The Blame Game

Pity poor Graham Calvert. He hasn't got two greyhounds to rub together - and it's
all THEIR fault.

For the uninitiated, young Graham - he's only 28, bless - is a former successful greyhound trainer with a penchant for gambling who didn't so much like a flutter as the deafening wingbeat of a million condors in flight.

It transpires that fat Graham - he's almost completely spherical - would bet on everything from the outcome of sporting contests and the likelihood of Lord Lucan riding into town on Shergar to his chances of marrying the Duchess of Bedford and spawning a lovechild with Carlos from Crossroads.
To his amazement, baby eater Graham - he's from Tyneside - gambled away his business, his home, his wife and his family (now that's what I call a bet!!) Trouble is, John Candy lookalike Graham - he looks like John Candy - is a sore loser. He is now going to sue bookie William Hill for the return of the £2.1 million he estimates he proverbially pissed across their counter.

Cunt Graham - he's a cunt! - has consulted a blood-sucking social outcast (solicitor) and been advised that he has a case because it could be argued that Billy Hill and Associates owed him "a duty of care". You know what a duty of care is, don't you? It's what an infantile, bloated, retarded, Geordie git must always remember he owes his wife and kids if ever he is tempted to blow the housekeeping on the 3.30pm at Kempton!

The evidence supposedly backing this claim is that our Gra reached an agreement with the bookies that they should not take any more of his fucking stupid bets because he had a slight problem - self-exclusion, as it's known in the business. They, so the argument goes, went back on that agreement and allowed him to start betting again.

What is not explained is WHY he was allowed to return to his old ways. Call me a cynic (you're a cynic, Reg!) but I bet (soz Gra) our rotund antihero pleaded, grovelled and begged to be allowed back onto William Hill's "good books" and, after much pestering, his wish was granted.

First of all, just which Graham Calvert was the bookmaker supposed to believe? The "if-I-come-in-here-ever-again-you-have-my-permission-to-shoot-me Graham Calvert or the I'm-much-better-now-honest-and-have-been-told-I-will-never-get-addicted-again-so-can-I-have-a-fiver-on-that-fly-on-your-window-having-a-crap-in-the-next-five-minutes Graham Calvert? Doubtless, if he had not been allowed to bet again he would have gone to the European Court of Human Rights claiming he was being persecuted.

Secondly, I have a real problem with accepting gambling as a true addiction. It's like other so-called conditions sush as "sex addiction", "shopping addiction" and "addiction to scratchcards".
To me, an addiction is fostered by chemicals. It is something physiological, not psychological or even socialogical. Nicotine is one of the most addictive chemicals on earth, so is heroin. Alcohol is pretty damn addictive as well. Walking into a bookies and gambling your wages on which of a field of diminutive Irish lads astride equine mammals is feeling the friskiest is not chemically addictive. It IS something you can choose not to do. Here's an idea - don't fucking do it!! No-one and no thing is compelling you to.

Finally, we get to the real infection which has swept this nation over the last 20 years (caught, predictably enough, from across "The Pond"). NOTHING IS ANYONE'S FAULT ANYMORE! If you go out and knife a disabled granny to death before buggering a few goats in front of a children's nursery then it is obvious that you weren't breast-fed as a child and so your mother is to blame. Remember the fat twat who tried to sue McDonald's because they sold him their shite and it made him obese? My favourite psychobabble of all time, however, is the following:

Why did a short-arsed, no-mark, insignificant, little Austrian corporal go on to order the annihilation of six million Jews, countless gipsies, disabled people and innocent civilians, decimate armies around the world and lay waste to Europe and Africa?.........................Come on, I'm waiting! Come on, come on, come one!! Give up? Ok, I'll tell you.........................He wasn't potty trained!!!

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big advocate of the Human Rights Act. It was a long time coming. Trouble is, with rights go responsibilities. Sadly, there is no Human Responsibilities Act.
Please, please, please, can't we go back to the way things were? Barring glandular disorders (a fucking site rarer than fatties would have you believe), you get obese because you have no self control and gorge yourself, not because some Nazi fastfood chain flogs you the fat-laden crap you have asked for. You injure yourself falling off a ladder because you are a dozy twat, not because you weren't sent on a ladder climbing course. You lose all your money gambling because you are a stupid, self-obsessed dickhead with no realisation of consequences, not because the bookmaker accepted your bets.

The no-one's-to-blame-for-their-actions society can be enjoyed by the people of Grantham.

P.S. Pad came through his operation yesterday and it has given him about another week with me.
P.P.S. I have no idea why this Blog has moved to babytype. I have tried to change it back but without success.