Five O’Clock Blues

March 29, 2015

I woke up at five o’clock
A morning or two ago
I hate that time, it really sucks
It makes me think “Oh no!”

Because in my head it’s nearly time
For the alarm to sound
And that’s the time to go to work
And out of bed I bound.

I genuinely felt a touch of woe
As I gazed upon the hour
It’s strange that something as small as that
Can carry so much power.

But the mood was lifted
And I even pumped my fist
Because just below the time, you see
Was a fact my brain had missed.

Because which ever way you slice it
Five o’clock’s not the best
But when it’s five on Saturday
You can just lay back and rest.

Because that was what my brain had missed
And what I’ve overlooked
I’d already worked the whole damn week
More time in bed was booked.

So as I snuggled under cover
And settled down again
I realised how awesome that feeling was
And long may weekends reign.

Fry For An Hour

March 28, 2015

The night the clocks go forward.

Stephen Fry’s even got in on this, now.

I mean, he literally is everywhere.

And now he’s the BBC’s face of clocks going forward. Or the voice of it. Or something. Because he’s got a show on Radio 4 about it, and a webpage about the show about the clocks going forward.

In much the same was a The Big Bang Theory is rapidly becoming the new Friends, as Channel 4 shows it endlessly in a desperate bid to hide the fact that apart from Hollyoaks, E4 content is practically non-existent, Stephen Fry is fast becoming the new Carol Vorderman.

Where once Vorders would have her face splashed across everything from Sudoku to the Internet – both of which you could be mistaken for thinking she invented, in much the same was as, prior to Mylene Klass, no woman had ever had a baby, we now have Stephen Fry as the face of anything that isn’t quite Science-y enough to merit getting Professor Brian Cox out of bed.

So, looking like an unkempt Hugh Grant as seen in a fairground mirror, Stephen is leading us through the myriad twists and turns of changing the clocks. And asking if we should bother, whether we should leave them as they are and a variety of other things that, at the end of the day, won’t make a blind bit of difference to the fact that the clocks are going forward and all day tomorrow people will annoy you by saying things like “…but it’s really only ten o’clock…”

It wouldn’t be so bad if this didn’t happen every time the clocks changed. Someone comes out and tells you why it happens, someone else says that it shouldn’t happen because of a reason involving daylight in the evenings which, apparently would save hundreds of thousands of pounds in energy bills because people wouldn’t have to use as much to light and heat their homes. Because changing the clocks so they’re permanently set an hour later (i.e. not putting them back in October) somehow makes winter warmer? And then there’s someone from Scotland who says if you do that it’s bloody ridiculous because it won’t get light until 10am in the morning. And the people in London turn their noses up and bemoan the lack of more daylight for drinking cocktails on a veranda somewhere.

Apparently, someone’s even proposed that we have GMT+1 and GMT+2, which is just like we have now, but an hour later than that.

Which means it wouldn’t get light in Scotland until lunch time. Or something.

But if we do that, why are we still calling it GMT. There would actually be a time zone change at the point at which GMT is calculated. Which means that GMT probably wouldn’t be GMT.

Doesn’t it?

Help me Stephen…

Sad To See You Go

March 27, 2015

Zayn has left One Direction
He’s had it with that life
He wants to live like a normal person
With Little Mix for a wife.

But people haven’t coped too well
Young and old alike
They’ve asked for compassionate leave at work
I’d say, “On your bike!”

Because if that sort of thing’s allowed
Time off for when you’re sad
And it’s not even for a family member
Like your mum, your aunt, or dad.

Well that kind of sets a precedent
To take a day of leave
When something you like comes to an end
And you need some time to grieve.

I’m not sure, if you have a job
You can take a day of leave
When a member quits a boy band
Leaving wotsit, thing and, erm, Steve

I quite liked the Sugababes
When they were still about
Think of the days I could have had
To mourn when one dropped out.

I think I missed a trick with that
Steps and Atomic Kitten too
I can’t believe I went to work
When I could’ve stayed home to boo.


March 26, 2015

Arriva have invested money into their bus fleet which, if I stop to think about it, explains all the corner-cutting cost savings on bus journeys over the past few weeks. No engine coolant here, overheating brakes there. All these things save pennies.
And what do those pennies make?

New buses.

With WiFi.


As someone who spends a lot of time riding on a variety of different peasant wagons, having WiFi on the bus is amazing. It was previously available on just one of the Wakefield routes – a service I have never used, but have piggybacked off the WiFi in traffic jams if one of the buses strayed near enough.

