Norfolk Grumplings

Golliwogs! There... I've said it!

What’s going on with all this golliwog thing? How can we find that a golliwog is offensive while a cleric ranting outside a mosque or a demonstration calling for all us Westerners to be killed is quite OK? Political correctness seems to be following the same path to ultimate ridicule that the Feminist Movement trod. Eventually the demands become so pathetic and open to ridicule that that is exactly what they get. Anyway everyone knows women have always had the upper hand. The whole movement becomes a joke to the point where no one really takes it seriously. Now that’s a shame because there is a balance to be found. Sadly, all to often the point of balance is passed and tips the other way with no one noticing the point when we had that balance. Then, as my old history teacher taught me, the pendulum swings back the other way. His belief was that this is what history is all about and what it teaches us – the pendulum swings first one way and then the other. As time passes me by, and the pendulum continues to swing, I notice how right he was.

Banning golliwogs from the Queen’s shop at Sandringham and then going to great lengths to tell us that Her Maj doesn’t actually work in the shop herself (i.e. so don’t all you offended people start protesting outside Buck Palace) is plainly taking the “offended people” thing to new heights of daft. Sacking Carol Thatcher from the One Show is, however, entirely justifiable. In fact from the few times I have been subjected to the programme the BBC could do a lot worse than sack the lot of them. They could replace the programme with a series of desperate celebrities talking into the camera and advertising their new book or fitness DVD. The end result would be same and we wouldn’t be submitted that squinting Brummie who looks like Bennie Hill pretending to pretend he’s a bumbling fool.

Oh, sorry. Can’t say that – it’s offensive to people who squint, people from Birmingham and to Bennie Hill. Although he’s dead and had a rather “colourful” life so he doesn’t count.

Grumpy's back!

The recent snow has irritated me for a number of reasons. First because we didn’t get much. Somehow I felt cheated as the rest of the UK basked in bucket loads of white stuff, children had time off school, and, just for a brief moment, we forgot all our economic troubles.

I say for a “brief moment” because it didn’t take the economic gloom warriors long to get themselves back to the top of the news agenda with their talk of millions of people staying away from work and how much it was going to cost the country. What about the millions who would love the opportunity to trudge through snow to get to work but can’t because they haven’t got any work to go to – often as a result of the actions of our bonus grabbing bankers and the news hounds who whip up the frenzy while trying to find any number of different angles from which to view the gloom. Interesting we do seem to be having a bit of a weekend moratorium at the moment. Has anyone else noticed that? Poor mites they really struggle for a story on Saturday and Sunday and can’t wait for the renewed onslaught on Monday. Don’t for one minute think that all these redundancies didn’t happen before the economic dive. Of course they did. The difference was that 90% of them were never reported. No one was interested. Woolworths? MFI? – Both basket cases for years. What the downturn has done is allow a load of overstaffed organisations to cut out the unwanted and unwarranted staff and blame something other than their own inefficiency.

Back to the snow. Don’t you just hate the macho men who bleat on about “It’s only a bit of snow….don’t know what all the fuss is about…get on with it….get out of my way as I roar off down the to prove a point”. The roads are dangerous not just because they are icy but also because they are populated by these tossers.

Health and Safety Nutters are out in force. Yes, we do understand the pavements are icy but short of sticking a feather up our bottoms and floating above them I’m not sure what we are supposed to do. I woke this morning to the tragic news about the teenage girl killed while sledging. As well as feeling sympathy I wondered how long it would be before the H&S brigade latched onto the story and put up a representative suggesting that sledging should be banned. It was 10:30am! It almost made me want to go out with a sledge, a stack of fireworks, some conkers and a mobile telephone strapped to my ear to have some fun. Then I remembered we didn’t get any snow here!

Look, I was in the Gym at 6:50am, right!

Today, for the first time in about two years, I went to the gym fashionably early. I was there at 6:50am! Yes, dear reader – ten to seven. The reason for my early arrival didn’t put me in the best of humour. My daughter is now a fully fledged student. This means she walks into any establishment selling anything that students like such as food, drink or clothing with her student card thrust out in front of her demanding huge discounts on everything just because she is a student and therefore the world owes her a living. The other thing that students seem to do is assume that parents are put on this planet to operate a free taxi service on a 24/7 basis. They also develop a desire for money and will do the jobs that asylum seekers reject such as serving breakfast at a local hotel to a bunch of overweight businessmen who have absolutely no need for a full English. Hence my arrival at the doors of the gym at 6:50am.

I had forgotten the earnest early morning crew. Those hardy individuals I used to witness queuing outside the door at 6:30am on a freezing January morning. I used to watch from the car and give them ten minutes to clear the changing room before I slobbed in. They never seemed to speak to each other - in that embarrassed way that even people who know each other really well don’t speak in a lift. I eventually arrived in the gym. I swear that most of them are the same people who were there two years ago. From ridiculously skinny women of a certain age who should know better to elderly men with calf muscles so tight you could almost reach out and twang them. I was left feeling, quite rightly, totally inadequate and vowing never again to return at that time of day.

