From Walton to West Derby

Inevitably for most, there comes a time in your life when you have to fly the nest and set up on your own. As someone said to me not so long ago, there comes a point when there are simply too many adults living in the one house. You're bound to annoy each other for one reason or another so it's time to set up our own house.

Now I've technically done the moving out thing before. Except last time, there wasn't really much to do with regards to setting up, and we were probably spent more money on crates of Carling than the rent. Fuzzy times. Part time work and a sore liver saw me return to my parents house, tail tucked neatly between my legs.

But now I'm doing it grown up style, as I don't work nights in a call centre any more. As Stan Lee nearly once famously said, 'with proper relocation comes proper responsibility.'

I've got so much more to consider now. First off, I've got about a million things I've got to change my address for. Bank and phone bill are just the start.

Then there's sorting out your council tax and electoral roll stuff. If it weren't for the Internet, I wouldn't have the foggiest where to start with those.

Then there's the Internet. It's probably a sign of the times when I'm considering the TV and broadband packages as bills and not luxuries, but how could I leave all of you high and dry with regards to you all reading my random shit chatting?

There's the furniture to consider, as well as bedding and curtains. Tea towels, bath towels, hand towels. I could go on, but it's actually starting to look like my list for stuff I need to do in order to have a new flat to live in without any repercussions.

After going through a lot of this stuff, I've decided there is one massive difference between the last time I moved out and now. And yes, there's the obvious stuff such as the employment situation, the difference in age and the fact that I'm no longer going to be living in Walton.

But I'm talking about the difference in my approach to the whole thing. Last time, it was a trip to Ikea for a few knives and forks, some cups and glasses and a child's night light to put outside the bedroom to signify that we were not to be disturbed. Now I'm looking at the whole thing, thinking of what we need to live there in a reasonably comfortable manner and how we can prevent people knocking saying that we owe them £10,000 in telly licence fees.

And this is because there is a female involved. I'm certain that if I was moving out on my own then the beanbag and PC chair in my room would represent a sufficient seating solution for two people. And I definitely wouldn't be asking for measurements so we can sort some curtains out. But now, I have bought bar stools for the breakfast bar. We're sorting a nice couch out. Curtains are a must for the bedroom. And I'm pretty sure I heard the word cushions the other day.

What's more, I'm actually taking a step back and checking out my finances and seeing whether we'd be able to do it comfortably. "The man from Del Barclays. He say yes!"

So there it is. When you're moving out and you want to do it properly, make sure there is a woman involved at some point. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Food Nazis

We've all heard the term 'he's a growing lad.' I've had it bandied about while I've been piling down someone elses tea once mine had gone, but those days are behind me now.

It would be fairly obvious to say that the older kids get, the more they will probably need to eat. Of course there are exceptions, such as fat kids or fussy kids, but for this rant we shall use an example of a child that eats fairly normally.

All of this stuff is obvious. Many people have had kids and have fed them a sufficient amount of food to maintain their vitality, if you will.

So why then do restaurants think that they can dictate what point a child has to start eating adult sizes?

If you look at a menu in a restaurant, you will see that there is, more often than not, a separate section for children's food. Usually consisting of chicken nuggets, small pizzas and fish fingers.

Now I take issue with a number of things with these menus in mind. First of all, why do they think kids eat nothing but balls of chicken covered in breadcrumbs, similarly set up sticks of fish and cheese and tomato bread? It's not very often you will see a kids menu that deviates much from those three examples. Perhaps the odd spaghetti based meal.

Secondly, how do they decide the age limit? Surely this should be up to the guardians of these children, as most other things are. Is there a legal responsibility to impose such rules on parents taking their children out for something nice to eat?

And with these rules, I'm fairly sure the flexibility of them is not bending both ways. If you had a child who could stomach the majority of an adult size meal, you could order one with no issues whatsoever. Yet, if you (say, a 25 year old adult) didn't feel like you could down a whole pizza and chips alone, and you took it upon yourself to order a kids size chicken nuggets meal then it would be a completely different story. And even if there was no problem, you definitely know that the waitress will be glaring at you as some tight fisted con-artist.

And last, and by no means least, the drinks you get with them. Fair enough if they're offering a small apple juice or orange juice. Even a glass of Coke. But why would you serve an evil drink like Fruit Shoot with it?

People are paying you good money to serve them food and give them a pleasant break from the monotone of working life. Why serve up a liquid dose of cocaine designed specifically for kids? They go nuts off it. That's not a break.

So next time I go to a restaurant, I'm going to wreck the waitress' head and order my nephews two mixed grills and me and the missus can have dinky pizzas and bottled up tablets.

