Stick it to the man!

OK, well I'm back again. I've been away in the UK for a couple of days and have just woken up in France so I suppose I'd best give you an update.

Following on from my Operation Ribby news, I went to the hospital to have a pre-operative assessment yesterday. This consisted of explanations of my operation, blood tests and all other sorts of tests, medical equipment issue and the like.

It started off badly when I arrived to find that my operation date had been set back two weeks - that's sort of screwed up the time I had booked off work but can easily be changed. Also Mr Doctor insisted that I could not return to France for at least a month. I pointed out to him that this was where I lived and perhaps he would reconsider. He was unwilling to do so so I asked if I could stay at his house. He's going to come back to me on Monday.

Other than that it was.......hang on.....hang on!!........he said medical equipment issue!

That's right people, I have been issued some equipment to make my transition back into normal society that little bit easier. There was a plastic expanding toilet seat, an elastic sock assister thing and a 3 foot long shoehorn (imagine that), but the crowning glory was the stick.

Yes, a stick. A 'pokey stick'. A medically prescribed pokey-stick. Life just keeps getting better. You want to see a picture? Here ya go:



Rarrrr! I'm making a holster for that baby. I'm starting to actually look forward to going to the supermarket now.

Grr get out of my way, bloody kids...

You gotta be kidding me

In final mathematical proof that two positives really do make a negative, journalism students at the BBC have posted a story that smoking marijuana combats the onset of Alzheimers disease. How unlikely is that?

Click here if you remember

Oh, and as I speak, this story is being discussed on "ca se discute", a French discussion show. Looks like it's gone global. So there you have it, if you want to remember stuff, smoke gear.

"So how long have you had Alzheimers?"
"As long as I can remember"

Ohhh, the weather outside is frightful

But the fire is so delightful. But I haven't got a fire Bing, I haven't even got any 'corn for poppin', so that sort of blows your theory out of the water.

I've just finished work. Not bad when you consider I started at 7pm. What was the reason for the lateness this time? The weather. Or so they say.

Now perhaps I'm being a little bit unreasonable here, but when I spoke to my colleague last night he was sitting in a queue outside the Eurotunnel terminal, desperately trying to get on a train with about a thousand other lorry drivers. I wasn't overly happy about this, as I'm sure you understand, so I phoned the tunnel to find out what the problem was.

"It's because of the weather" they reply. When I asked them how they said there were a lot of delays because of the snow. I couldn't quite fathom this, I mean after all, it's a bloody tunnel. Now I'm not much of a meterologist, but even I'm pretty sure it doesn't snow in tunnels - esepcially ones that are under the sea.

I'm going to bed, I start work in 6 hours. 'night.

Say what you see

After having recently signed up for Total Fark to get my fill of crap news, I have been introduced to a horrbily addictive game.

You remember Pictionary? That game where everyone made pissed-up rubbish drawings of physically abnormal people and animals while a load of drunk onlookers yelled words at them?

Well, now it is online. A sort of MS Paint Pictionary, and damn is it good fun.

Take a peek at iSketch

Prejudice is for commies and gays

The other day I wrote in one of my posts about a legal matter. I pointed out that to avoid prejudicing the proceedings I would not elaborate until the matter was settled. After long and careful whisky-based deliberations I reaslised a couple of things.

1. It's a civil, not a criminal matter.
2. Due to this it is unlikely to be heard before a jury.
3. If, somehow, it were to be heard before a jury, it's unlikely that said jury would consist of the ever increasing readership of 5 of this blog.
4. Screw it.

I've decided that as long as I change the names to protect the innocent and the quite blatantly not-so-innccent then we should be on a firm legal footing. Therefore, I bring the you the long running legal saga of The Hero vs. The Twat.

Back in 2002, the Hero was driving his vehicle along a one-way street when he approached a road coming from left to right. He did not alter his manner of driving as the people wishing to join or cross this street were subject to 'give way' restrictions.

Another party ('The Twat') was waiting at the give way point to cross the one-way street. Living up to his name, but unfortunately not that of the sign, he proceeded across the street directly into the Hero's path. The Hero manfully tried to avoid the Twat, but ended up striking his vehicle on the front right hand side and landing in someones garden on the right-hand side of the Hero. The Twat's car was now in the middle of the street with a rather small-willied and embarassed student in the drivers seat. Due to the final resting places of the cars, it was pretty obvious what had occurred. However there were no independant witnesses so the Hero called the police.

Whilst waiting for the police, the Twat made some calls on his mobile, and some 20 mins later an independant witness arrived (hereafter referred to as 'The Liar'). The Hero refuted that he was a) a witness and b) independant, therefore calling into question his 'independant witness' status.

Legal proceedings for damages were instigated by the Hero, and by his passenger ('The Surfer') immediately, and some rather astonishing claims were brought to light. It appeared that far from the version of the story you see above, it transpires that the Twat was happily sitting at the give way sign minding his own business when the Hero completely lost control of his own car, steered round obstructing parked cars and hit the Twat while he was stationary. The force of the impact was so great that instead of pushing the Twat's car backwards in the normal manner, it bent the laws of physics and moved both the Twat's car forward into the street that he was hoping to move into, and the Hero's also moved backwards after a forward-facing collision, all the way across the street into someones garden (sorry about the fence by the way).