What I did notice, however, is something I had been meaning to comment on (OK, grumble about) for some time now. I was watching TV and saw some Australian Cricket spokesman explaining why his players would not be returning to India in a hurry because of today’s bomb blast. Yeh, right Cobber – nothing to do with the fact that the Indians whipped your colonial arses in the recent Test Series then!

What his appearance reminded me of is this recent and HUGELY annoying Southern Hemisphere Sportsman (Australia, New Zealand and South Africa) habit of starting every sentence with the word “Look”. Have you noticed.

“Look guys, England have a chance against us but it isn’t a very big one”

“Look, Australia have always produced the best Rugby players”

“Look the weather and the pitches over in India just didn’t suit our style of play”

STOP IT – OK. It is really annoying when it is made to sound like “Look you ignorant Northern Hemisphere tw@t I’m saying this for your benefit, so please pay attention”. The trouble with countries that rely on sheep for a living is that they start to act like them and when one starts using a phrase (usually Shane Warne) then they all feel the need to follow. Before you know where you are the South Africans are in on the act too because they consider themselves to be as good as the Aussies only they are tougher because they wrestle lions.

I’m sorry that I brought it up really because I’m sure that anyone who is unfortunate to read this will start to feel as irritated as I do……and that will only serve to encourage them!

Credit Crunch! Good thing or bad thing?

There seems to be nothing like a good financial crisis to get the lunatics that run this asylum we call a country running around like headless chickens completely undecided whether any particular circumstance is a) A Good Thing, or b) A Bad Thing. Sounds pretty simple doesn’t it? Is it a good thing, or is it a bad thing?

Inflation. Bad thing. The Bank of England, no less, has been put in charge of interest rate just to ensure that they can put them up regularly enough to make sure inflation remains in check. Suddenly it starts to go down. So that must be a good thing – right? Oh, no. Deflation means prices actually go down and that’s a bad thing too. Why? Well apparently the lunatics think we won’t buy anything because the prices might go down even further. So what do they do? They cut interest rates to make us think we have a load more money and we will be tricked into going out to buy more things. Next time I’m borrowing money to buy a loaf of bread I’ll remember that.

House Prices. Going up. Bad thing. First time buyers can’t afford them. Coming down. Bad thing. First time buyers, now with six kids, are stuck with a one bed flat over the Chip Shop that is worth £100,000 less than they paid for it. They can’t pay their mortgage or there would be nothing left for the necessities like Sky TV, fags, booze and bingo – not to mention baby Kylie’s ear piercing.

Oil Prices. This one I just love. Going up to $150 a barrel. Bad thing. All them Sheiks getting richer and buying up our football clubs (unless you are Norwich City, in which case not even an Arab will be interested). Petrol costs rocket as soon as there is even a suggestion that the prices are about to rise in a few weeks time. Oil prices come down to under $50 a barrel. Bad thing. We are all, naturally, driving around far more polluting the environment and damaging polar bears and dolphins. It matters not that dolphins are overrated, po-faced creatures who spend all their time swimming around with sick kid and thin people. Gas and Electricity company spokespeople, who were telling anyone who would listen that their price hikes were all because their energy was linked to the oil price, develop laryngitis. Petrol prices don’t come down to match but grudgingly do drop a little, unless you use diesel or buy your fuel in Long Stratton. Now comes the good bit. Bad thing because the government are getting less revenue from taxes on the oil companies and on what we buy at the pumps so they need to increase their borrowing!!!!

Now, excuse my ignorance, but who exactly are they “borrowing” all this money from? I thought everyone was in the same boat. Does the bloke with the twitchy mouth know someone we don’t? Could it be Simon Cowell putting his hand in his pocket? Anyway, whoever it is we owe them a big vote of thanks. Lending all that money to our leaders so they can do what with it? Oh yes, I was forgetting, give it to the very people who got us in this mess in the first place – the bankers. And what do we want them to do with it (apart from funding their fat bonuses). Easy! Lend us our own money back so that we can go out and spend it or lend it to the couple over the Chip Shop so that they can pay the interest on their mortgage, which will push house prices and oil prices up and we start all over again.

Charity Holidays.

Twice in the past week I’ve been asked to pay for someone to go on holiday. Now I know we all pay our taxes and therefore we are paying for ASBO Kids to have a break at Centre Parcs but at least we don’t see that happening do we. What I’m getting peed of about here is the people who decide they fancy a trip along the Great Wall of China (which you absolutely cannot see from space – it’s another NASA myth) or mountaineering in Bolivia or Motorcycling through Peru and they want ME to pay for it! Bloody cheek! Imagine the poor bloody yak herder in Peru chewing on his Coca leaf and minding his own business only to find thirty Norwich Union Muppets roaring past on quad bikes or something.

If I as much as raise the slightest doubt I get, “It’s OK – it’s for charity” and if I continue I get a picture of a kid covered in flies with a caption underneath saying “All these flies and I’ve got Aids too” thrust under my nose in an attempt to make me feel guilty. Well it doesn’t…..

