I am fed up.


I was reading a news article today about the green tax on air travel. Now as you may or may not be aware. there is a hefty tax on flying. For example to fly to the Dominican Republic incurs a £75 green flying whatever it is called tax. This tax is supposed to make us think twice about our ,flying by plane habits' and will save the planet.

Yet the worst offender, the private jet is, guess what...... Exempt from this tax!!!!!

Now forgive me but many hard working families save hard all year to be able to take their children on a holiday. The Dominican Republic is popular because from a budget point of view it is priced fairly competitively.

The Tax = £75 per person. But if you want to fly to Hawaii which is a couple of thousand miles more. Oh and let's remember it is outside the budget of this hard working family who has to save hard all year to take their children on holiday. well the tax is £66 pounds.

So in summary. Places which are outside the scope of ordinary working class families pay less tax and if you are lucky enough to be able to have your own private jet which is the worst offender of pumping out C02, yes you guessed it, you don't need to pay any tax either.

The book 194 I sometimes think is just a description of a world we all live in and Mr Eric Blair just described the future.

Long time no post!

Hey guys, its been a while since a post because I've been busy. If you want to read a similar styled 'opinion based' blog, check this link out

http://www.ryansopinionsandthoughts.blogspot.com/

Thanks, keep reading guys.

The Shortened version of today's events

I'm up, had breakfast and on my way to Nottingham train station ready to start hobby number 1. The suspense is over. Today I am going to spend a day train spotting.
I have brought a dictaphone and will be recording the day as it happens in a style similar to Kent Brockman. Here goes.

I have arrived at Nottingham but am too scared to record any numbers, fear someone I know recognises me. There is a guy at the north end of platform 2 who appears to be looking at trains so I am going to have a chat with him. Be right back.

I have discovered two things. Firstly I appear to be dressed in the wrong clothes. I need to be in jeans with a very baggy gusset or very worn cords. I should have white trainers or hush puppies on and I should be wearing a check shirt and have railway pin badges attached all over it. Secondly I am in the wrong place. Apparently the Mecca of trainspotting at present is Doncaster.

I am now on the train to Doncaster. I haven't bought a ticket and have had to hide in the loo twice and pretend to be asleep once. I wasn't prepared to change clothes so I will have to stick with what I have on. I have a pen and paper to record said numbers on and a camera to take pictures.

Just arrived at Doncaster, fuck me it's full of old men. It looks like a conference for Tenna man. I have had a quick count and there is well over 150 grand-dads here running round like lunatics. I am going to try and mingle and see if I can find out what one is supposed to do. If any of you reading this have a nanna who is single and needs seeing too then send her for a day trip to Doncaster. Tell her to hang about at one of the platform ends with a long lens camera around her neck and she will get a boning to remember.

I have been chatting to a few of my fellow 'bashers'. I have already learnt some of the important terms in this sport as I am now calling it. Bashing, copping, tracking, cabbing to name just a few. It has become apparent that I am going to struggle to infiltrate this gang due to me not having the correct equipment. I have considered nipping to Millets for said costume changes.

Bri goes hobbying

Just to inform everyone that as from tomorrow I am going to be trying something new. For one day each week I will be partaking in a different hobby for one full day.

I will be keeping an account of the day as it goes and will post the account once my day has been completed. At this stage I will keep my hobby day a secret (suspense style music required). I will use the week in the lead up to research my chosen hobby.

Carol has informed me that taking upskirts on escalators is not a hobby so I have had to strike that. I am obviously trying to choose hobby's that involve minimum outlay in wonga.

I will try out each hobby on a minimum of two separate occasions so after the first event I will be offering an open invitation to anyone who wants to join us for the second outing (Carol doesn't know yet but I will be trying to drag her along for some of these outings lol).

watch this space

Long Eaton's disability scooter brigade

I was thinking about the OAP in camo that I mentioned the other day. The one that was obviously a lesbian according to the lady with the shopping cart. This got me thinking about another trait peculiar to this area. The disability scooter. Long Eaton must be the home to the motorized scooter. They are everywhere. Mondays are a nightmare. There will be convoys of them heading into town, all insisting on riding on the roads at 4.3 mph.

