I Am Livid

I rarely make mistakes.

When I do, I tend to deal with them like a mature adult and ignore them in the hope that they will go away.  But sometimes, as in this case, someone will pop into my comments box and point out my mistake to the world.

I am not an unreasonable man, and as such I think it only fair that I correct that mistake.

In this post a few days ago I suggested I had eaten breakfast at Giraffe, when in fact it turns out I actually ate at The Bridge Bar.  This is what happens when you write a post a few weeks after the event, and when you are unable to recall the name of the restaurant, you search Google for places to eat in Terminal 1.  Unfortunately, Google lied and suggested there was only one place I could have eaten.

You see, it is mostly Google’s fault after all.

Anyway, I have stealth-edited the original post and some of the comments so NO-ONE WILL EVER KNOW.  Except for all the people reading this.  And the people at Giraffe.  And any Google refers.  And anyone you choose to tell about this.

So no harm done.

I have fond memories of the recent men’s 100 metres final in Beijing.  Usain Bolt put in a performance that quite literally, made track and field history.

Then I look at the state of the country today, with rising inflation, falling house prices, banks on the verge of collapse, recession looming large on the horizon, and a feeling among many that things are about to take a significant turn for the worse.

Then I look back to just over three years ago to the Live 8 concerts, and I wonder if the Government completely misunderstood the stated aim of Making Poverty History.  Because right now, it looks like they could be about to do just that.

Yes, I know, it is the question you have all been asking yourself for the last five months.  “When oh when will Angry do another podcast?”

Well you need ask no more, as in the second week of October I will be recording the fourth I Am Livid Podcast for your aural pleasure.  Unfortunately, Fat Jim is selfishly getting married soon and so will be on the other side of the world on his honeymoon, but do not fret, as I have been fortunate enough to secure the services of a top blogger to join me in the recording!!

You should not read anything into the fact that he literally lives round the corner and owns some recording equipment, as I would definitely have asked him to join me even if he lived in Scotland and brought nothing to the table.  Definitely.

I am delighted to announce that the co-presenter will be Cliff Jones of This is This fame.  At this point the plans are, at best, vague.  So if you have any topics in particular that you would like us to discuss, then please send Cliff or I an email, or leave a comment below, and we will do our best to oblige.  Unless we can think of something funnier.

Having finally made my way airside, I had a small amount of time to get something to eat before boarding my flight.  It was still early, so I fancied a light breakfast.

I took a seat in The Tin Goose pub /  Restaurant and perused the breakfast menu.  It was full of overpriced variations of the English breakfast, with little option for someone wanting something on the ‘light’ side.  I settled on Eggs Benedict and waited for someone to take my order.

And waited.

Then I noticed that this restaurant was ’self ordering’ as opposed to table-service or self-service.  You go to the bar to order, give them your table number, and they bring the food to you.

This presented a dilemma.  I was eating alone, so I would have to leave my table whilst I placed my order, and due to the constant security warnings I was not about to leave my belongings there as a sign the table was occupied.  I did not want to be at the centre of a “Extremely popular blogger causes airport chaos!” story, not again.

I finally got to the front of the queue and ordered.

“We have no Eggs Benedict, sorry.”

“Right.  I’ll just have some scrambled eggs on toast then?”

“We don’t do that.”

“Poached?”

“Nope.”

“Boiled?”

“Nope.  You can have fried.  As part of a breakfast from the menu.”

I acquiesced and chose the “mini” full English, because I am on a healthy eating kick.  I also ordered an Orange juice.  He bent over and opened the fridge behind the bar and pulled out a ready-poured glass of orange juice.

“I don’t want that one.”

“What’s wrong, it’s fresh?”

“It was pre-poured, you could be secretly trying to rohypnol me or anything.  I’d like a fresh one, poured in front of me, please.”

He did as I asked and requested my table number, which I handed over, before he pointed out that an elderly couple were now sat there.

“Well I WAS sat there, before I had to come up here to order, whilst carrying all my belongings so as not to cause a full scale security alert, ensuring the table looked vacant.”