Election Day 2010

It's election day. Not that you need me to tell you. The telly, papers and the gimps who are knocking on houses won't let you forget. The whole thing is a circus and I'm over the moon it's finished tomorrow.

Regardless of the result tonight, it is going to be ruthless for the forseeable future. Certainly everyone is, at some point, going to be pissed off by our elected government over the next 5 years because of the cuts they will have to make. Unless you're minted, and Cameron gets in of course.

So, with the telly all booked up tonight with Election 2010 stuff, why not introduce a change of the voting system? Everyone has been saying it has been hyped up X-Factor style, so why not just take the plunge and sell off the TV rights? The polling stations were rammed earlier, so there is an increased interest in it all. Then you could have it as a Saturday night programme in the weeks leading up to the big day, rather than televising all the shite they've been polluting our news and adverts with? And you could vote from the comfort of your couch instead of standing behind a slightly smelly fella with his headphones on listening to Celine Dion. True story.

The TV rights and money raised through telephone voting (let's be honest, people paid to make Joe McElderry win, so in theory they might actually pay for something that matters) would certainly throw a few bob in to the government's money jar. This in turn could potentially decrease the cuts they would have to make. And in all honesty, if it saved a good few people's jobs, then it would be worth it.

And then I'd know specifically what time to avoid the telly to not be subjected to it.

Temporary Work

Having recently lost my job, I have found myself placed in temporary work for the first time in my life. This is okay. The money is okay. The work is okay. It's all okay.

But having experienced this now for two weeks, you don't feel as secure as you would do in a normal long term role. Which is quite ironic, having just been made redundant from one! You get that feeling like it could all come to an end anytime soon and you'll be out on your arse looking for another job, like the poor soul you are.

So having felt these unfamiliar and somewhat unsettling thoughts, I can't help but liken it to the employment equivalent of a one night stand.

Yes, a steady job is the much better option, with much better long term benefits. But the quick fix, temporary sessions can add that little bit of experience to your CV. Sometimes it is experience you may not get in a long term period of employment. You may be asked to do the stuff they wouldn't ask their permanent staff, or even stuff they are tired of doing theirselves.

Then there is the part where you wonder where this fast and furious fun will lead you in the near future. Will you have impressed enough to earn yourself that little bit longer, or will it be a case of "I'm not looking for someone to fill that gap in a permanent position."

But that being said, there is always the possibility of that special scenario where someone spots the qualities and characteristics that they feel they could put up with for a couple of years. Until someone else with an 'extensive resume' comes along that is.

Blogs

Now this may come as a surprise to you, but I write a blog. Yes, I do, I swear. And as a result of this blog writing, I've actually taken the time out the past couple of days to have a look through some other blogs knocking about to see what all the fuss is indeed about.

Except I haven't really looked at other blogs. You try and Google some funny blogs and see if you can find something with a slight bit of an aim on writing topical and humerous quips day in, day out? I bloody well can't!

You go to the top of this page right now, and click on 'Next Blog.' I'll give you about 3/1 on it being about Jesus. Or photography. Or a photographer named Jesus. Of Warrington.

The only one I've found is an absolute cracker and I have spent a good few days (don't worry, I read slow) reading some of the entries and pissing myself. But other than that, they're all hiding! I have Googled high and low and I still cannot find some other funnies to amuse myself.

So I can only apologise in being the only blog like mine I can actually find on the internet! If this be the case, then I shall strive to do my best in keeping up my onslaught on all things everyday!

The Three Little Pigs

There's been a few stories on here that have been re-written/blitzed to bits, for your reading pleasure, so I thought I'd continue the curve by murdering another one of our childhood favourites.

First off, the three little swines don't live in some fairytale field, as you'd expect of the images that have been installed by 'little you' when you were 6. They live in Norris Green, and from what I can see, their houses aren't built from straw or sticks. Just bricks. We're being dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st Century ladies and gentlemen, whether you like it or not.

The next twist has got to be is that the Big Bad Wolf is obviously a metaphor for some other being. It would be extraordinary if a Big Bad Wolf would be able to wander around a district of Liverpool unquestioned. A bailiff will be suffice. We'll stick with the pigs though. Unless you want to imagine them as Policemen. Depends on your stance on the latter really.

Anyways. The first little pig has set up a nice one bedroom terraced abode, fitted with bog standard wooden windows, courtesy of the Thatcher era. God knows us Scousers love a bit of Maggy. It's a 'front door on the pavement' gaff, just like them ones you see in that Hovis advert. Minus the little kid running through time, etc.

