have brought it on themselves; they are the architects of their own downfall.
The groups of people listed here are my choice and to a certain extent they represent my personal prejudices. If, however, you think that there are any other slime-balls out there who deserve to be joining this illustrious assembly of miscreants please let me know.
Read the truth about these hideous people
For each group I have explained below why they will be among the first to receive a one-way ticket to their new home on the Isle of Wight. This is but a small extract, and a full and detailed justification for why these miserable, inadequate, obnoxious people have been chosen can be read in Annoying People: Are You One of Them?
The groups listed here are also just a small selection of the people that I loathe and detest. The full list is shown at the bottom of the page.
A word about the people who annoy me and what I would like to do to them.
My original plan for the worthless reprobates that I have described as annoying people was that they would receive a fate far worse than simply being deported to the Isle of Wight. In the event of my being in a position of ultimate power these people would have been the First Against The Wall.
On day one they would have been marched out from their dank cells at dawn, blindfolded and stood against the wall. There they would wait - some in anticipation, some in fear and some no doubt with a smug know-it-all look upon their pathetic faces - for the handpicked firing squad to carry out their duty.
Mrs Scady, being somewhat more understanding of human nature and certainly more forgiving of human frailties than I am, persuaded me that this was, however, a little excessive, and thus, banishment to the island was chosen as their fate. Those of you like me, who have some knowledge of the Isle of Wight, may consider that death would be by far the better option.
If you know any of these odious people and you would like to gently let them know what you think of them why not buy them my book Annoying People. It would be the perfect gift and it's available on Amazon.
Born Again Christians
According to Born Again Christian beliefs, all men (and presumably women) are sinners. We are born sinners and no matter what we do to try to be a good person we will remain a sinner unless we become born again. A multi-millionaire can give all of his money away to charity but he will still be a sinner. You or I could spend our lives working with homeless people, or in a hospice, or doing any amount of good work but none of this would stop us being sinners. You remain a sinner until you repent your sins and become born again and if you do not repent of your sins you will not go to Heaven. Who says so? Well, the Born Again Christians say so. And they also say that there is only one way into Heaven and that’s to invite Christ into your life but you have to do it their way. You have to become one of them.
To get through those pearly gates all anyone has to do is acknowledge that they are a sinner and to accept that only Jesus can make them pure, i.e. not a sinner. They say that you should not just take their word for it and that you should check out the Bible. The Gospel of John, chapter 3 verses 3-5 to be precise, in which Jesus is ‘quoted’ as saying that “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.” And to be born again all you have to do is repent your sins. To do this you must go to church, sing hymns, pray, read the Bible and generally boast about how you believe in God.
I have never heard such a load of utter rubbish in my life. If there is a God, would he really deny a place in Heaven to someone who has dedicated their life to working for others or to someone who gave their millions towards the production of life-saving drugs, or to the person who threw their last pennies in a beggar’s hat? Would God be so mean spirited to these people that he would say sorry, you didn’t invite my son into your life, you didn’t go to church, you didn’t pray, so go away. You’re a sinner. I sincerely hope not. I think not.
If there is a God, surely he can see through all of the crap that the so-called believers amongst us put out. Surely God knows when someone is doing good or bad or when someone has goodness or evil in their heart and surely, he is not so stupid as to be conned by the Born Again Christians into thinking that all anyone has to do, to be admitted into Heaven, is to go to church and repent their sins.
Just like the Jehovah’s Witnesses Born Again Christians think that their way is the only correct way. They despise other religions and they believe that they are superior. And just like Jehovah’s Witnesses they believe in the literal word of the Bible, or more accurately their particular interpretation of the Bible. They are ideological bigots and the way in which they adhere to their beliefs is more akin to the followers of some sinister cult than it is to a religion in which the fundamental tenets are forgiveness and understanding (particularly of people’s failings). Born again Christians are about as un-Christian-like as it’s possible to be.