A couple of months ago two men from Long Eaton were fined for racing their disability driving machines along the duel carriageway, the wrong way. People whiz around corners and create havoc with their air horns and one old lady even has a fox tail dangling from the back of her scooter, connected to one of those 1970 whip ariels. You know the ones, Eighteen year old lads attached them to the old escort mark one. I have even observed one with alloy wheels and full CB radio system attached. Ten three its an OAP, good buddy.

Being 11 in 1977, The year of the Silver Jubilee

Mum had decided that we needed to be better at tidying our bedrooms. I was not good at this. For some reason tidying my bedroom was something I never had a desire to be the best at. She also decided that for some pocket money I could tidy hers. With hindsight I think the sweep children of Georgian England would have found tidying my mums bedroom more difficult than getting soot out a chimney. After I had tidied my room, sometimes she would check by simply popping her head in the room and nodding in approval. I soon learned that the best time to tidy your bedroom and get it verified by ‘Herr mum’ would be when she liked me and hated everyone else. If it was my turn to be the loved one I could get a thumbs up for the room. Sometimes you had no choice. My bedroom would require repair at a time when I was on her most hated list. The routine would normally follow a similar sequence of events.

“Bri, you have twenty minutes to tidy your room, then I’m coming to check” oh shit I’d think and start rummaging round, putting things in their place. I would get it finished and then the boss, being mum would come to inspect. This was the mum who didn’t tidy her own mess. The mum who never washed any dishes. The mum who never ever did any shopping. The mum who rarely cooked, unless it could be dropped into a deep fat fryer. The mum, who either sat on a settee or slept in a bed for 23 hours a day, would come and decide whether my bedroom was tidy enough. It went as follows. She would make her initial check from the middle of the room. Scanning like the hands of a clock slowly circumnavigating from the window and three hundred and sixty degrees later be back at the window. Then she would check under the bed. Then the cupboards. Then the drawers. She would then take a drawer out of the chest and examine how well it was kept inside. I eventually started leaving something out on purpose to speed this charade up because once I knew her mood I knew what the result would be.

Bath night at our house

Wednesday evening Carol told me she was going to have a nice long soak in the bath. I had all ready showered earlier but you can't beat a soak in the bath in the evening. So I asked her to leave the water in as long as she didn't pee in it again. She agreed.


I continued chilling with a glass of wine and eventually the call came. I got my bath robe, fetched a book and even considered which scented candle. I was looking forward to half an hour in a deep warm bubbly bath with the waft of vanilla and jasmine. (I'm straight, honest).

“av dane in the barf babe,” she shouted. So I made my way upstairs. Entered the room and was greeted with the following. The pictures below show the bath scene that greeted me

As you can clearly see from the first picture where I have placed the tin of shaving foam, that the water was 13mm deep. Because you can't properly appreciate the depth, the second picture shows my finger which is actually touching the base of the bath. She even used bubble bath which in a bath that size would have required dipping her finger in the bottle and then running finger quickly under the tap. I shouted to no one in particular that I wanted to be bathed no sautéed. I can sneeze more liquid than this bath. Children in Somalia get more bath water than this. If she had of peed in this bath it would have been a 70% urine mix. We are not even on a water meter. We can if we wish, use as much water as we please.

I did attempt to get into this bath and first of all I stood and noticed that the water did not rise above my big toe. I then thought I would stick with it, mainly out of sheer curiosity and rolled around twice like a crocodile with a kill to get myself as wet as possible. I was now three quarters wet and sitting in an albeit dry bath. This was one of the hardest experiences of my life. I have scorch marks where my damp arse chafed against the now dry bath surface which was sticking to my skin like araldite. I have been required to apply germoline to my third degree plastic burns. I never managed to get damp from neck upwards.

I climbed out of the bath, obviously didn't bother with a towel as I was still dry and flushed the toilet. Which incidentally used more water than my bath.
After some discussion I was firmly informed that this amount of water was sufficient for washing ones flu.

Now I know.