We settled on a recently vacated table close by, and I went off to use some incredibly expensive wi-fi.  My breakfast arrived, without the toast, and I tucked into the worst ten pound breakfast I’ve ever had.

In this world of ever increasing efficiencies, time saving innovations, and stuff that goes quicker, it is not unusual for me to be impressed by something designed to make my life easier.

Which is why I was pleased to receive an email from the airline BMI just 24 hours before a recent trip to Edinburgh.

“There are just 24 hours to go before your flight – so why not make the most of them by checking in on-line and avoiding the airport queues?  Once at the airport just drop your bags at the NEW on-line fast bag drop and head straight for the departure gate. What could be simpler?”

BMI coming to my flat and collecting me would be simpler, there was no need to end with that question.  It merely invites disaster, but this innovation was way beyond my (pretty low if I am honest) expectations.

It was good news, of course, as I hate queueing at the airport due to my perpetual luck in always being behind someone with a ‘luggage dispute’.  I duly followed the email instructions and was checked in for my flight the following morning.  All in about two minutes.

I got up bright and breezy the following morning and made my way to the airport.  Upon arrival at Terminal 1, I noticed a large queue in the BMI area.   “Ha!” I thought to myself, not entirely silently.

If only they were Internet savvy like myself, they might have avoided the queues.  I moved among them like a man with a purpose.   A purpose and a suitcase.

“Excuse me please, I’m trying to get to the fast on-line bag drop.”

“So are we!” said the man in front of me.

“And me!” said the woman in front of him.

“We are too!” concurred the family of Americans about fifty people ahead of me.

It appeared that the entire queue had checked in on-line and was waiting for the fast bag drop.

Now this is what happens when fads like ‘email’ gain momentum. Oh yes, they sound great in principle, but eventually people like me, the genuine technological leaders, lose out.

To compound my misery there was a much smaller queue for people who had not checked in on-line, preferring to do things the old fashioned way.  They had the distinct look of the Amish about them.

“Excuse me,” I asked of the stressed looking BMI staff member organising our queue, “Couldn’t I just go and drop my bag off over there, in the smaller queue?”

“I’m afraid not, because technically you’re already checked in.”

“I checked in because you said it would be faster, yet all you’ve done is move the entire queue from point A,” I said, pointing at point A, “to Point B.” I concluded, pointing at point B, my feet.

“And I’m pretty sure this NEW fast bag drop section is just the old check-in desks renamed?”

“This will actually be quicker, I assure you.”

She did not assure me in the slightest.  I watched with envy as the Amish travellers swiftly made their way through to the departure gates whilst I listened to an American family fifty people ahead of me argue about their baggage allowance.

OK.

I have moved to a new server!

I realise that this is a bit like a friend you never see emailing to tell you they have moved house, it really makes no difference to you and is of little, if any, interest.

Except that the site should now be running at full speed.  And you might have to type your name in again if you leave a comment.

I apologise to anyone who made a comment in the last 6 hours or so, as they have been lost in the transfer between servers.  I can only hope that the Internet will survive without those words of wisdom, which are now lost forever.

Once again, if you could let me know if this is now moving along at a decent pace I would be very grateful.  Then I can get back to writing some proper posts about airport check-ins, over-priced breakfasts and a psychic fayre at one of my local pubs.

Just a quick note to ask those of you that are still reading this, have you noticed any discernible change in the speed of the site recently?

It seems to be going much more slowly at my end, and I am in discussion with my hosting provider about it, but it would help if you could let me know your own experiences.

Is it the same as ever?  Quicker?  Slower?  You only read this through an RSS reader so you really couldn’t give a toss?

As Uncles go, I am a pretty damn good one.

I recently visited my young nephews, who are 4 and 2 respectively.  This is good news because they are reaching that age where they finally understand the concept of having their affections bought and paid for.  In keeping with my careful cultivation of the title, “Cool Uncle Angry” I stopped off at Tesco to buy them some sweets.