Come the day, these sanctimonious tossers will be there. No doubt that as they stare at the Island as it appears out of the mist, they will continue to believe that they are on their way to a better place. Let them think it. The Isle of Wight – a better place? It’s as near to Hell on Earth as it’s possible to get. The fools.
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Children in Pubs
Let’s make it clear from the start. I have nothing against children in general. I like children. Many years ago I used to be one. It’s just children in pubs that I can’t stand. Children and pubs go together like oil and water, like blondes and brains. They don’t mix and they should be kept as far apart as possible. Bringing a child into a pub is like eating a pickled onion with ice cream. Try it and you’ll see what I mean.
As I said, I was a child once and back in those days children were barred from all pubs. It was quite rightly against the law. Everybody knew it and everybody respected it. Nobody complained. Back then if parents wanted to go for a drink, they left their little darlings outside the pub, gave them a packet of crisps and a glass of lemonade and told them to behave themselves and not speak to strangers. But then in the 1990’s there was a change in the law and kids were allowed in a pub as long as they were in a room which didn’t contain a bar. This gave rise to the popularity of the ‘family room’ – very often a dingy ill-lit ex store-room complete with greasy tables and dirt encrusted squeezy bottles of tomato ketchup.
Over the years things became more relaxed as we copied the Europeans. “Kids are allowed to go in bars in France without any problems” people screamed. Stuff the French was my response then, and it hasn’t changed since. They stink of garlic, wash once a month at best and their diet consists of snails, frogs’ legs and horsemeat. Why would we want to copy them? But we have and we now have a situation here in England where going to a pub is like going to an out of control children’s party.
Children cannot sit still for more than three minutes; it’s a scientific fact and nowhere is this more obvious than in a pub. They run around in gangs, tripping up staff and customers alike. They shout, scream and whoop like a tribe of Red Indians. And then there are the babies. There are two things that a baby is good at – crying and filling its nappy – and babies will do this wherever they are. I often pop into my local pub for a quiet lunchtime pint and a sandwich but all too often my peaceful lunch is destroyed by mewling, screaming babies and their out-of-control slightly older siblings running amok. I hate them all.
My local pub has a Colouring Club where the yummy mummies bring their little brats to colour in stupid pictures of unicorns while they swig Sauvignon Blanc or Pino Grigio. After 10 minutes and two large glasses of vino the kids are forgotten and the little shits disappear off to create havoc in another part of the pub. I’ve seen a child peeing in a pot plant, dirty nappies left on tables, food smeared over the carpet, and kids fighting while their lazy, moronic mothers chat about which celebrity is shagging which other celebrity.
I do not want to go into a pub and be confronted by a snotty faced two year old with its shitty nappy hanging around its knees. I do not want to go into a pub and have to fight my way around half a dozen push chairs, like a Royal Marine Commando training course, just to get to the bar.
I go to the pub to seek solace from the world . . . and from Mrs Scady. I go to the pub to sit in silence and in the belief that I can sip my pint and read my newspaper without being interrupted. I have never liked fishing but I imagine that there are similarities between the solitary angler sitting on the river bank and the solitary drinker sitting in the corner of the pub. Both are looking to temporarily lose themselves, one in his thoughts the other in his pint.
The problem, of course, is not the children, it’s their parents. Babies are nothing more than a crying and shitting machine. They know nothing more and why should they. As they grow up, they turn into children and children have a low boredom threshold and boundless energy. Take children into a pub and why wouldn’t they want to play hide and seek under the tables or run around as if they were trying to escape from some evil bogeyman intent on carrying them off to wherever naughty children get carried off to?
The Black Lion pub in Leighton Buzzard has the right idea. It sports a blackboard sign saying:
“To avoid accident or injury to your child whilst the little darling is running around this establishment . . . . why not hand the little poppet to a member of staff who will be happy to nail it to your table for you!”
If only Leighton Buzzard was closer. I’d be in the Black Lion every day.
Lest anyone should accuse me of misopedia and for the avoidance of any doubt I will stress that despite their totally unreasonable behaviour it is not the children who will be led out at dawn. They are young with their lives ahead of them and hopefully with the right guidance and supervision there is a chance that they will grow into responsible human beings. No, it is the parents of these out-of-control monsters that will be kissing their children a final goodbye.
