BXProject

[Philhod]

whooo scary! where the fuck is everyone.

[mickey taker]

I thought that Phil, very quiet this weekend on here , I guess some members actually have lives

Or else they are all in hiding coz its Halloween

[Stinkwheel(Matt)]

I have no life. But wasnt here either. Apologies.

[Father Ted]

I have bog all interweb.

Anyway - I fupping hates Helloween (OK, actually I dont mind German Rock band Helloween, but you know what I mean)

So I play a little game - every year I wrap up or place in the bag of "treats" several non items.

So far this year to the greedy little gets I have offloaded:

A sachet of tomato sauce procured from the prison canteen
An out of date packet of Weight Watchers Orange jelly mix
A packet of Knorr Savoury Rice
A piece of cheese wrapped in a Quality Street sweet wrapper

Still to be found:
A PP3 battery (dead)
A packet of Birds Instan custard (best before August 2009)
A boiled sprout wrapped in foil

[mickey taker]

dont be surprised if you wake up to find every window of your house has been egged

[Philhod]

I don't mind the little ones that come round between 6 and 7 with a parent. I usually have a tub of sweets ready.
It's the older ones that annoy me. When I answer the door and they say trick or treat, I say ok I'll have a treat what have you got. That usually throws them and they bugger off

I don't have a life at the mo. With her being not so well 1/2 the time I only managed to get out once last week.
Anyway, she must be ok again now as she went to work this morning

[docchevron132]

I find answering the doot holding a gun tends to make them fuck off a bit sharpish..

I have no life. Jusr working silly amounts of hours, and getting far too sucked into faceache..

[Philhod]

and getting far too sucked into faceache..

New romance on the horizon then. ?????????????

[docchevron132]

good lord no, not at my age, jus seem addicted to moaning and bitching about everything that pisses me off, which, as it turns out, is everything!

[Stinkwheel(Matt)]

good lord no, not at my age, jus seem addicted to moaning and bitching about everything that pisses me off, which, as it turns out, is everything!

Thats because everything is fucking annoying.

[Philhod]

Fuck me I thought I was the grumpy old man.

[mickey taker]

I had the right hump today with HM inland revenue,
since Julie git made redundant ( Oct 09) she has been doing the fostering with me at the request of social services.
we get our fostering allowance in both our names and the tax relief on fostering as per household not per tax payer.
Inland revenue now want Julie to file a tax return , fair enough
but instead of just putting our two national insurance numbers on one return ( remember all money is between us anyway)
I have had to make my "self employed " company a partnership with Julie,
file a tax return for the company and one each for Julie and myself as partners in the company .
so we will be fileing three tax returns showing exactly the same figures where we used to file one.

The irony of all this is we dont pay tax on the fostering income anyway because of the high allowances for foster caring households

Go figure!!!

[docchevron132]

I concur Matt.
For those that give a toss, and aren't on FB, this was my last grumble, prompted by a girl suggesting I should "get laid"..

grumble 2: The Perils of Sex.
"you spend 9 months getting out, and the rest of your life trying to get back in" was something my Dad told me many years ago. A wise man is my Dad. Whilst I'm sure beyond doubt he is a valid and much regarded member of the church of the grumpy old man, I think these days, in his 70Th anniversary year from escaping the womb, he is more acquiescent than grumpy. He has long since accepted that the world has turned to shit, and there is nothing he can do about it. I'm sure if he really tried he could be grumpy about an almost endless list of the utter bollocks we all see everywhere, but I'm equally sure he can't quite be arsed.
But the eloquence and resounding truthfulness in his musing rang a bell, for many years..
Whilst it may be hard to believe, I have been known in my time to increase the carnal score on occasion. Oddly, I'm always left feeling rather disappointed, and oftentimes think there would have been a better way of spending those 3 minutes.
It surely cant just be me that thinks the anticipation of sex is often better than the actual sex is? Aside from the fact I can't actually be arsed to do it these days, there are of course almost endless perils that go with the rather odd business of shagging.
Perhaps I've gone through the male menopause, since these days I'm more likely to get tonsillitis than an erection, and lets face it, tonsillitis comes with the added bonus of having a damn good excuse to eat nothing but ice-cream for a few days, not a single genuine good reason can be found for having an erection. I imagine if I were to wake up with one these days, I'd wonder what the fuck was wrong with me and hope normality resumed by the time I'd finished my first of many cigarettes for that day.
Of course to actually be able to have sex, you need a willing partner, and this in itself is no easy thing these days, the whole experience of meeting someone new and getting to know them is as attractive a proposition for me as sticking my own head in a blender.
There is obviously porn, in various media, the internet being the most accessible and available. Lets face it, the interweb was only invented for porn. I remember the old days, you know back in the dark ages, when it was dial up or fuck all, spending 2 hours downloading a 4 minute clip promising "Ally taking it in both holes" only to find after what felt like an eternity to see a clip so weak and shite it made Home and Away seem like an orgy of filth.
There is also top shelf mags, but lets face it, they stopped being the remotest bit titillating when you were 12. Which leaves dapping into an "adult shop" to purchase some DVD of a 90 year old haggard whore from the shop owner who is always and without exception the most disgusting specimen of human life you will ever have seen.
The benefit of self abuse is of course, you can't get a Kleenex pregnant, and your hand will never be unfaithful, unless you are the unluckiest bastard in all of history..
You could visit a hooker. Which in many ways is probably the best approach and I have to hand it to the female folk, they identified a gap in a market, and exploited the utter banal stupidity of men and made a shed load of cash by laying down. Now that is fucking genius! You turn up, pay your money and get laid. Simple. They don't give a fuck if you have a 1" penis or last 3 seconds, they get paid, you get laid, everyones happy, everyone wins. Conversely, you take a girl out, pay for cinema, dinner, taxi's, all in the hope you might get your end wet, only to hear at the end of the night "it's not you..." and the entire evening has been for nothing, and of course, you know damn well, it actually IS you.