This version of events was supported by the Liar, who in his concise, legally witnessesed statement, stated this, whilst also stating the wrong date, and amazingly the wrong weather conditions. Thank god for the legal system.

This has been maintained for nearly three years now, until finally, at the Hero's insistence, it was pushed forward to a court date of next month.

Imagine my The Hero's surprise when he received a letter from his solicitors stating the following:

The Twat's solicitor has requested that he be discharged from representing the Twat for the following reasons: "After our investigations it has transpired that the independant witness evidence was flawed, and so much so that there is in fact no independant witness to the incident. The insurers have concluded that there is a significantly less than 50% chance of recovery in this case and have withdrawn all legal funding from the Twat"

What a shocker! So the Liar was lying all along? Who woulda thunk it?

So whilst the trial date still stands about three weeks from now, it seems unlikely that it will proceed that far, as the Twat would have to pay for his own defence, whilst explaining why his mate the Liar, is no longer a liar. I'll keep you posted on any outcome.

The darkness

So another brief blogging hiatus comes to an end, normal reasons, been working like a bartender at Mardi Gras.

You see, what happened is there was an accident on the ferry, when driving over the little bridge between the dock and the boat, the boat moved, leaving two artics swimming wiv da fishes. As a result numerous safety checks abound and the boats are all delayed for about 6 weekd. This also extends to the tunnel, so I get to spend around 3-4 hours a night sitting in the Jewel of the North looking at all the shell-suited Essexian booze shoppers. Joy.

Last night was like this, 3 and a half hours sitting in Calais. I finally left there at 4.30 am instead of my traditional 1.00. Of course I was over the moon about this, safe in the knowledge that I would arrive in Paris just perfectly in time for the busiest two hours of the 24 hour rush hour period.

I was, however, delayed even further by this:



Yup, headlights. One of the bastards decided to blow on a particularly dark section of motorway. So I had the opportunity to play with Mercedes best "Easi-fit" headlight system. For "Easi-fit" read "Easi-fit-if-it's-during-the-day-and-you-can-see-what-you're-doing" I mean honestly, how often do headlights blow during the day? And how the fuck would you know about it until it's dark? Suggestion, vehicle manufacturers: Just behind the headlight unit, install a refrigerator-type on-off light so that people can actually change them. All I managed to do was pull the whole unit apart and short out the high-beams. In the snow. At that point I discovered that my replacement bulb kit seems to contain replacement bulbs for an entirely different type of vehicle. Or perhaps a bike. Cue a 200 mile drive with one-quarter of available headlight power. Gits.

I also have some news about the wheels of justice, and how slowly they grind. I wil talk about that another time when things are sorted though to avoid prejudicing the case. But we hope it's good news for Ribby.

A network called Internet

Do you remember the days before the Internet? I do vaguely.

Take a look at this Video made back in 1993. It really shows you just how far things have moved on from there, and how quickly.

Also, I challenge you to listen to the computer user interviewee talking about the etiquette of early Internet users without thinking "what a load of bollocks".

Them wacky Canucks.

Legless

So, it's finally happened. After 2+ glorious years on the NHS waiting list, and the general apathy and uselessness of the medical support staff, Ribby has finally landed himself his very own 'time on the table'

That's right folks, next month yours truly will be anaesthatised (sp?) and no doubt groinally shaved for his hip operation. A good thing, all factors considered (apparently it makes it look bigger); I get 4 days of free room and board and after that, one hopes, a reasonably functioning corps

The bad news of course, is that after the operation time there is a recuperation period in which I will be unable to work. Dammit. Lucky bastard, I hear you cry, as you envision me sitting around on my newly upgraded arse for a couple of weeks. However, you would be wrong. It's not a couple of weeks, it's two bloody months!!



I'm gutted, I tell you. God knows how I'm going to think of enough original material to fill this place for that length of time.

Are you sure you're not dead?

Whilst away for the weekend in Brittany, a great story was drawn to my attention. A heartwarming story, full of compassion, community awareness, and idiocy.

Mrs Ribbys grandmother, bless her soul, is about a hundred years old. Actually not that old but old nonetheless. However she is a very healthy and outgoing person, so imagine the surprise of the landlord of her house when he arrived to do some minor repairs to find that all the windows were shut and there was no answer at the door. Uh-oh.

Quick as flash, he gets on the phone to one of her three daughters to let her know. No reply. He then spoke to Mrs Ribbys mum and she in turn spoke to her other sister. At this point it's time to call the police. Well, that's what they thought anyway. I think it would have been better to try daughter number 1 again, after all thats where Grandma was quite happily having lunch. If only she knew the fuss she was causing by not answering her door.