I go to a dental hygienist regularly. Her name is Ambrosia but there is nothing sweet or delicious about her. She is a sadist. Before going into her torture chamber, I sit in the waiting room, sweating and shaking with fear etched across my face. My instincts are telling me to make a run for the door and to never come back but then common sense kicks in. I know that I’ll never get away and that freedom is just an illusion. Like the Canadian Mounties, Ambrosia always gets her man.
When I am in this state another patient will invariably ask me if I am alright and would I like a glass of water. I tell them that I am ok and that I am simply waiting to see Ambrosia. They nod and turn away, barely disguising the look of pity that charged across their face.
As I enter her inner sanctum I always hope that Ambrosia is happy. In my naïve mind I think that the happier Ambrosia is the easier my torture will be. I pray that she had good sex with one of her girlfriends last night or that this is not a bad time of the month for her. If she is ‘suffering’ from the dreaded PMT, then I know I’m finished.
But Ambrosia is not like you and me; I am sure that she is not human. She appears unaffected by emotions and remains dedicated to the task of inflicting as much mental, emotional and physical pain on me as she possible can.
I put myself through this twice a year torment because I have been conditioned into believing that it’s good for me. Ambrosia has frightened me with stories of people needing to have all of their teeth removed because they failed to regularly visit their hygienist. She has shown me pictures of open mouths with rotting molars and rancid gums, telling me that this is my fate if I stop coming to see her. Ambrosia is a master of the dark arts. She has a PhD in psychological and physical terror.
A session with Ambrosia lasts around 25 minutes. For each of those 1,500 seconds I am terrified. I am rigid with fright, my hands gripping the arms of the black torture chair until my knuckles are not just white but are close to bursting through the skin which has by then become translucent. I close my eyes so as not to see the delight on her ice-blue eyes as she wields her instruments of torture. Beneath the mask I know that she is licking her lips. And at the end, the thing that annoys me the most, I say “Thank you.” Why?
I asked her once why she subjected me to this anguish. Didn’t she like me, I asked. She cried, just one tear slowly sliding down her left cheek. She looked at me with anguish in her eyes and gently stoked my face. She told me that it was nothing personal and that she had no feelings for me one way or the other. She just wanted to protect me from the enemy – plaque. She hates plaque. It keeps her awake at night and she is devoting her life to eradicating it from this tiny part of England. The battle is between Ambrosia and the hated plaque and I am just collateral damage.
Despite this unusual show of emotion, I still hate her. I pray each night that she will wake up one day forgetting who she is and what her life’s work is. Unfortunately, my prayers have a habit of not being answered and this is why I am warning Ambrosia and all of her kind. She needs to chill out and find a job that doesn’t feed her bitterness towards what is just an aspect of modern-day life. It’s only plaque for God’s sake.
Dental Hygienists
Italian Waiters
You go to a restaurant with an English waiter or waitress and what do you get? Service, that’s what you get, good unobtrusive service. Your order brought to your table when you want it, hot if it’s supposed to be hot, cold if not. Wine poured just at the right time, dishes taken away without you noticing it, and sometimes even a smile.
But dare to visit your local Italian restaurant and it’s completely different. Here the waiter, a smarmy, dark skinned, smooth-tongued lothario from the land of Leonardo De Vinci, is always centre-stage. They make a point of interrupting your conversation - when they bring the bread, and then again at two to three minute intervals when they return to ask about drinks, then wine, then water, and then to take your order. This, of course, is just ancillary to their main job - which is smooth-talking your wife, girlfriend or whoever else you are dining with, as long, of course, as they are female. Their age is immaterial.
This even happened to Mrs Scady on the one occasion that we visited our local trattoria, proof indeed that there is not one ounce of sincerity in their preposterous patter.
If you are there with your girlfriend or wife, its:
“Senorina, you are very beautiful, bella, bella; Eeese these your papa?”