Of course, in times of yore, sex seemingly came along often and with little effort, man showed interest in girl, girl was flattered, they had sex. Then the 80's came and everything changed.
It started with stark and bleak adverts from HM Government on TV about AIDS. Being in my formative years at this time I had no idea what AIDS was, but the media was on hand in it's usual bigoted, ignorant and homophobic way to tell us it was "the gay disease", so Mr. Average straight middle class bloke didn't worry and continued to have lots of casual sex, then discovered he was just as susceptible as anyone else. The media may discriminate, but viruses don't. Suddenly everyone was scared, sales of condoms soared and everyone was nervous.
There followed an explosion of sexually transmitted diseases, ghonnarea, syphilis, VD, crabs, and the worst of all, for me at least, children.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against anyone having children, I just don't want them myself. Surely this planet is already over populated, largely by bastards, and I can find no real use of children, they are nothing but stinking needy bags of skin and shit. If you could have children, send them away to be trained and returned at 18 so they could buy the old man a drink, fine, but otherwise, they are something that takes all your time and money, causes endless hours of worry and when you reach a point in your life when you need your kids to look after you in old age, you discover they've fucked off with a girl named Porsche and had a family in Portugal.
For the sake of moving on.. you can of course these days meet the love of your life in the supermarket. Yet another fucking marketing ploy by thieving bastards more concerned with parting you from your hard earned than giving a flying fuck if you get laid that evening, preferably at home and not in the frozen meats aisle.
This in itself is no easy circumstance for the grumpy. After all, my usual trolley of shopping goes something like this: beer, cheese, beer, pizza's, beer, shower gel, beer, deodorant, beer, diet coke, beer, soup, beer, and did I mention beer? Any potential interested party will look at this and think "piss head" and move on to the obnoxious bastard with a basket full of vegetables and an on show BMW key.
I bloody detest BMW drivers. They aren't driving a car, they are driving their own penis extension. I drive a shitty old Citroen, because it's comfortable and gets me form A to B with a minimum of fuss and bluster, I honestly couldn't care sodding less if this means I must have a 1" penis, I'd rather have a car that shouts "small cock" than drive a BMW and look like the exact dictionary definition of "obnoxious twat".
Then there is on-line dating, a more bloody awful idea I've never heard in my sodding life. And yet, some of my friends that to this day remain silent on the subject when mentioned, signed me up to no less than 3 dating sites. How fucking lucky was I then? Well, after getting a variety of messages including one from a charming young lady who told me she didn't do anal, on a first date (I know I know, you think I'm making it up right? I'm really not) I decided that on line dating clearly wasn't for me.
So, back to the truly appalling thought of having to get to know someone then.. Lets assume a friend has told one of their friends about you, and suggested a date. How fucking fabulous!
Upon the odd occasion this ghastly experience has been thrust upon me, many of my friends have told me I should "smarten myself up".. I never did understand why, I'm a scruffy unkempt git that really couldn't give a shit what I wear or what I look like. What exactly is the sodding point of shaving, trimming that nasal hair, wearing a smart suit and smelling like a whores handbag? This isn't me, it's an improved fake version of me, so from the outset you're selling a version of you that simply isn't you at all. You're then left assuming the girl will also be doing the same so before you even leave the house to go meet this fake person, you already know it will be an evening of unbearable bullshit and falsehoods.
Feeling and looking like a prize winning twat you wander in to a pre arranged restaurant and exchange pleasantries with the girl. You'll know immediately who she is, since she will be looking awkward and pissed off.
A smug, patronising waiter will appear and offer menu's written in what we are led to believe is the chef's own handwriting, all in fucking French. on this score I agree entirely with Stuart Prebble, when reading the menu and discovering you have not the foggiest idea what is actually on it, you just say to the waiter "what the fuck is that?". You allow the lady to order first, protocol you know, and ask for a bottle of wine pronto.