So the Big Bad Bailiff knocks one Little Pig Number One's house with that reassuring 'I'm here for your telly' knock. The walking slab of butcher's produce spies the Tax Bandit out of one of his shabby, council standard portholes at the front of his house and decides to make bacon and do a runner down the entry and visit Little Pig Number Two.

Now, Little Pig Number Two's house is a slightly better form of accomodation. There is certainly more than one bedroom. Two if you're interested. It is also fully equipped with single glazed UPVC windows and doors. And there's a small sized garden at the front. No soil. Just concrete and sadness.

Number One gives Number Two a swift text (fantastic pigs these, houses, phones and everything!) to inform him to lash the kettle on and fire up last week's X Factor for a bit of a blimp of Cheryl Cole on the Sky+. Dirty swines.

After a decent dose of consumer television, they both heard a familiar knock on the UPVC door. There's no need to look out of the window this time. The Big Bad Bailiff's knock is sound enough for them. They picked up their coats, made somewhat like Elvis, and left the building.

They jumped in their Ford C-Max (getting better this) and drove around the corner, out of Norris Green and just past the Walton Asda, to Little Pig Number Three's house. This is something of a step up to the other pig's houses. Front and back gardens, with actual turf. Wood effect UPVC windows. Four bedrooms, including an en suite bog for the master bedroom. And wireless internet. For all your Facebook needs.

It was getting a little later in the day now, and Little Pig Number Three decides to crack the tins of Carling open and lash the match on. Liverpool v Hull, 2009. Cracking match. After a large fix of pure mullering, the Pigs wind down with a custom made pizza from the Asda and a few more cans of lager. Until they hear an unnerving thump on the front door. Pigs One and Two seem unsettled whilst Little Pig Number Three calmly gets up and grabs another three cans.

The Big Bad Bailiff walked around to the bay window, where he could plainly see the three little pigs enjoying their pizza and ale. He knocked again, only to find that he was being ignored. So he huffed, he puffed, and he knocked again.

Evenutally, the Big Bad Bailiff did one and all the Little Piggies got blitzed and celebrated not paying their council tax. Or whatever.

So the lessons learned from this much altered fable? Wood effect UPVC windows are the future. Pigs hate spending money. You're probably better off hiding from bailiffs in a friend's house in Walton, rather than your house in Norris Green. You could potentially save money in this economic climate by sharing a house, rather than renting or buying individually. Or just pay your council tax. It's upto you.

Holidays

In the country we live in, with it's poor economy, it's shootings and it's plethora of clouds, it is understandable why so many British people want to do one for 10-14 days each year. I myself stuck with this mass exodus this summer and did one myself. The holiday itself was fantastic. Speedboats, sun, and a Maltese ringer for Cannon or Ball. I'm unsure which one it is, and can't be arsed researching either. I take pride in my work.

First of all, a necessity during a holiday in a country where the temperature rarely drops below "The Surface of The Sun°C" is air conditioning. But at €12 a night (which equates to an extra €168 for the holiday), a set of plums like a tin of, well, plums, looked like the better option. That's a lesson learned for the next holiday methinks. Waking up in a pool of sweat and putting cloths in the freezer is something I don't wish to repeat.

Next up is my beef with sun lotion. It's generally well known that anything below is Factor 15 is just Factor 15 with water in it. But that's besides the point. I want to know why the sun tan stuff we brought along sounded more like a lolly ice. Ambre Solaire? I could have waded in drunk and drank it, it sounds so good. Did the trick though, I must say. (Sun tan wise, not quenching a drunken yearning for fruity goodness.)

We then have families who leave their children to their own devices while they seek a tan that resembles something of a mahogany-esque quality. Quite unsettling really, especially being on the roof of the apartments. I shall strike down these families now with scorn. Scorn and sunburn. And they kept reserving the best sunbeds. The bastards.

Holiday food is always a talking point. I myself found the variety over there a nice change. Instead of my usual fish and vegetables, I ate unusual fish. And vegetables. And a whole rabbit. And before you all write me off as a monster for eating poor Thumper, I will add that this rabbit was a convicted murderer. So it deserved eating.

And finally, the place of choice, which was Malta, was absolutely fantastic, especially given that I have family over there. I've got to thank Alberto Santos Dumont or The Wright Brothers (depending what side of the fence you're on) for the capability of flight so I could see my cousin's new baby son and my family who I have missed and, as a result of coming home, am continuing to miss.

Malta itself is a fantastic island, if not a little dangerous on the roads. The people are so very laid back. The weather is fantastic during your run of the mill holiday months. But a little passage such as this could not describe the little place sufficiently enough. Just go over there. You'll see what I'm on about.