“Ooooh”, they swoon. “No, this is my boyfriend/husband.”
The waiter stares at them with a practiced look of bewilderment, “No, imposs. . . . ible. You lookaa too young. No, no, no, I donna believe it.”
What utter drivel. You cringe as you hear each and every word dripping from the lips of these mealy mouthed monsters. You know each syllable, let alone word; you’ve heard it all before a thousand times and so has the woman you are with and yet she still falls into a swoon as if she is a virginal, naive 16 year old on her first holiday in Sorrento. You can actually see your girlfriend/wife relax; they slip back and if it wasn’t for the chair back they would, within seconds, be horizontal on the floor, eyes glazed over, legs apart, drooling. What is it about these silver-tongued Latins that makes all women suddenly turn Blonde?
And then of course there is the dreaded pepper mill. At probably every other type of eating establishment in the world your table will come with not just crockery and cutlery, but possibly with a small vase with a flower in it, and at night a candle. More importantly it will also come with condiments. From the greasiest cafe with its cheap, plastic, and often dirt encrusted, salt and pepper pots to chic Bistro pubs with their open dishes from which you take a pinch of Dead Sea salt and ground Madagascan pepper corns (and which you know contain seven different traces of urine) to the grandeur of the Ritz’s silver and cut-glass art deco works of art, your table will have its very own salt and pepper.
But not in an Italian restaurant. Oh no! That would be too simple. In an Italian restaurant you wait, with a mixture of anticipation and dread, for the smarm-ball of a waiter to re-appear. You know he’s about to arrive five minutes before he actually does because you see the end of a ridiculously long pepper mill come over your dining partner’s left shoulder like the giant one-eyed-trouser-snake it’s supposed to represent.
‘You lika summa pepper Senorina?’ And once again the woman you are dining with appears to collapse into a state of total and overpowering compliance. The waiter has her in the palm of his greasy Latino hand. And you hate him!
But there’s more to come as he twists . . . . and turns . . . and screws. By now no one is watching the freshly ground pepper as it falls seductively over the pasta. The food is irrelevant. The waiter and your dining partner are gazing longingly into each other eyes and you feel like a voyeur in some trashy novel.
I detest these seedy, self-important scoundrels and give them warning that I am coming for them. Italian waiters will be going to their own little Sicily off the Hampshire coast where they will be free to use their fake charm on the local population. Buona fortuna to both of them.
Morris Dancers
The UK has some great traditions. We are a culturally rich nation with a history and heritage of unsurpassed diversity. We are renowned as a country of eccentricity, full of folklore and myths and from Land’s End to John O’Groats we proudly celebrate our local customs with a determination that stems from centuries of these weird and wonderful traditions being assimilated into our culture.
Take the annual cheese rolling event in Gloucester where people from all over the world now come to chase a round of Double Gloucester cheese down Cooper’s Hill. Sounds ridiculous and it is. Chasing a cheese down a hill just for the hell of it is about as stupid as it gets but somehow it feels right. It feels British. And what about those mad men from Ottery St Mary in Devon who, every 5th of November, carry flaming tar barrels on their backs through the streets of the town for a reason that was long ago forgotten. There is no sense in this at all but yet again it’s a quintessentially British tradition that characterises everything that is good about this country.
And then there are Morris Dancers. These people are stark staring bonkers. On any scale of lunatic eccentricity, they are off it – by miles. Morris dancing is the complete opposite of cheese chasing or burning barrel carrying and Morris Dancers epitomise everything that is wrong about this country. There was never a moment of doubt that they would be among my chosen few. I didn’t have to consider it for a millisecond, not a nanosecond, not even a unit of Planck time which is, I am told, the smallest amount of time that there can ever be. And if I ever gave Morris Dancers or Morris dancing a Planck time of thought again it would be too much.