This reminded me of a story I read in FHM not too long back. It was something along the lines of some fireman running into a burning apartment block and evacuating all the residents. One resident failed to answer his door, leading the firepersons to assume he was overcome with smoke. They broke down the door and charged into the bedroom, only to find a thirysomething male wearing headphones wanking furiously to a Britney Spears video. Apparently what made it worse was that he jumped up a let out a little girls scream. Hehehe.

Signs, pointless and otherwise

This is a subject that Phut briefly touched on a couple of months ago with his "Autistic child in area" sign, and also a subject that is quite close to my heart.

Signs are everywhere, they're like intravenous advertising, try as hard as you can but you still can't get away from them. Of course some of them are quite useful, but the large majority of them are completely useless. For now I have two examples:

The first is one that I saw when I was back in the UK a few months ago. Please regard.



Note the numbers. No (1) is the sign and apparatus for both topping up water to your car and blowing up your tires. But, more intriguingly, is no (2), the two signs telling you that you cannot park there. Interesting.

Now the other one I unfortunately do not have a picture of, so you will have to leave it to your imagination. Thinking about it, it's in French anyway so it probably wouldn't help you much.

On the Metro in Paris, there are signs above some seating on the trains. I will translate for you to make it easier:

The 4 seats below are reserved for the following people, in order of priority

• Injured war veterans
• The blind and the industrially handicapped
• Pregnant women
• Those aged 75 or over

Now lets just take a moment to analyse that. In other countries they have signs saying something like "please give up this seat to someone more needy than you". Not in France. Ohhh no, they have to have a pecking order even for the infirm. Realistically they only need to put a sign for pregnant women, because the other categories are rarer than rocking horse shit on the Metro.

Firstly you have injured war veterans. Not too many of those really, seeing as the army tend to turn tail at the first sign of trouble - the mostly likely war injury is when they put their hands up a little bit too quickly and pulled a muscle or maybe dropped their rifle on their foot.

Next you have the blind, who will have probably fallen down the stairs on the way down to the train, or more realistically from experience they are still in the station upstairs begging for money. Interestingly, they have been put in the same category as the industrially handicapped. Now in Paris this means office workers - and the only injuries they are likely to have received are scalding themselves on a minute cup of coffee or getting their fingers trapped in the coin return slot of the coffee machine. Nothing to warrant a free seat particularly.

Category 3 is ok, but the fourth is also very rare. Once again, on experience I can say that anyone over the age of 75 in Paris is not on the Metro, but on surface level dithering whether to turn left or right in their enormous cars whilst blocking a main throughfare.

I also had to wonder (and I've almost finished now), does it work on a 'points accumlated' system?

What happens if someone from categories 1 and 4 is looking for the last available seat against someone from categories 2 and 3? Does the 1 take priority, or does the 2 added to the 3 count for more than 1 and 4? Suppose it's not important, but every time I take the Metro I am secretly looking forward to a fight between an 80 year old one-legged soldier and a blind pregnant woman. What a mental picture to leave you with.

Box of frogs

I went out for a beer or three yesterday morning with one of my colleagues. Now before you start raving at me for being a hardcore alcoholic for drinking at 5am, please try and remember that I work all night so this is the evening for me.

We went to a little bar I know in Gonesse because it opens at stupid o'clock in the morning. Normally a very nice place with lots of French civil workers in there loading up on daftly strong espresso prior to a day of drinking coffee and skiving off work. However, yesterday was a little different.

Walking in, it was very much like walking into the hospital scene with Bruce Willis and Brad Pitt in Twelve Monkeys .

They were everywhere. Dribbling, moaning and rocking back and forth. After some hurried enquiries with the owner, it turns out that there is a mental hospital just up the road, and they let them out occasionally, it seems, purely to go to the pub.

There was one girl who was seriously obsessively compulsive. She was talking all the little sugar straws out of the bowls, and then putting them all back in again all the right way up. Bonkers. Fair play to the guvnor though, when he saw what she was doing he gave her some empty bowls and a huge box of sugar. Who says he's exploiting cheap labour hey?

Then there was the 'Mirror Man'. He was absolutely fascinated by his reflection. He sat there for nearly an hour staring at himself, occasionally shifting slightly left, or right, to improve the angle. Then he would repeat the process. Also he was dribbling.

"Smilin' Jack" was pretty harmless. He just sat there grinning until you thought the wind had changed and his face was frozen. Then he started laughing uproariously. And I was telling great jokes that day. Well he thought so at least.

Finally was 'Liberace'. He was proud of the fact that he spoke a little English, and equally proud of the fact that he was a raving heterosexual. So proven by his opening gambit of "I be speeek a leetle Ingleesh. I not be gay" Methinks he doth protest too much.

Madder than a box of frogs, the lot of 'em. I still like the bar, but I think I might avoid Thursdays from now on. Don't get me wrong, I understand these people need some assistance, but I don't think kicking them all out into the local boozer at 5 in the morning is the best way to achieve this.

NTG-107

Something odd happened this evening.

I was driving home when I approached a roundabout. You may recall Phuts take on roundabouts in the US, and this would for once be relevant.

This guy in a VW golf just came barreling across at top speed, nearly wiping me out in the process and then cut me up as well. Damn Belgians. