Two Minutes

Forgive the language, but I need to talk taxis.

What the fuck is it with fucking taxi companies and this two fucking minutes crap?
It doesn’t matter where the fuck you are or when you fucking order one of these licensed fucking bandits the asswipe cannot, EVER, show up on fucking time and when you phone again to politely enquire why the fucking dipshit has not fucking arrived as fucking promised you are met with the same fucking line from the fuckwit on the base time after time after fucking time.

“He’ll be there in two minutes, mate.”

Why don’t they ever say “two and a half minutes” or “one and three quarter minutes” or “three minutes 15 seconds”? How come they’re always 120 seconds away? I mean, it’s gotta be some kind of extraordinary fucking coincidence, hasn’t it, that at any given time, in any given time zone, at any place on the planet, on any day you are always going to be two fucking minutes distant from the fucking taxi you fucking ordered after you’ve fucking phoned up to say that it’s fucking late?

God forbid they should actually tell the fucking truth and say “well, bearing in mind he’s a Serbo-Albanian-Khazakstani-Georgian-Somali pirate whose only only been in the country seven hours and he’s only got one fucking map and that’s of the main road from Darlaston to fucking Mecca and he didn’t understand the fucking address we gave him in the first fucking place and he has to keep pulling over to the side of the fucking road to hide from the fucking police because he’s an illegal fucking immigrant and the 87-year-old Ford fucking Popular we gave him has only got first fucking gear and you have to keep stopping every hundred yards to let the radiator cool down and he’s gotta run some guns and cocaine for his fucking mate Abdul before he even thinks about doing the fucking job he’s actually fucking paid to do……………I should say he’ll be there just before Hell freezes over and just after Robert fucking Mugabe gets voted Humanitarian of the Year.”

Actually, that’s not fair. They’re not ALWAYS two minutes away. Often they’re “just turning into your street, mate”. Well, how fucking come I can look at the end of my fucking street and not see their Arkansas Chuggabug fucking pile of metallic crap turning fucking into it? Turning the outermost arm of the fucking Milky fucking Way, probably. Turning from a taxi driver into someone intent on fucking up my entire fucking life, maybe. Inexorably turning that last fucking screw on the lid of the fucking coffin which is my fucking life, possibly – but NOT, repeat fucking NOT, turning into my fucking street!!!!

After flogging my guts out at fucking work to earn slightly less than a seven-year-old working part-time in a fucking Bangladeshi sweatshop turning out Prada fucking handbags I really don’t need to know “We’re really busy tonight”. In that case, why tell me the fucking car will arrive at a set fucking time when you fucking know there’s about as much chance of that happening as there is of Antarctica being made of fucking icing sugar?

Oh, “There’s a lot of traffic on the roads tonight” is there? You think? Fuck me!!! How fucking irresponsible of it! I mean, traffic....on the roads? Whatever fucking next? Normally it stays on the fucking pavements, doesn’t it, so that your Mickey fucking Mouse Motors organisation can get from fucking A to fucking B?

My particular favourite, and one I’ve had on more than one occasion, is “He’s outside your house, mate, waiting for you”. “Really? Oh, how silly of me. I thought I’d phoned the Blackbeard Taxi Company and not International Invisicabs ltd!!! Tell me, does one sit in the fucking front or the back of a fucking taxi which has arrived in a different time dimension and doesn't fucking exist in our particular space-time continuum? I mean, I don’t want to look silly sitting in the fucking road on the fucking Tarmac in an imaginary fucking car going ‘brrrrmmmmm, brrrrmmmmmmm’ while all the time I’m sitting in the wrong imaginary fucking seat, do I?” There’s never even the teensiest, weensiest fucking suggestion in what passes for their fucking minds that their fucking so-called fucking drivers are all fucking compulsive fucking liars. I mean, they’re obviously going to be right, aren’t they? “Of course he’s outside my fucking house, pal. How silly I feel now. Thanks for pointing it out. Here’s me, living in this fucking place for 10 years and all the fucking time I’ve been living in the wrong house! ‘Scuse me while I run round town trying to find out which fucking house your fucking dickhead IS parked outside and then I can go in and evict the residents, telling them that they’ve been living in my house and I will be taking legal fucking action.”

I have a theory that taxis only ever pick up grey-haired people with beards. Why? BECAUSE EVERYBODY HAS GOT GREY HAIR AND A FUCKING BEARD BY THE TIME THEY SHOW UP!!!!!!!!!!

If they ever do fucking show up, you’re then faced with the fatuous list of fucking excuses for why you were 18 when you ordered the fucking car but now you’re unable to walk unaided, have an incontinence bag and are expecting a fucking telegram from the fucking Queen in a week or so. “Sorry mayat. You moved house, innit? You forgot your address, innit. You didn’t order a taxi at all, innit. Just lucky is passing, innit? Don’t worry, mayat, I do it all time, innit. You finished work? What you do?”
“I’m a taxi inspector at nights and during the day I work for immigration. Now just drive this heap of shit to the pub, try to stay off the fucking pavements, put down that mobile fucking phone, stop jabbering away in Hindustani to that cunt you deal drugs with and there’s a chance, just a slim fucking chance, that I might not fucking kill you.”

The final act of plate-registered robbery is the fucking fare! These wankers only deal in pounds. They have no fucking concept of fucking pence. Either that, or their fucking religion compels them to fucking round figures up!
“Ok, mayat, chill, yeah, innit.”
“But I gave you a fiver. You’ve given me a quid back. The meter says £3.40.” “Oh, meter no working, mayat. You always pay fiver, yeah.”
“How would you fucking know? We’ve never fucking made it before. Me always pay £3 fucking 40p! That means you 60p shy, innit?”
“It’s tip, mayat, innit.”
“You wanna tip, mayat? Always put sugar in your biscuit jar. Now fuck off!!”



God, I hate taxi drivers (don’t even get me started on bus drivers). They can go to Grantham – although they’ll be 12 hours late getting there or turn up at Gillingham.

I'm Dreading a Shite Christmas.

So, to recap:

1. Mrs Pither has buggered off and shacked up with someone else.
2. I am in the financial doo-doos up to my armpits and it looks as though the house could soon be repossessed.
3. The Cow and Carrot has announced 120 redundancies and there are whispers that I am going to be on the list in the New Year.
4. I am 48, unhealthy and going fucking nowhere.
5. The tenative relationship I had with a lovely sex of the opposite gender has just gone bosoms up - albeit with the best spelled and punctuated Dear John text I have ever had.
6. Christmas will now be a distinctly canine affair with just me, five dogs, a bacon sandwich and Steve McQueen (assuming THAT film is on again).

If anyone knows of a wealthy, unfeasibly large-breasted, morally casual woman, who is blind, has no-sense of smell, has a fetish for overweight, balding men, lives over an off-licence and has a Nottingham Forest season ticket then could they please put her in touch with me.

Happy Christmas.

...And The Special Guest Star Is........

I was so moved (to the bar, anyway) by my pal The Big Green Thing and his considered opinion of a small town in the West Midlands that I have allowed him the honour of being the first special guest star to appear at Grantham New Town. Only his words do his thoughts justice so, it's over to him:

"I’m tremendously proud and honoured to have been invited by Reg to be the first person to contribute a guest spot rant-by-proxy to his esteemed blog. The following is the result of a conversation I had with Reg that started with a series of text messages and continued in the pub. Well, not THE pub, actually. Another one.

"For some time now, I’ve been carefully considering my opinion of a small town by the name of Walsall that isn’t a million miles from where Reg and I reside and is somewhere we both know fairly well. When I shared some of my more recent insights with Reg, a frank exchange of ideas ensued and we found ourselves in close agreement about the character of the place. After mutually exploring different aspects of the town from a wide range of perspectives – civic governance, aesthetic appeal, amenities, infrastructure, the nature of the local residents and so forth – we found ourselves in almost total agreement. Reg therefore thought it might be both novel and appropriate for him to offer me the use of this platform in order to share our views more widely with his readership. So this is the result: my report of our joint observations on the town of Walsall.

"It’s completely fucking shit."

(Reg – will this be enough? BGT)

20 Things You Didn't Know......

So, that de Menezes inquest result in full:


1. The British public are all vicious, vindictive and compulsive liars.
2. All officers of the Metropolitan Police always tell the truth and have no track record whatsoever stretching back 40 or more years for being lying, corrupt, deceitful bastards who would sell their grannies for a bacon sandwich.
3. It is perfectly permissible for the police to shoot dead whoever they want, whenever they want, wherever they want, for whatever reason they deem fit.
4. It is a complete and utter mystery how an innocent Tube train passenger met his death after being shot seven times in the head without warning by one police officer while being restrained by another so that he could not move.
5. No-one facing the prospect of a murder or manslaughter charge being brought against them would ever lie to a court to avoid such an eventuality.
6. A jury’s duty when considering evidence brought forward by a lengthy investigation involving testimony from more than 100 witnesses at a cost of around £3 million shall be to conclude whatever the coroner was told to conclude before said investigation even started.
7. Two verdicts shall be open to British juries;
a) Members of the public put on trial for a crime can be found either not guilty or guilty.
b) Police officers put on “trial” for a “crime” can be found either not guilty or not guilty.
8. Anyone carrying a rucksack, using public transport and being foreign in a built-up area shall be deemed to have committed a crime punishable by death (on-the-spot penalty).
9. The moon is made of cheese.
10. Former England football international and club manager Peter Reid has NOT got an ugly monkey’s head.
11. From the basement of Framley’s department store in Barnsley you can see 97 continents.
12.Women really aren’t bothered how big a man’s penis is.
13. Men never think after they’d had sex with a woman “Oh God, I’ve got to hold her now and the pizza place closes in half an hour”.
14. Buying a second-hand car off Jeffrey Archer is a really good idea.
15. Timmy Mallet is NOT an abject cunt.
16. David Icke was right all along.
17. Walking into work and telling your boss he is a pathetic, fat, ugly, insecure, arse-licking, talentless tosser with a face like an anally recycled curry who you would not piss on were he on fire is both dishonest and a good career move.
18. It is a good idea to always be honest when your wife asks “Does my bum look big in this?” and say “Walk 200 yards down the street and ask me again”.
19. Staines is one of the forgotten beauty spots of England.
…………………………and finally…………………………
20. Father Christmas DOESN’T exist for members of the Metropolitan Police Force’s tactical firearms unit.

Ivor the Engine or Noggin the Nog?

SCENE: “The” pub, 6pm, the end of the week.

ENTER: PITHER; suit grubby with fag burns, tea stains, newspaper print and dog excreta; top button undone, tie knot down by left nipple, shirt out at the back; hair akin to that of Mayor of Hiroshima shortly after “the incident”.

COLLECTION OF MUTANT PALS PROPPING UP BAR, HEADS SWIVELLING ROUND: “Whaddo, Piths. How’s it hangin’?”

PITHER: “Crap, but your concern is touching. A pint of Scruttocks Ole Dirigible please……and a bag of Scampi Fries – they’re the nearest I get to oral sex these days.

GENIAL HOST aka CHARLIE CAROLIE: “You been covering that Shannon Matthews thingy?”

PITHER: “Strangely, no. I work on the Cow and Carrot Cruncher, you see. Dewsbury’s not on us. Besides, my talents are limited to “bird found in tree” and “traffic lights change” these days.

UBIQUITOUS POMPOUS TEACHER: “How would you seek to transform the social under-class of which Shannon’s mother and so many other benefit-dependent, amoral, sink-estate chavs are a part?”

FATAL (so called, because his name’s Alan and he’s fat): “Are you going to finish those Scampi Fries?”

PITHER: “That’s a tricky one, Martin. I’ve got to admit, right now I couldn’t give a shit!”

UBIQUITOUS POMPOUS TEACHER: “I believe we will never advance as a society until we abolish the welfare state and introduce a policy of selective, forced sterilisations.”

THE TROUBLES (he’s Irish and can start a fight in a phone box): “Do I hear the distant sound of jackboots?”

PITHER: “It’s a view, certainly. Challenging, but a view. You always were a tad right of centre for a supposed Labour voter, Martin. You have always wanted to bring back hanging.”

UBIQUITOUS POMPOUS TEACHER: “Millions of people up and down the country want to bring back hanging.”

GENIAL HOST: “Not in public!”

LAMB: “What was the real name of Sid Vicious?”

ALL, AS ONE: “What??!!??”

LAMB: “Well, that Johnny Rotten cretin who’s advertising butter now was John Lydon……so who was Sid Vicious?”

FATAL: “Are you going to eat that pack of dry roast?”

PITHER: “I never really got punk. I liked the music but couldn’t get my mind round hoards of kids with purple Mohicans po-going around with bolts through their noses, all shouting ‘I want to be different!’.”

LAMB: “Did you know, there never really was a Seaman Stains in Captain Pugwash?”

THE TROUBLES: “Bollocks!”

LAMB: “S’true!! There wasn’t a Master Bates, either.”

STRANGER: “John Simon Ritchie.”

GENIAL HOST: “Pleased to meet you, John – are you going to drink or just stand there?”

STRANGER: “No, no. John Simon Ritchie – he is Sid Vicious.”

PITHER: “Not any more!”

LAMB: “You’ll never beat The Herbs. ‘I’m a very friendly lion called Parsley……..’”

Mrs LAMB: “He’s been under a lot of stress at work lately.”

PITHER: “I’m going outside for a fag.”

ASSEMBLED CAST: “Me too….and me….and me…..yeah, why not?”

MEIN HOST: “I’ll join you.”

THE TROUBLES: “Errrrr, Charlie, that’ll leave no-one behind the bar.”

MEIN HOST: “The new barmaid has started tonight. She’ll keep an eye on things. She’s thick as a yard of pig shit and got a face to match…..but she’s cheap.”

PITHER: “What’s her name?”

MEIN HOST: “Dunno.”

PITHER: “You never did get that Investors in People Award, did you?”

FATAL: “Whose are those crisps?”

LAMB: “Didn’t you used to love Airfix kits? I remember my mate and me once got all our models together in the back garden and then shot them to pieces with his brother’s air rifle.”

THE TROUBLES: “You do realise people can hear you talking?”

PITHER: “Yeah, Pete. A cracking tale……just don’t mention it when your social worker comes round.”

UBIQUITOUS POMPOUS TEACHER: “Well, I’m off. I’m going to a skittles night with my wife’s choral society.”

MEIN HOST: “Shhhhiiiiiiitttttttttttt!!! Life on the edge, no net!!!! Try not to crash on the way there.”

BLOKE WHO’S ALWAYS IN THE PUB BUT NO-ONE KNOWS HIS NAME: “I’m going back inside. I’m freezing my tits off here.”

PITHER: “Thank you, Michael Fish. Yeah, it is a bit nippy. Another pint of Scruttocks, please.”

FATAL: “Be a mate, get us a bag of Bacon Fries while you’re there.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

And so the evening went. I got home at about 10.30pm, somewhat lubricated but alive. Where else can you get conversations of this calibre? Why have I recorded it? Well, because it's all true and it's typical of the intellectual exchanges which go on there every night.

I love the pub.

Psssst!! Wanna Dog?

I've taken in another dog - that brings the canine count up to five!!

I'm only fostering him until I can find him a permanent home - this I swear unto myself.
.
He and two others were left tethered in a back garden for two weeks after the scumbags in the house buggered off and left them. They were fed by neighbours throwing food over the fence until they were rescued. Two were found homes quickly. That leaves the lad who's with me. He's gorgeous, gentle, loving and clever - just starved of affection.

He came with the God-awful name of "Taz". That HAS to go.

In the meantime, anyone want a lovely dog? Don't worry, no harm will come to him if no-one steps forward. Pither Towers will just become that little bit more crowded!

Another Whitewash at The Oval

The familiar dank smell of whitewash is seeping out of The Oval today. Usually it’s the Australians who are responsible for the odour, accustomed as they are to drubbing our hapless cricketers five-nil in The Ashes. This time the stench is emanating from the mouth of Sir Michael Wright QC.

Sir Michael is the coroner sitting on the jury inquest in the John Major Room at the Oval into the death of Jean Charles de Menezes, the innocent Brazilian shot seven times in the head in July 2005 on the London Underground by armed police who believed he was a suicide bomber.