Morris dancing is just an excuse for totally inadequate bearded men and the occasional woman to dress up in rags, sew bells on their trousers, put on a stupid hat covered with foliage and bang a few sticks together while jumping up and down and shouting a few incomprehensible and utterly meaningless words. I would best describe Morris dancing as a group of men and women each of whom is jerking their arms and legs in a multitude of directions as if in some involuntary death-bed spasm. They are not in sync with each other and they are certainly not in time with the noise coming from the wizened old scrote playing the squeezebox.
Morris dancers are society’s outcasts. They are nerds of the highest order. If they were to carry out their little rituals behind closed and locked doors there would be no problem. No normal human being would ever want to be a Morris dancer but if that is what they need to do then I could probably just about accept it. The big problem is that they do not do this thing in private. They insist on making it very public. I’ve seen them in village squares, on the seafront and even in pubs. There is something very sinister about Morris men and their prancing around like acolytes at a Haitian voodoo ceremony. All that is missing is the sacrifice. It’s disgusting.
If a recent newspaper report is true, it may well be that I do not need to worry about Morris dancers. According to the Morris Ring, which as I am sure you know is the National Association for Men’s Morris and Sword Dance Clubs, young people are not joining Morris groups because they are too embarrassed. Now there’s a surprise. Why on earth would anyone feel embarrassed at dressing up in coloured rags, blacking their face, covering their arms and legs in bells that have obviously been stolen from cat collars or budgies cages and whirling around like some mad dervish, limp-wristedly waving handkerchiefs in the air while banging the floor with a wooden club crudely decorated with nailed on beer bottle tops – in public. There’s nothing embarrassing about that surely.
So, it looks as though Morris dancing, as a pastime is dying anyway. But I’m not going to take any chances. Morris dancing is a ridiculous, unpleasant and dark pastime undertaken by feeble-minded deviants and it must and will be stopped once and for all. Morris Dancers will, therefore, be at the ferry port alongside all of the other nutters, loons and fruitcakes setting out for the island. I’m probably doing them a favour because I’m sure that the local population will be fighting among themselves to join these deviants in their dodgy and downright disgusting activities. There’s not a lot else to do on the IOW.
Northerners
Northerners, and by that I mean anyone born above a line between Bristol and London and below Hadrian’s Wall, are a pain in the arse. The age old saying that it’s grim up north is so true and the people who live there are even grimmer. The reason for this could well be that the north is awash with dark satanic mills; their chimneys belching out poisonous, black toxic smoke or it could be the weather. It rains a lot up north. Not ordinary southern rain but high-pressure jets of water travelling at 900 to the ground at just below the speed of sound. And it’s cold. Not cold like it is in the south but cold like it is in the Antarctic.
You wouldn’t know that it’s cold, of course. There could be two feet of snow on the ground and icicles on the end of your nose but on a Saturday night northern women will be out on the town in their finest; a skirt that would pass as a belt down south, a vest, no bra and seven inch heels. And on the terraces at St James’s Park the men will be stripped to the waist singing Howay the lads as the referee blows his whistle to abandon the match because the freezing conditions are considered too dangerous for human life. No one owns a coat up north.
There is no doubting that northerners are tough but perhaps it has something to do with the stuff they call food but which we call waste. They eat some very strange concoctions up north such as a parmo – deep fried pork or chicken covered with a creamy sauce and a mountain of cheese. Another favourite is tatty ash, boiled potatoes, corned beef, onion and carrots cooked in milk and then mashed. Yes, it tastes and looks as bad as it sounds. And what about a growler, a pie in a bread roll would you believe. And who but a northerner would eat tripe and onions (a boiled cow’s stomach) for God’s sake.
Northerners are filthy, uncouth and common and they are always whinging about southerners; usually about how the southerners have all the jobs and money. Northerners have a chip on their shoulder bigger than the Angel of the North and a view on life which, like their weather, is grim.
And of course, they speak a foreign language, if language is what it is. It is certainly not the Queen’s English. If you ever have the misfortune to find yourself up north and someone approaches you and says giz a bag o’ crisps don’t whatever you do hand over your snack. All they are saying is that they don’t fancy you! And should someone say it’s a bit black over Bill’s mother’s don’t look around for some poor old crone with a black cloud hanging over their head. All their trying to say in their own particularly charming way is that they think it might rain. Barmy or what?