Now, I FUCKING hate wine, I quite like Champagne, but ordering Champagne on a first date? that's fucking insanity, so wine it has to be. Personally I'd much prefer a nice pint of bitter, but, order a pint of bitter in a posh restaurant and the waiter will look at you like you've just told him you've knocked up his 16 year old Catholic daughter. I will never understand the class snobbery and Nouvelle cuisine bullshit that comes with sitting in a glorified cafe and being shafted in the wallet for a beautifully presented but pitiful meal, but there it is, none the less..
A further irony you'll find in any eatery is the availability of lager, which undoubtedly says plenty about the average man that eats in such places, but when the sodding hell did it become acceptable to serve chemical piss, but frown on serving ale? This sort of pseudo class reversal snobbery in an alleged posh restaurant makes me want to pull out the AK47 and go fucking berserk!
Anyway, whilst waiting for the overpriced wine to arrive you attempt to make small talk. Now, if you're anything like me, you prefer to listen and throw the odd prompting question in than speak at length about what makes you, you. So, in less than 5 minutes you have discovered that your date loves yoga, hates smokers and believes her body is a fucking temple.
None of this fills you with the desire to continue breathing, so you sit and nod at the appropriate times all the while hoping your over priced plate of pleasant looking but ultimately shite dinner will arrive so that you have an excuse to look elsewhere and not make small talk for 5 minutes whilst thinking of a way you can escape to the safety of your local pub beer garden where you can enjoy a pint in the way it was intended, with a fucking cigarette.
Salvation appears in the form of the smug, patronising waiter with a bottle of dry white and a couple of perfectly polished glasses. Despite banging on at tedious length about her body being a sodding temple she knocks back the first glass in almost one hit, you politely enquire if she would care for a top up, in the hope she'll yes since A: getting her pissed increases your chances of a quick snog and maybe a grope, and B: the sooner she gets tipsy the sooner she may stop boring you to the extent you actually wish you'd taken that overdose the previous week.
Dinner arrives, and by this point you're so hungry you eat the minuscule offering in 1 minute flat and regret not having a hearty meal before you left home. You mention dessert, in the hope she'll say no, but of course she doesn't. "the raspberry tort sounds delicious and totally in balance with my zen this evening" she will say, but you wont hear her, by this point the only thing resounding in your head will be your own voice, begging you to murder the bloody irritating bitch. "it's worth a 7 stretch" your inner grump will tell you, and for more than a fleeting moment, you believe it.
Following dessert, you ask the smug, patronising git of a waiter for the bill, at which point your date, being a modern woman, will say "let's go Dutch".. now, call me old fashioned, but I believe if a man takes a woman out for a meal, he pays for it, end of. Why the bloody sodding hell would I want to go Dutch? I cant fucking stand the Dutch, I wouldn't be able to care less if I heard on the news that every sodding Dutchman had just been eradicated in some freak alien abduction scandal. Aside from a slightly less than tedious engineering solution to potential flooding issues, what the fuck have the Dutch ever actually done aside from being even more boring than Oliver Letwin?
To avoid a scene, you go sodding Dutch. Although you manage to sneak a bit extra on the plate for a tip. This goes against everything you believe in, but you just know that should you ever return to this over priced piss house, a decent tip ensures good service and secures against any of the staff pissing, shitting or spitting in your next meal there.
You escort your date outside and hail a cab, at which point you hear those immortal words "look, it's been lovely, it has, it's not you, it's me"... which as we already know, means it IS you.
Relieved, you let her climb alone into the cab and watch it drive away, spark up a long overdue smoke and think "well, thank Christ that's over with".
Being an engineer, I cant help but think of the human body in mechanical terms. The entire act of sex, quite aside from being a fairly disgusting thing involving the exchange and intermingling of all manner of bodily fluids, is simply going to kill you faster than if you don't have sex. It's no different with these fucking idiots you see jogging in moist Lycra and hi-viz vests all over the bloody place.
Think of your heart as an oil pump. Said pump is designed to last a certain amount of time. Over work it and it wears out faster.
So in essence, if you spend your entire life sat on your arse doing fuck all, you'll live longer, you ain't putting as much strain on your oil pump see. Jogging, and sex, increases the heart rate, thusly wearing out your heart much faster than is necessary. Now, as much as I dislike being alive in the third millennium, I can think of infinitely better ways of snuffing it than by needlessly over straining my vital organs.