The coroner ruled yesterday that the jury could not decide 27-year-old Mr de Menezes was illegally killed. He would only permit them to bring in either an open verdict or one of lawful killing.

This stinks so much I hardly know where to start! Firstly, I am not entirely sure of the legality of Wright’s ruling. I know that coroner’s can, and do, guide juries on occasions and they have been known to offer them a choice of verdicts – but not when the whole spirit of the hearing is to establish in public whether or not a person was legally or illegally killed.

An inquest IS a court hearing but the rules governing it are somewhat more lax than in the criminal courts. Nevertheless, the coroner’s role is ostensibly that of a judge. He "records" a verdict in normal instances but in particular circumstances a jury is empanelled to "return" a verdict. Like a judge, the coroner is there to decide or rule on matters of law, that’s why a coroner is invariably a qualified lawyer. The role of the jury is the same as it is in criminal cases – to decide on matters of fact. It is the jury which decides guilt or innocence in a criminal court, it should be the jury which decides on the verdicts available to them at an inquest.

Unlawful killing is an obvious verdict which the jury at the de Menezes inquest should have considered, given the circumstances, but Wright said “no”. His justification was that, to his mind, the evidence did not justify such a verdict. S’CUSE ME, YOUR QC-SHIP, SHURELY SHUM MISHTAKE?? You’re there to decide on the law, it’s the jury which decides whether there is or is not evidence to justify a particular verdict. That’s the whole fucking point of having a jury in the first place!!!

This inquest has lasted 11 weeks, heard evidence from 100 witnesses and cost around £3 million. What, pray, was the bloody point of wasting all that money, all that time and the testimony of all those people if the coroner was going to decide what the fucking verdict should be at the end of it??

No evidence to justify a verdict of unlawful killing, eh? Well, what about every single independent eyewitness at the scene disputing the testimony of the police gunmen that they gave a warning to Mr Menezes? What did those witnesses have to gain by saying he was shot without any warning? What did the police officers have to gain by claiming they did give a warning? You do the maths, as they say.

What about the confusion among officers about whether Mr de Menezes had or had not been positively identified as the terrorist target they had been on the lookout for? What about the shooting seven times to the head? One would do it, I would have thought. Two would be a belt-and-braces exercise. Three is the sign of a man intent on doing a thorough job…….but seven??!!?? I think you’re into the realms of a gun-toting, unprofessional, inadequately trained nutter on the loose in public with a loaded weapon there!

No wonder Mr de Menezes’ family walked out in both grief and disgust when Wright made his ruling. Firstly, our out-of-control coppers kill their son for absolutely no justifiable reason. Then, either they or fellow passengers on that ill-fated Tube train lie about what actually happened. Finally, a senior judicial figure overrides the principal of “twelve good men/women and true” and rules that HE will decide what happened, not unbiased fellow citizens.

It is not the role of an inquest to apportion blame to specific individuals, I know. That, however, should not mean that a verdict of unlawful killing cannot be brought in a case where the chief suspect/s are known?

Once again, The Met will get off scott free. I just hope Mr de Menezes’ family brings a civil case against the officers and their commanders and then there is a chance they might actually get some closure. However, if the jury now brings in a lawful killing verdict then the current slim chance of any criminal prosecution will disappear altogether.

Sir Michael Wright QC can go to Grantham - Pither's ruling!

Shitty Chitty No Show.

Theatrical bus queue?


Thanks to The Farmer for spotting this gem in our local newspaper, the Distress & Stir.
I’m not sure if it says more about the paucity of good theatrical productions or the lack of any brains or news sense among kids on papers these days.
The article reads:

“Big-name musical Chitty Chitty Bang Bang will be flying into Wolverhampton next summer, it was announced today.
“The stage version of the classic tale will take to the Grand Theatre stage between July 29 and August 15 with a 100-strong cast, including 10 dogs and extravagant sets.
"It is not yet known whether it will feature the famous flying car."

What does the autumn schedule at the Grand hold, I wonder? Four Brides for Three Brothers? Jack and the Small Legume? Lawrence of Altringham? The Sound of Humming?

All billing suggestions welcomed.