I settled on some Smarties chocolate cakes, as they mixed two of my favourite things from my own youth, Smarties and cakes (it is amazing no-one has done this earlier, it is obvious when you think about it)

Upon arrival at my sisters, I was in danger of being ignored in favour of a DVD about cartoon racing cars, so I subtely let them know what I had for them.

“I HAVE BROUGHT SWEETIES!”

As we opened the packet I noticed that the described six-pack, was in fact, a five-pack.  Leaving us one cake short.  I have been warned about my language around the boys, so I was careful to swear very very quietly.

Luckily there was a freephone helpline on the back (I assume for people unable to open the packet).  I called them to explain, in detail, my dilemma.

“…so you see, I bought the packet in good faith, but there are exactly 20% fewer cakes than there should be.”

“I’m very sorry about that Sir.  I can send you some vouchers?”

“That’s all very well and good, but right now you have put me in a position where I am going to have to choose which nephew I prefer.”

“Oh.  Couldn’t you have one, and let them have two each?”

“No, you don’t understand.  There were meant to be six, and I took my two first of all, because as lovely as they are, I am my favourite person out of the three of us.”

“Right.”

“So now I have two nephews and only three cakes.”

“Maybe you could have another and give them one each?”

“I am not greedy!  Plus, that is avoiding the situation you have put me in.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry doesn’t solve my dilemma. It’s a difficult but not impossible decision, actually.  The four year old is probably my favourite, as I have known him longer.”

At this point she seemed to think I was having a laugh at her expense, but I could not see the funny side.  We ended the conversation with me giving her my address so she could send me suitable compensation.  I decided to settle the immediate problem by eating a third cake, as I have been told it does not do well in the long run to show favourites.

Five days later I recieve a cheque for three English pounds from Nestle.

One of the problems about organising a holiday for twenty-four adult males, is that they regress into their childhood selves and come to you with issues they would normally resolve themselves quite easily.

As a result, my first few drinks of each evening tended to be of the soft variety in order to take in the issues of the day.

The waitress came over and took drinks orders from the various groups among us.

“I’ll just have a pint of coke please, mucho gracias.” I said, having finally mastered the local lingo.

She returned a few moments later with my large coca-cola.

“That’ll be seven Euros please.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Seven Euro.”

“I think there’s been some mistake.  This is a coke.  Are you sure you don’t have me mixed up with someone who ordered a beer?”

“No.  The beer is six Euros a pint.  Coke is seven.”

“A coke costs more than a beer?  Seriously?  I used to work in a cinema, in fact I was stand-in manager on Sundays, despite only being 17 - but that bit is not important, except to show how responsible I was a teenager - and I know for a fact that post-mix coke, which this is, costs about twenty cents a pint!  That’s a mark up of……HAS ANYONE GOT A CALCULATOR?   ANYONE?…..A CALCULATOR?…..that’s a mark up of about 3500%!”

“I don’t make the rules, sorry.”

I decided to drink only alcohol from this point, which is apparently not a suitable excuse for not adequately sorting out everybody’s issues.  Yes, your luggage might still be lost, but you should blame the profiteering Spanish landlords.

With twenty four in our group, the only sensible option for transporting us to the golf club each day, was a coach.  Which we duly hired in advance, like any sensible northern European.

Now, the thing about Spanish coach companies is that they tend to supply coaches driven by Spanish drivers.  After picking us up on time, we arrived at our destination and I went about confirming the pick up time with him.

“WE WILL NEED PICKING UP AT SEVEN THIRTY, OK?” I articulated, perfectly clearly.

“No hablo inglés.” he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders.

This was disappointing.  There were twenty four of us, and only one of him.  It would have been much easier for him to learn our language than for all of us to learn his, twenty-four times easier in fact, but he had selfishly decided to stick with a language that had served his country well across the millennia.

Luckily enough, I vaguely recalled seeing a series of instructional business videos with John Cleese early in my career, so I knew how to handle the situation.  I remembered one particular lesson where he struggled to get his point across to a small Spanish waiter.