No, I don’t feel guilty at all. Pay for your own holiday of a lifetime you tight tosser. When I was their age I didn’t go up to people I knew and say, “Excuse me, can you chip in £50 to send me to Corfu for a week so I can get out of my head on booze and drugs and pick up some STD off an ugly bird from Manchester”.

If you really start to question these people they will have to admit that only a tiny portion of the money actually goes to the good cause and they have to very quietly admit that most goes to the tour organisers and to pay for their holiday.

My answer in the future will be, “OK Tosser. Tell you what. You give me fifty quid and I’ll go down the pub. I’ll have a great time with my mates and, if there is anything left over, I’ll pop it into the Lifeboat thing on the bar. You do that for me and I’ll think about doing the same for you” Really? – thought not. So sod off and pay for your own holiday.

Barclayman finally gets whats coming to him - our money!

Has the world gone completely MAD? All this Credit Crunch Stuff. Even my 12 year old said last week, “You know – I’ve had enough of this Credit Crunch Stuff – they should stop it now”. Out of the mouths of babes and 12-year olds…..

So today, if I want to, I can march off to Barclays and ask nicely for a mortgage and they will borrow MY money from Lloyds and lend it back to me and charge me interest for the privilege. Now do you see where I’m coming from? Thievin’ B******ds!

For years fat cat Bankers with a “B” have looked down their noses at the rest of us and lectured us on how, where and what we should do with our money while they have been merrily borrowing money from each other, lending it to “Scallies” in Merseyside Tower Blocks who have more intention of giving the hubcaps back to the rightful owner than they have of ever paying the loan back. The Bankers with a “B” then keep those debts on their Asset Register while drawing bloody great bonuses for being so clever. You almost want to shout a huge “Gottcha you thievin’ b*****ds” but wait a minute, no we haven’t because you and me have been stupid enough to invent some more money and give it to them so they can start again where they left off. Farcical! How can we invent £50 billion pounds when it suits us and can’t fund Cancer treatment because budgets won’t run to it. Not too many mention of budgets now is there? Where is all this money coming from then? No one has successfully explained that to my satisfaction. I also notice that the PM, when asked whether he would be stopping the criminal bonuses these people pay themselves, says what? - He waffles on about levels of bonus being “appropriate” and linked to “enterprise” and “hard work”. What is he really saying is “No mate, I’ve not managed to do anything at all to stop them doing whatever they want with all the money you are throwing at them”.

So does Grumpy have an answer? Well yes, I do actually. We will bale you Bankers with a “B” out but we don’t want a pathetic bit of a share of the bank – we want the lot. Nationalise them. Run them in a properly accountable way for the benefit of everyone in society. Then, when they are all showing nice profit roll them all up into one and call it the Co-op Bank. We will need to follow this through by nationalising all sorts of other unprofitable things such as coal, steel, fuel and all Premiership football teams then give our new society a new name like……..well as it’s a sort of commune we could perhaps call it ………Communism. Oh, well perhaps not. The greatest British trait is the ability to think something through before committing ourselves. Never mind - full Marx for trying Grumpy.

Now it's The Parrot Olympics!

The Parrot Olympics? What’s this all about then? I switch on the TV and those stupid, smug little Chinese cartoon characters are on again advertising the Parrot Olympics. Is this just the clever, inscrutable Chinese wringing every last penny out of the great World Public by targeting avian and poultry lovers with their own Olympics. I actually switched on at the prescribed time only to find not a bird in sight but a load of people whizzing around in turbo charged wheelchairs chucking a ball around and some others in wheelchairs getting collective headaches doing the 110metres hurdles.

So what is the Parrot Olympics? Can it really be an attempt to find the Michael Phelps of the Avian World (but with more personality and a higher IQ). What about Team GB – Owl we get on? Will be have something to Crow about? Does the Thrush have to start from scratch? Is the Robin the most reliant athlete? Could the Canaries win the football or will the prize go to a team of Italian Divers? Will the crowd be putting their bird box on the Swift to win the 100 metres? What about Road Runner for the marathon? If he loses to a gander will he have an ex-Goose? Instead of medals (because they would be far too silly for birds) would the winners get gift Vultures? Would the tennis playing birds Avacet or two. Will the Gulls bring home more “golds” than the boys? Or will the boys get their Tern? What can the Parrot do? I know they can teach it to say "Amazing" in answer to every question the Avian Athelete is asked in the post event press conference. Whatever happens I’m sure they will all have a Pheasant day and will all be Puffin at the end of the Parrot Olympics.

Final Grumpy word on the end of the Olympics.

So while I’m having my rant about the Olympics let me make another very important point and it concerns this ridiculous BBC idea of calling all the British competitors “athletes” and constantly referring to them as “Team GB”. I mean what the f**k is that all about?