For the sake of argument, lets assume the date went well. You're both a little tipsy and fall into a cab together. Back home the fumbling continues then you will be asked if you would like "A coffee". This confuses the grumpy old man, we all know that "would you like coffee" actually means "would you like to have sex".. but this is the enlightened age right? Maybe she just is saying "would you like coffee" and she means it as that? So, do you say yes because frankly you'd love a coffee, or say no because you don't really want to have sex. If you say no and she did mean "lets have sex" then you're knocking her back, this will anger her and lead to questions of "whats wrong with me?" at this point it's probably best not to point out that you find her irritating drawl regarding Zen and bloody yoga so indescribably dull you were hoping to self combust all throughout dinner.
So maybe you actually have coffee, what then? At what point is it OK to lean in and run the risk of catching TB from this girl? OR, at what point do you say "well, it's been lovely but I have work tomorrow..."?
God forbid the wine takes enough of your will power away and you actually end up in bed with her. At this point all of your worst fears are realised. She's hairier than you, so much so whilst fumbling in the half light you are mentally tying her armpit hair into bows to take your mind off the inevitable slush filled mess and crumpled sweating bodies that will no doubt be realised in about 2 minutes from now.
I've never understood the term "the afterglow". What this actually means is laying in far too close proximity with someone who is sweating just as much as you whilst both of you are covered in all manner of appalling fluids, some your own, some not. "that was lovely" she'll say, although you're convinced she's only saying it to be polite. And even if she does mean it, what the sodding hell is lovely about laying in your own filth? At this point all you want to do is have a shower and a cigarette, but of course Ms. Yoga 1982 doesn't bloody smoke, so you cant. People have asked me if I smoke after sex, and I always tell them the same thing "I don't know, I've never checked".
There is of course that further post coital issue you never know quite how to handle. You've got a rubber sack on your cock full of your own man sewage. How the bloody hell do you dispose of it elegantly? I've never yet heard a satisfactory answer..
No, dating simply isn't for me.
I once worked out that with the hours I wasted having sex I could have read War and Peace several times over and redecorated the house, this must surely be a better use of time.
Even if we leave all realms of reality behind and assume it's gone extremely well, you meet again, and so it goes on for sometime, until one day you realise half of your stuff is it her place, half of her stuff is at yours and it's all become routine. You'll probably notice this when looking for that lovely Concorde tie you have in a seldom used drawer full of pointless ties, only to discover it's now full of bra's and knickers. You'll have no sodding idea when this happened, but you'll feel violated. You'll not mention it of course, but you'll start to be plagued by the thought that just maybe you made a terrible mistake and you'll look for ever more subtle ways of basically saying "it's over, please fuck off and leave me the hell alone".
So there we have it then, STD's, disappointment, sweat and an early grave. Nope, sex simply isn't for me.

[docchevron132]

fuck, it's long.. sorry.

[mat_the_cat]

fuck, it's long..

So's your previous post...

[Father Ted]

a girl suggesting I should "get laid"...

1) buy Quantas ticket to Perth
2) get on plane
3) get off in Australia
4) pitch up down Flick's house.
5) Spend several days getting pissed, dialing out for Pizza and exploring each others bodies in a variety of unusual ways.

[docchevron132]

ahh, but evn therein lays endless perils!
I mean, according to the news, when Qantas grounded the wntire fleet over this ongoing industrial action, the news told us that "all flights currently in the air would finish their journeys" but how do we know they really did? For all we know there may be several Qantas planes parked on clouds full of very hungry and pissed off holiday makers!

[Philhod]

1) buy British airways economy ticket to Perth
2) get on plane
3) get off in Australia
4) pitch up down Flick's house.
5) Spend several days getting pissed, dialing out for Pizza and exploring each others bodies in a variety of unusual ways.

Sorted!

[Philhod]

Just read all the way through your rant Doc
Pure fuckin gold that one mate EPIC.

Dozed a bit towards the end

[mat_the_cat]

Dozed a bit towards the end

Bit like sex really then...