Biros that look like they’re working then suddenly stop. Then start. Then stop. All in the middle of signing something important and destined for permanent archiving, meaning that your signature will tell all who encounter it that you have all the hand-eye co-ordination of a drunk two-year-old.
One of Missus Ming’s favourite rants: Girls who bang on about expecting real equality between the sexes, never let you forget that they are Still Being Oppressed and then say it’s the men’s job to buy the drinks.
Toothbrushes which seem to have been made from babies’ hair, so soft do the bristles go after a couple of days. When I am king, all toothbrushes will be made from wire wool.
Izal medicated lavatory paper, now seldom seen but for long the scourge of school and pub bogs. Who thought that tracing paper was effective at wiping shitty arses?
Bars and cafes that play Kenny G, in the belief that stuffing their customers’ ears with piss-poor American easy listening bilge will lend an air of international sophistication to their squalid little pie houses.
Ken Livingstone. Not just for the fact that he entertains people actively promoting Islamic terrorism at our expense. Not for the fact that he won’t approve a St. George’s day parade in England’s capital city but is happy to promote St. Patrick’s day. Not for the fact that he’s never had a proper job and has made it his life’s work to impose the sort of loopy rules and projects upon the people who pay his wages that only a career politician would take. Simply because he’s an adenoidal little bastard who wastes public funds and time because he’s not big enough to just say sorry when he’s offended somebody again. I hope Boris Johnson celebrates his election (how much more could the floppy old fop fuck up the city than Newt Boy?) by publicly crapping in Ken’s lunch. Then saying sorry, of course.
The new Post Office rules for large and small letters. How about getting the fucking mail there on time, unopened and un-stolen before making us jump through hoops to send yet another complaint to you? Ditto postal workers holding up the mail for three weeks and expecting us to sign their petitions. Sell the whole thing to somebody boring and reliable like the Swiss.
The increasingly loud announcements on the train, intended to penetrate the hearing of even the profoundly deaf, which cut it at random to announce not just the approaching stations but vital facts like the fact that they have just run out of sausage rolls in the buffet car.
The pricks who decided to give every kid a prize at sports days and who are, doubtless, now working as highly paid consultants to the government, advising on how to deal with a generation who think the world owes them a living.