The old chap shooting his clay pigeons wouldn’t describe himself as “an athlete”. He’d describe himself as “an old bloke who shoots rifles”. A swimmer is a swimmer. A cyclist is a cyclist. A canoeist is a canoeist. An athlete is someone who takes part in….wait for it….athletics. If we want a definition then look no further than the World Athletics Championships….for athletes. Not for cyclists, rowers, swimmers or shooters. Interestingly gymnasts are called gymnasts, not athletes. This, one assumes is so as not to confuse the 10-year olds who compete for China. Mind you Olga Corbutt, Ronnie’s daughter, didn’t look much older when she took part all them years ago. Probably because Dad was bit of a dwarf himself. I used to deliver his paper when he was doing the pier shows in Great Yarmouth – but that’s another story….. So BBC, please stop calling them all athletes – they ain’t!

Now on to this stupid American/Australian idea of “Team GB”. B*****ks! Most of the people representing Great Britain couldn’t give a toss about how anyone other then themselves gets on. They don’t even get to meet the rest of the competitors, sorry, athletes and even if they did probably wouldn’t recognise them of have anything in common. They are NOT a team. They are a bunch of individuals who have spent the past ten years or so wrapped up entirely in their own performances and with no interest in what is happening in the outside world. They not only don’t mix with the other competitors at the accommodation centre they have no interest in the others before or after the Olympic Games. So drop the Americanisms and the Australianisms. Let them have “Team USA” with their own version of the medal table which shows them at the top. Let the Aussies have time to quietly reflect on the fact that we won more Gold medals than they did and that when it really matters, apart from cricket sometimes, we consistently whip their convict arses.

We are not Team GB – we will never be Team GB. We send a selection of competitors to the Olympics in the hope that between them they will get more medals than the rest to justify the millions of pounds of lottery funding that their sport receives. Don’t misunderstand me…. I have no objection to the money that ill-informed poor people invest in the National Lottery every week in the mistaken belief that they have a cat in hell’s chance of winning anything, going to self centred egotists driven by their parents to achieve a brief moment of quickly forgotten bronze glory. The two groups deserve each other. What I object to is the idea that they somehow are all in it together as Team GB – they aren’t.

While we are one the subject someone should go back through all the interview tapes and deduct £1,000 of funding for every time an “athlete” said “amazing” or “amazed” during an interview. The total amount should go to our wheelchair 110 metre high hurdles team at the Paralympics. They deserve it just for the headaches.

Get ready for the Grumpympics - The REAL greatest show on earth.

Good to see the inscrutable Chinese living up to their “leputation”. Confucius he say - If it doesn’t look like you want everyone to see it – change it. Computer generated opening ceremony – sheer genius. We have four years to get the pimply youth of this country to beat it – no worries. The cute little girl singing the opening song can’t sing? Who cares – give her a different voice.

All this got Grumpy thinking. If the Chinese can make up their own version of the Olympics why not give some of them over-intense, ego driven “athletes” something to think about. Let’s change the rules and not tell them until they arrive having spent their entire lives and half the lives of their equally driven parents preparing for their 90 seconds on TV. Here are some new rules for the Chinese to consider for the Grumpympics……

Beam Exercises – Hold the event between two 12 story buildings.

Swimming – stick a couple of crocodiles in the pool. More world records guaranteed.

Parallel Bars – Super Glue. Let’s see them smug little Chinese 10 year olds tie themselves up in knots.

Long Jump – no sand, just concrete. Now keep on yer feet you wimps.

Pole Vault – Stainless Steel. Make ‘em climb up the pole before jumping over the bar.

High Jump – Gas burners under the bar and no bed to land on.

Weightlifting – use them little Chinese gymnasts on metal skewers. The one who lifts the most gymnasts, wins.

Boxing – Gloves and Padded Hats are out.

Cycling – Only 1970s Chopper Bikes allowed for all events.

Rowing - Drill holes in the boats and fill the lake with acid.

Swimming – Forget them new Speedo suits – make them wear full Gorilla suits including the heads.

Horse Riding – Make the jump off people go round the course piggy-backing Princes Anne. No wait, she’d enjoy that too much.

Discus – All competitors to use their Mum’s best plates.

Marathon – all competitors to drink eight pints of Guinness at the start.

Ladies Beach Vollyball – Leave that alone- it’s perfect, just perfect.

I’m sure that short list will get everyone piling in with their own ideas.

The Grumplings do The Red Bull Air Race

The Grumpy Family went off to darkest London yesterday – to see The Red Bull Air Race. It was held over the River Thames on the bend round, what for me will always be, The Millennium Dome.

Really Spectacular!

Family expeditions are increasing fraught these days as they inevitably lead to grumblings over separation from boy/girlfriends. What made this one a double whammy was that they had to get up about five hours earlier than normal, at 6:00am for a 6:30am departure. This was largely due to the fact that Red Bull informed the world that the first race was 9:00am. Oh, and there would be no parking available at the Dome itself. London Transport did its bit by choosing this weekend to do maintenance on the only tube line into Greenwich North and, no, they couldn’t possibly alter it for what is a global event rivalling F1 Grand Prix.