Northerners also have a different currency to the rest of the country with one northern pound being equal to around 3.3 of ours. This means that everything up north is dirt cheap. A northerner can go out on a Saturday night, have 10 pints of Boddy’s and stop for a growler on the way home and when he wakes in the morning with a tongue as tasty as a bear’s ass he will still have change in his pocket from the tenner he went out with.
There is, then, a lot to dislike about northerners but what swings it for me is the fact that if you meet a northerner down south, he will always be telling you how wonderful it is back home. My response to that is the same as it is to their close compatriots, the Scottish. FOBTT (Fuck Off Back There Then). If it’s so bloody good up north and so bloody bad down here then piss off. For that reason alone, northerners will be some of the first to make their way to their new home.
Old People
There are so many things that I dislike about old people that it’s difficult to know where to start. What about their clothes? Why do all old men wear beige trousers made of a material that looks as though it should be on the outside of the space shuttle? Not just beige trousers but beige trousers with an elasticated waist, pulled up almost to their chest. It’s awful. And what is it about old women and their hair? It’s always stiff-as-a-board and immaculately coiffured as if they go to the hairdresser every day. Perhaps they do. Perhaps that’s how they get their kicks. At their age they are not going to get them any other way. The men, of course, have more hair sprouting out of their ears and nostrils than on their head and it’s gross. Haven’t they heard of mirrors and nasal hair trimmers?
Old people also smell. No, I’ll re-phrase that. They stink. They don’t wash their clothes and they don’t wash themselves. They also smell for other reasons. Old people, both men and women, have no control over their rear end and nine times out of ten if they bend over to pick something up, or simply get up out of a chair, they fart.
Another thing that annoys me about old people is that they are always moaning about something. The weather is usually too hot or too cold, it’s too windy or too wet. They also moan about the television; the fact that there is nothing on worth watching. This is despite that fact that they have a 100 plus channels to choose from when “in their day” there was only one. The crucial issue here, of course, is that they can’t even turn the television on without help and once that’s done they can’t use the remote control. It might as well be Dr Who’s sonic screwdriver.
And what about their driving? It goes without saying that they never get out of first gear. And why do they have to drive in the middle of the road totally oblivious to the dozens of vehicles forced to follow them because of their total lack of awareness.
Perhaps when you get to become an old person the government sends you a list of how you must behave. As far as food is concerned that means that you only like offal or cottage pie, except on a Sunday when you must have a traditional roast dinner. Whatever food they are eating, old people always eat painfully slowly and of course they complain about the size of the meal – it’s always too big. And they never eat “foreign muck” such as pasta or pizza. Is there nothing these people like?
It’s a fact of life that as you get older your health deteriorates. Age brings more health problems and more visits to the doctor and to hospital. As a result, old people talk endlessly about their ailments, illnesses, operations and bowel movements. Never ask an old person how they are. I guarantee you will be stuck for an hour as they tell you about the open sore on their legs which is constantly oozing puss, about the catheter they have just had fitted and about their piles which they have to push back up their scrawny, poo-stained bottom on a daily basis.
So, let’s summarise what we have here. Old people have appalling dress sense, they don’t wash their clothes or themselves, they are terrible drivers, they dislike any food that begins with P, and they piss themselves or worse. They are cantankerous old wankers who are totally unaware of the frustration and anger they cause among other people. And even if they were aware they wouldn’t give a damn.
No contest surely. Let’s do them a favour and let’s do the rest of humanity a favour. They are included and when the glorious day arrives, they will be taking their place alongside the other misfits in this book to await their fate.
White Van Man
We have all met them or should I say we have all seen them – White Van Man (WMV). You look up and there they are. A second ago they were nowhere in sight and yet there they are filling your rear-view mirror, waving for you to move over. You check your speed and as you thought you are doing just under 90 mph in the fast lane of the motorway and yet they look at you as though you’re a Sunday afternoon driver out for a quiet drive in the country.