“LOOK.  SEVEN THIRTY?  CI?  NINETEEN THIRTY?  CI?  I WILL WRITE IT DOWN HERE ON THIS PIECE OF PAPER.  CI?”

His cab was slightly elevated so I could not reinforce the instruction with a clip to the back of the head as Mr. Cleese had suggested.   Still, he smiled and implied he had understood.

Later that evening, as eight-thirty rapidly approached and we were still stood outside the golf course, and with twenty three angry holiday makers moaning in my ears, I vowed to follow Mr Cleese’s intructions to the letter for the rest of the week.

As promised in my most recent post, I have donated the tidy sum of $121.50 to Childline.  Technically you can’t donate to Childline, it must be the NSPCC.   But do not worry, I have not used this fact to claim that ‘all bets are off’.  Using a readily available Internet currency converter, I calculated the donation at £67.33.

This is lot of money.

In Puerto Banus, from where I have just returned, this will buy you one Gin & Tonic and a mars bar.  It is like holidaying twenty years in the future.

Below you will find an image confirmation of my donation, with my super secret identity obscured (the bank would not let me have a Mr Angry credit card, something do with me commiting fraud.  As if!).  Click on it for the full sized image.

I will be back with a normal post tomorrow, when I will be leaving all this altruistic bollocks behind me.

OK, following my attempt to prove that I am at least twenty times better than BT Broadband, you can now all stop in your efforts to help children in distress.

I have made $121.50 in the last 7 days, and will transfer this money to childline (and put up a picture of it).  Below is the page from my Google account.

When I get back from Spain, where I am headed in a few short hours, I will pay this money to ChildLine and post the confirmation of your very kind ‘donations’.

As for my upcoming holiday, It is funny how some of you have managed to get in touch with all of the weather services on the Internet to tell them put up pretend forecasts for ‘Heavy Showers’ during the week I am there.  As practical jokes go, that is quite a good one.  It must have take you ages as I have tried about a dozen forecasters and they all said the same thing.  Well done you!

See you all in a week.

I recently visited my friend Brillo in Leeds.

He is not from Leeds, but he is a born and bred Yorkshireman, so when he says he is taking us on a bit of a pub crawl, it does make you wonder about the type of establishment we will be gracing with our presence.

After a few of the nice pubs in the Chapel Allerton area, we passed a pub even Brillo had not been in before.

“Why haven’t you been in there before?” I asked, perfectly legitimately.

“No idea, but we might as well pop in for a swift one though?”

As we entered, at approximately three in the afternoon, it became apparent that everyone present had been in there since it opened, and had been drinking studiously in all that time.  They did manage to stare at us for a bit though, which was nice of them.  I do like a good acknowledgement.  Too often you enter a pub and are completely ignored, but there is something about the burning gaze of forty or so drunken locals in the early afternoon that makes you feel wanted.  In the “Reward: dead or alive” sense of the word.

As Brillo made his way to the bar we surveyed our surroundings, which appeared not to have been altered since the smoking ban came in, judging by the holes burnt into the carpets and the nicotine stained ceiling.

I went off to make us of the facilities, in order to avoid further accusatory glances from the locals.

That’s when I saw the sign.  It was placed high on the wall to the right of the urinal.  It was a hand-written sheet of A4 and was enclosed in a cheap plastic wallet and fixed to the wall with masking tape.

“If you are reading this, you are probably pissing on the floor.  Don’t.  Please be respectful to other toilet users.”

I have never been asked not to piss on a floor before.  This was truly a first.  I would imagine that post potty-training it is not something that most people need reminding of.  This sign was proof however, that without the sign, the floor was in danger of being flooded with piss.  In fact, the smell suggested it was a fairly common occurrence.

I went back to my other friends, and whilst waiting for Brillo to return with our drinks we discussed what a complete shit hole it was.  Very Quietly.

Eventually Brillo returned.  “£6.36 for four pints!  This place is fucking brilliant!”