With quiet but insistent grumblings from the back of the new “48 mile per gallon but still regarded as a Gas Guzzler” vehicle, we set off. Mrs G wasn’t even giving her usual free driving lessons.

First annoyance is that ridiculous Suffolk stretch of the A140. The “experimental” system which sees a different speed limit every 100 yards even if nothing else changes seems to have become a permanent feature. I really would be fascinated to learn the facts behinds the “accident reduction” figures versus the amount now collected by Suffolk County Council in fines. I won’t be holding my breath. However, Greater London has somehow contrived to out-bizarre Suffolk. We cross the Dartford Bridge and turned onto the motorway towards London and The Dome. Within a couple of mile we encountered a “Low Emission Zone” complete with vehicles crawling along at the prescribed 50-mph on the three lane roads. What’s going on here? How is better for the environment or road safety when vehicles are still travelling on the roads with their polluting engines running twenty minutes after they should have been safely parked on their concreted-over front gardens? The answer, I’m pleased to say, soon became apparent when I noticed the route littered with them big, square, yellow stealth tax collection boxes checking everyone is crawling along at 50 mph and issuing automatic tickets to anyone doing 51.

A Muppet with a stupid voice and an even more stupid idea.....

Much later than necessary we approached The Dome and all began the search for a £20 parking space run by some enterprising foreign gent who had the idea of getting up before everyone else and selling the spaces in a company car park near The Dome while the bosses slumbered on. No such luck for us. We arrived at the site to find a chap ushering us into the official car park right next to the venue and asking for………£5. The Car Park was virtually empty which was no surprise as it was supposed to be shut! The result of our good fortune with the Car Park was that we were forty five minutes early, which was no bad thing. There didn’t seem to be too many people milling around the entrances though.

The reason became apparent when we milled with the few who were there. The gates didn’t open until 9:30am and the first race was not 9:00 but 12:20. I began to discuss the situation with a Security Guard but realised the futility of the dialogue seconds after he did. We waited. And we waited. And we waited. Eventually we were allowed in and made for the coffee stalls. “Sorry, only cold drinks at the moment”. This went on for an hour.

Pre race entertainment started ay 11:00 and it was spectacular. No, really…it was! The Races themselves started on time and they too were spectacular even if the Brits were quickly eliminated. Back to the car after and we were out of the Car Park and at the back of the queue for the Blackwall Tunnel within 10 minutes. I had decided to take this route to avoid spoiling my improving day with more “Low Emission Zones”. Got through the Tunnel and what do I find – Low Emission Zone! I can’t help thinking the Chinese have the right idea. Pollute all you like – promise the world you will clean up all your unsociable activities, like torturing people, to get The Olympics then ignore everyone when they find you’ve done nothing at all. Sorry, went a little political there – it won’t happen again.

Once again London doesn’t fail to amaze me. Last visit it was a huge crack in the floor at the Tate Modern which passed as Art, followed by dinner in a hyped up Burger Bar called The Rain Forest. Despite having to book weeks in advance this turned out to be like Zaks on a very bad day with Australian waiting staff and a huge shop selling crap toys for spoilt kids who were no wiser about the Rain Forest when they can out than they had been when they went in. This time it is a ridiculous, not thought through Low Emission Zone. Thank God they have Boris in charge now is all I can say – he serves them right!

I can't wait to get back to London soon to see what a sensible bloke like Boris has done to our dear old Loony town.

Campaign to Ban Smokers Bus Shelters.

This blog is to be the official launch of my one man campaign to get rid of these ridiculous “Smokers Bus Shelters” that are popping up in front of our pubs and restaurants. Who do these people think they are that their outdated and dirty habit should be catered for with a three sided wooden hut things with plastic glass windows?

Would you build a pub behind one of these things? If you didn't live in Thetford.....

I’ll normally kick against anything imposed by the government but I am also democratic. While over half the population wanted to eat and drink in a smoky atmosphere I would put up with it. But now they are in a declining minority why should the majority be expected to stand idly by while these monstrosities are being put up around the country by pub landlords scared stiff of losing smokers’ trade. Can they not see that by encouraging them to give up they would have their business for many more years to come? Clearly someone is making a good living selling these things but, when the landlord is trying to do it on the cheap the results are even more unpalatable. It’s as if they are challenging the world to object on the grounds that they are poor people trying to protect their livelihood by assembling some ramshackle building to house the unemployed who want to smoke and drink themselves to death. What about Planning Permission? There have got to be planning issues here. Can you imagine before the smoking ban if a quaint old English pub said they wanted to erect a Bus Shelter outside. The local authority would have welcomed it with open arms and even offered some of its own underemployed workforce to help to put it up. I don’t think so. They would have come down like a ton of bricks with their clip boards, tape measures and copies of the regulations quicker than you could say “final salary pension scheme”. But since the smoking ban it’s as if they have turned a blind eye.

Far more sensible approach.......the landlord could rent these out "by the fag".