But now it’s on my route. And there are plug sockets, which I don’t even have to use a plug with. I can just plug my USB cable directly into the side of the bus.

The future is amazing.

As long as you don’t want to watch videos. Or stream TV shows or something. You know, the perfect things to do on a bus. Given the opportunity I could plough through, say, House Of Cards or something while commuting to and from work.

But, alas alack and meh, this is not to be.

I can view the internet without using any of my data – or at least the areas deemed safe by Vodaphone – but I can’t watch an episode of Tabletop or catch up with the latest episode of that show that everyone’s talking about or one of its other generic cousins.

I can view a static internet. No cat videos for me. I can rapidly load a series of pictures of cats and flick through them to provide the illusion of movement. But that’s it.

It’s just one animated GIF away from being like having dial-up. On a bus.

Maybe the future’s not all it cracked up to be.

Man Hits Other Man

March 25, 2015

The internet is up in arms
‘Cos Clarkson has been fired
And everyone’s upset with that
Despite what has transpired.

The man is a legend
Is what the people say
You can’t fire him, he is too good
Don’t make him go away.

You’re ruining our Sunday night
With no Clarkson on the box
I can’t believe they fired him
God, what a bunch of cocks.

Even David Cameron,
The leader of this land
Said don’t get rid of Clarkson
He’s my friend, and he is grand.

But that should have been the first clue
As to just what Clarkson’s like
Cos Cameron’s other pals are twats
So Davey, on your bike.

And when you stop to think it through
At what actually took place
Would you expect to keep your job
Punching a colleague in the face?

Because what it boils down to
Is a bully in a sulk
And no food – that made him angry
And unleashed his inner hulk.

Violence is not the answer
When you can’t get your way
So I’m quite glad that tosspot’s gone
Whatever the rest may say.

The Man On The Bus Goes Parp, Parp, Parp

March 24, 2015

I’m sure we’ve all done it. And, I’ll be honest, if you try and tell me that you haven’t then I shall point at you and ask if you need an extinguisher for those trousers you’re wearing. The ones which seem to be very much ablaze.

We’ve all broken wind on public transport.

You. And you. And you.

I’ve done it so often that I think I could legitimately list it as a hobby on my CV.

But, correct me if I’m wrong, when you do it you try and do it quietly. Discreetly. On the sly.

Not everyone does that, it seems.

Yesterday I journeyed home on the bus. To mix things up a bit, I rode on the bottom deck. Not for me thrill of being able to see into the windows of the houses we passed. No, my view would be of hedges, bushes and fences.

I took to reading my book (Cold Day by Jim Butcher, since you asked) and occasionally lifting my head up to confirm a) my surroundings and b) the activities of my fellow passengers.

At one of these checks, the man across the aisle from me lifted himself from his seat and let rip with an almighty fart.

Now… I have lived. I might not have seen all the sights that the world has to offer, but I have been present at the precise moment an elephant passed wind.

This was very similar.

An elephant parping, incidentally, sounds like you would expect and, I think, is one of nature’s greatest sounds. It’s loud, the sound carries like no other and it’s vaguely onomatopiaic.

If you’ve never heard an elephant fart, inagine some walruses playing pat-a-cake. Or applauding loudly to something that Walruses really appreciate. Like performance theatre, or the opening bars of a symphony. It was just like that.

And I heard it come from an elderly gentleman, propping homself up on crutches to get an air gap twixt buttocks and seat.

And unless he was the North of England’s premier elephant fizz-bang impersonators then he let rip with all his colonic might.

Apparently I’m still a childish child, as I laughed all the way home.


Room With A Spew

March 23, 2015

Yesterday, the sun was bright
In the garden we did toil
And Peppa came outside to play
And scampered in the soil.

It’s been a while since she’s been out
For anything more that a poo
Since she was mysteriously stabbed
By whatever ran her through.

Maybe it was just the shock
Of the great wide world outside
Or maybe it was something else
I’ll let you all decide.

Because the thing that Peppa did
On her first real foray in the garden
Was eat some grass, and vomit it up
Without a beg your pardon.

Upon the doormat she was sick
After much convulsion
Leaving a slimy piece of grass
And my face etched with revulsion.

So it’s good to have our Peppa back
In and out of the house
And at least it’s only grass she brings back
And not a bleeding mouse.


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