Flash, flash. They are now inches from the back of your car. What do you do? Slow down just to annoy them; too dangerous. You know that they only have half a brain cell at best which means that their reaction time will be slow. So slow that they will inevitably just drive into the back of you. Speed up? No, that’s not an option either. You are already well over the speed limit and you think you are going fast enough anyway. Flash, flash. Their waving is getting more frantic and you can see WVM mouthing some obscenity at you while slowly making a hand gesture which even your four year old son knows the meaning of. He is suggesting that you are a wanker! What irony. You want to kill him but you give in and move over.
Along with BMW drivers the drivers of white vans are, without a doubt, the most detested people on the road, with most of them having an IQ lower than their shoe size.
The biggest culprits are the self-employed cowboys otherwise known as plumbers, electricians and builders. For some inexplicable reason they all think that they are Formula 1 drivers behind the wheel of a V8, 32 valve, turbo-charged racing car on the final lap of the Monaco grand prix. All they have to do is pass the car in front (you!), receive the chequered flag, open the bubbly and spend the evening in the casino with a bevy of scantily clad blondes on their arm and later in their bed at the Hotel de Paris in Monte-Carlo. Dream on.
The reality, of course, is that the vehicle they are driving is a clapped out, rust-bucket, they are on their way from one job to another (to rip off yet another old lady by charging her five times what the job really costs) and they live in Chingford or Gravesend – or some other similar hell-hole. They will almost certainly regularly stop at Clacket Lane services, the murder capital of the M25.
You will not be surprised to know that WVM has been the subject of numerous surveys and academic studies. One such study carried out by the Social Issues Research Centre showed that the average age of WVM is 37 with the majority of drivers being in their 30’s or 40’s. He, and invariably it is a he, with women making up just 4% of all white van drivers, will probably be married. And although the majority will be listening to a local radio station as they ply their way on the country’s roads, many are just as likely to be listening to tapes of opera or Classic FM. As you might expect WVM drives a lot of miles each year but surprisingly nearly 70% of them have made no insurance claims.
So am I being unfair. Are they all, as I believe, aggressive, tattooed, lager swilling 22 year old louts who live on junk food, spend their weekends in the pub or at a football match and invariably own a Rottweiler? Or am I maligning them as devils when really, they are saints? Possibly, if this headline from the Manchester Evening News is typical: Heroic white van men rescue three people from burning Stockport house – then continue on to work. The two white van men had stopped at some traffic lights and saw two men and a woman hanging out of an upstairs window shouting for help – the house obviously on fire. Without thinking they reversed their van 50 yards up the drive of the house to a point just under the window so that the occupants of the house could drop onto the roof of the van and safety. The white van men then drove off to work – because they were late!
The problem is that for every good news story there are 100 horrific ones. Having studied the WMV subject extensively I will be the first to admit that not all drivers of white vans are the same and that there are undoubtedly some who are careful, considerate and who visit their granny every week. On balance, however, there are far too many white van drivers who perfectly fit the WMV stereotype - of the van driver who is forever changing lanes, sees no need to indicate, thinks tailgating is an acceptable way of driving, and is aggressive and abusive to all other road users. They, and their van, thoroughly deserve a place on the ferry.
The Full List
Holiday Friends
Jehovah's Witnesses
The Scottish
Old People
Politicians
Facebook Users
Chuggers
Young people
Buskers
Poets
Anglers
Hairdressers
Italian Waiters
BMW Drivers
Cat Lovers
Cyclists
The English
Dog Owners
Doctor's Receptionists
Northerners
Art Critics
Children in Pubs
Local Councillors
Joggers
Footballers
Southerners
Slim Women
Drinkers
The Welsh
White Van Man
Caravan Owners
Daily Mail Readers
Born Again Christians
Morris Dancers
Dental Hygienists
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If you want to read what I think about this reprehensible bunch of shits and why they have been included in my plan to deport them and their ilk to the Isle of Wight, please check out my book Annoying People. It's available on Amazon.