All this without getting into the pollution and environmental issues. Don’t get me started on them. If the smoke isn’t being breathed in by other pub visitors where is it going? Attacking the Bozo Layer, that’s where! But I’m not going there. Just all join with me to get these shelters pulled down. We can choose direct action by clipping the edge of them with our 4X4s on entering the pub car park. The open plan design will allow you to do so safely without splattering a smoker across your bull bars. A more subtle approach is to buy some really childish stink bombs and pop one or two of them in there when no one is looking. My favourite though is to take along a gang of non-smoking mates and fill the place to capacity, then spend the entire evening in there while the smokers have to stand outside. This can cause some bad feeling so make sure the mates are big ones.

Any other suggestions for direct or indirect action will be greatly appreciated as the campaign gathers momentum. We can win this one – and have some fun at smokers expense at the same time.

Weddings? Don't you just love them?

Weddings…..don’t you just love them, or hate them…..well actually I just HATE them. Weddings are the absolute epitome of Hell for Grumpy. I find myself with a whole list of Why? When? And Where? questions at every wedding I ever attend. The last wedding at which I starred was a dream (I slept all the way through it – no seriously, it was fine). It took place at Gretna Green and there were two guests who trebled up as witnesses and my future in-laws. No fuss, no bother. Honeymoon was a trip on the Carlisle to Settle railway, then home. All our friends and other relations received a card on the day telling them what was happening. They all cried “foul” and said we should have done it properly and locally. Secretly I’ll bet there was a huge collective sigh of relief around East Anglia when the cards dropped on the mats.

Why am I going on about weddings? We’ll you’ve probably guessed – I’m off to one on Saturday. So the Why, When, What questions will all come flooding back.

WHY, for instance, don’t they have the ceremony at 8:00am, quick “full English” and get on with our days? If the happy couple don’t work out they haven’t wasted their entire day either.

WHY is there always a “Hippy Family” at the service? Long, scruffy haired kids matching the parents and all dressed in ridiculous red knitted yak wool jumpers.

WHY is there always a little kid with spiky hair, an ear ring and a leather jacket who no one seems to own or control?

WHY do women (especially the bride’s Mum) find it necessary to wear stupid hats with things like peach coloured aerials sticking out of them?

WHY are there always two women in the same frock? With the advent of Primark and slave kids in India, make that four.

WHY, when the ceremony is over does it take so f*****g long to take the pictures?

WHY does the photographer have to take the happy couple off to find a suitable tree for them to pose with? With the advent of digital photography can’t he give them a choice of trees after the event and paste it in?

WHY do so many people find it necessary to “light up” as soon as they are out of the church?

WHY do so many bloke guests find it necessary to have their shirts outside their trousers?

WHEN will the happy couple realise that their wedding is as tedious as everyone elses? They could stop going round asking everyone if they are enjoying themselves. We all (yes, even me) will say how magical it all is – but we are lying!

WHEN will Mum’s stop taking to the dance floor swinging little kids around until they feel sick?

WHEN will someone get hold of the little boys who insist on running full tilt from one end of the dance floor to the other before flinging themselves on their knees and skidding under tables and tell them that if they do it again they will have their dicks chopped off.

WHEN will someone make the clock go faster between the dull reception and the “evening do”?

WHAT makes the Disco King think we haven’t all heard their compilation CDs of “Reception Music” they are playing instead of actually making a decision for themselves about what people might like?

WHAT makes the happy couple think we give a toss about where they are going on honeymoon? So why the big secret?

WHAT makes grown men think its remotely funny to deface and damage someone’s car just because they have just been married?

Anyway, I’ll go on Saturday. 1:00 it kicks off so think of me. From 1:45 until 3:00 we will be farting about with photographs. 3:00 to 4:00 we will be waiting for the happy couple to find their tree and get back to the Reception so we can be getting on with it. 4:00 to 5:00 will be milling around aimlessly. 5:00 to 6:00 will be feeding time. 6:00 to 8:00 will be waiting around for the next shift to arrive. 8:00 to 12:00 will be compilation disco and then it will be time to plan the escape.

By Sunday morning it will all be bad dream.

Please ladies, don’t be outraged – fill any right thinking man with a truth drug and ask what he thinks of weddings.

Essex Comes to Norfolk - Part 2

While I was flattered and delighted to see how many people enjoyed my piece on "The Julies" last week, I do have some disturbing news to report on that front. Some of you may recall that "The Julies" were the “better ‘arfs” of a couple of Braintree based armed robbers who had been on a “Have-it-away-on-your-toes” weekend at the location of the health club which boasts Grumpy as a member.

While "The Julies" were hugely entertaining it transpires that they were also the sinister vanguard (the boys would assume that this means a security man) for a hoard of Essex Lovelies who would make their way up the A12 and A140 over the Bank Holiday Weekend. Well let’s face it, if the Banks are on holiday there isn’t much point in robbing them. Judging by the assembled multitudes in the swimming pool I can only assume that my health club hosts had popped an advertisement in The Essex Travellers Weekly. From the smell that greeted me as I entered the pool area yesterday I think many of them had brought their black and white horses along for the trip and probably had them tethered and grazing on the lawns at that very moment. If I had wanted to share water with a bunch of dirty smelly people I'd have changed my religion and jumped into the Ganges or, more practically, have taken a holiday at Centre Parcs.

It was wet Bank Holiday Sunday. As usual the Brats had managed to organise invitations to anyone’s house to avoid the Sunday roast and Mrs G and I were left on our own. Normally she wouldn’t want to be seen dead with me but the incessant rain and boredom caused her to ask if I would take her as my guest so that she could use the gym while I had a swim.

There was little evidence in the Car Park of what was to follow and I suspect the management, inspired by the response to their Essex ad, had set up a caravan park at the rear of the building. The changing room was quiet but I could hear quite a bit of noise coming from the pool area. I may be grumpy but I have no problem with kids enjoying themselves or making noise. But this wasn’t just kids. The noise was being made by a mass of heaving, mostly adult Essex humanity. The first think I witnesses was a man, with more tattoos and body piercing than I would consider safe around water, clearing his nasal passages into the spa pool like a Premiership footballer just before the camera switches away from him. He climbed out and wiped what I can only assume to have been residue off his leg and deftly flicked it back into the spa.

Disgusted? You will be. It got worse. I began swimming my lengths in the roped off area only to find Wayne and Waynetta wrapped around each other at the far end of the pool. It didn’t take X-ray vision to see that he had his shovel-sized mits down the back of what was a sort of bikini made for someone at least three sizes smaller. Then, to heighten my disquiet, I realised that she wasn’t just big – she was heavily pregnant.

Four lengths later I could take no more – they had actually started making grunty noises and even the other "Travellers" were beginning to notice. I decided to make for the Steam Room when Waynetta announced that she needed to go back in that “squirty barf fing to get cleaned up a bit”. Swimming somehow seemed a bit grubby now so I made my way through the rest of Jeremy Kyle’s audience and ducked into the steam room.

“Cor, that don’t ‘arf clear the old tubes out”, declared an exiting elderly gentleman who looked remarkably like Albert Steptoe, “careful of that floor mate – it’s a bit slippy”. Maybe I’d use the Sauna instead.

I opened the Sauna door and………it was empty. Peace, perfect peace. Now if only I could find some way of wedging the door shut. Believe me, the thought actually went through my head. It was peaceful for all of two minutes before at least ten Artful Dodger candidates came in and started to run amok. I plucked up the courage to speak to the seven year old who I calculated was the least likely to be carrying a knife.

“You want to be careful in hear with them earrings on you know”, I whispered in a voice that sounded disturbing like Bob Hoskins with a sore throat.

“Why”?

“Well, the temperature in here gets to ninety degrees and if you stay here for more than three minutes your lugs will catch fire”, I whispered, “Honest”! I added for authenticity.

For whatever reason (but mainly because he was incredably stupid) he believed me and, after a hasty conference with his mates, they left with their hands over their ears. For all of fifteen seconds I was smugly satisfied. Then the consequences of my actions dawned on me as I imagined an adult rabble arriving any minute to take revenge. I quickly departed the area imagining small boys pointing me out to the tattooed John “Spitter” Terry as soon as my back was turned. I have never, dear reader, showered and changed so quickly, eventually arriving at Mrs G’s designated meeting point a full one hour ten minutes before the appointed time. Unfortunately this was right next to Reception and I had visions of JT and his mates arriving every time the door opened. I received over an hour of funny looks from the “Hi Guys” on Reception but at least they would be able to witness any damage that was done to me.

Eventually Mrs G arrived.

“Been waiting long”, she enquired, although not in the least bit interested.

“Nah”, I said, “ Five minutes maybe”. The “Hi Guys” stood with their mouths open as we passed but I was never so glad to get outside into the rain.

Have I learned a valuable lesson? Well, yes actually, I have – Never go to the Health Club on a Sunday – or a Monday until after the cleaners have been in!

Is Norfolk really becoming the playground for Romford's Finest or was this weekend untypical and I'm worrying unnecessarily? Maybe Norfolk has always been the playground for these people. Perhaps the rising price of petrol combined with cheap weekend deals at our finest hotels has caused them to stop short of Great Yarmouth. Maybe it's just another phenomina that can be blamed on Gordon Brown. Another reason for him to do that funny twitching thing he does with his mouth everytime he lies.......but that's the subject for another blog.

Essex comes to Norfolk

Has anyone else noticed that a disproportionate number of men involved in armed robbery these days come from Braintree, wear white vests to show off their orange tans, have greasy gelled hair and drive big Range Rovers. This description could, of course, apply to most young footballers these days. The difference is that young footballers don’t need the money. The reason I mention these chaps is that two of them were on a “have-it-away weekend” this week at the site of my gym and swimming pool. I know this to be true because they left their “Julies” and the kids behind to have a lazy Monday making themselves look “boooootiful” while they legged it back to “Nooorf London” to plan their next blag.

It is worth stressing at this point that Grumpy has nothing against Gas Guzzling 4X4 vehicles as he drives one himself. You, dear readers, should all be grateful to me and the Braintree Blaggers. It is people like us who cause the Global Warming that gave you all that beautiful weather last week. And lest anyone doubts the validity of my assertion that Essex 4X4 vehicles are driven by villains please note that my own vehicle was previously owned by the wife of an Essex drugs dealer. Happily Hubby fell on bad times at Her Majesty’s behest and the car had to go. I have found little evidence of its previous owner apart from the odd smell that pervades the interior and reminds me of Amsterdam and the fact that a puff of white dust appears behind me every time I hit a bump. Goodness knows where its coming from.

When I arrived on Monday lunchtime the Julies were in the pool with their respective nought year olds. They insisted on swinging them through the water while making repetitive noises that sounded like a cross between The Clangers and Teletubbies – which had probably formed the bedrock of the Julies education. The Julies were almost dressed in swimming attire that made The Moaning Scotsman’s eyes pop out of his head and stopped him dead in his tracks when he joined us. He did a passable impression of “Ding – Dong” in his best Scottish Leslie Phillips voice and decided that the Julies were out of his league.

Swimming fifty lengths accompanied by Teletubbies and Clangers can get a bit wearing if entertaining. Eventually Julie 1 got out of the pool and returned two minutes later with a bright pink mobile telephone. I watched in amazement as she stepped back into pool. It was like one of those hidden camera TV moments when you think, “I can see what’s coming next – why can’t they”? Fortunately we were talking Julies with Clanger brains so the entertainment continued. All seemed to be going well and incident free until Julie 2 tried to hand the kids over and take some snaps of Julie 1 with juniors. At that point disaster struck as Baby 1 knocked the phone from mum’s hand and it plopped and sunk just as the audience had been expecting. What did come as bit of a surprise before the 9:00pm watershed was the language that followed.

“Oh f**k, look what you gone and done you stupid kid”, Julie 1 shouted at Brat 1.

“Don’t worry Babes, it’ll dry out. My friend Chelsea dropped hers in the sea and it sorta worked a bit”, comforted Julie 2 with her voice tailing off as she lost confidence in what she was saying.

“My Darren will f*****g kill me you stupid cow. He only bought it for me last week. Cost him three hundred notes from Billy down the market”

“S**t you’re right babe he’ll do his f*****g nut. Can’t we just say we was mugged”?

“Don’t be stupid. Who’s gonna f*****g mug us here”

Julie 2 eventually fished the pink icon from the water and held it dripping above their heads in a way that seemed to challenge Julie 1 to try to grab it back. She handed it solemnly to her mate who sadly shook it and, wait for it, tried turning it off and on!

“It’s f****d” she sadly announced with a whimper, “It’s f*****g f****d. He’s gonna kill me Babes. I just know he is”. Somehow the words carried more of a threat when spoken in a Romford accent and I had visions of Julie 1 reinforcing the concrete at the start of the 100 metres track in the new Olympic Stadium.

The Julies decide that swimming was over for the Teletubbies and they beat a hasty retreat from the pool each with a brat under one arm and Julie 1 still shaking the drowned phone and putting it to her ear. Ankle and neck jewellery jangling they flounced their way to the changing room advising a shocked elderly to “get out of my f*****g way you old twat” as they left.

Time too for Grumpy to leave having been regally entertained. Changed and ready to return to work with renewed vigour and faith in humanity’s ability to overcome all eventualities I prepared to leave the building only to see the Julie’s heading down the corridor both wearing matching leopard skin leggings a la Rod Stewart. They were a still deep in conversation and Julie 1 was still shaking the “pinkie” and putting it to her ear. In the car park stood a big black Range Rover with a “Babe on Board” sticker in the back window and two baby seats in the back. Good to see some parents are responsible I thought……..

Norwich Aviva

Call me a cynical old Grumpy if you wish. Just how dim to Norwich Union – sorry Aviva, think the citizens of Norwich really are? On the day when they announce that they are to be the shirt sponsors for Norwich City for next year they also announce they are dropping the Norwich Union brand. Why? Because it is not a global brand name. Since when? Norwich Union is known all over the world and certainly a lot more so than Aviva. Why didn’t they rebrand all the Aviva companies as Norwich Union? Why not – because it makes it a whole lot easier to downsize in Norwich of the company doesn’t bear the name of the city it is walking out of - that’s why.

So, they all sit around the table and think about how they can break the news to the Dimmers in Norwich. Here’s a great idea. On the same day we announce it we will also announce we will step in and take over the shirt sponsorship of their football team. We’ll keep sponsoring all the same bits we were sponsoring before but repackage it with shirt sponsorship included. Bl***y good wheeze that one…….and it still costs a tiny fraction of what we gave away to a team down the road to make it attractive for a multi-millionaire to step in and buy them.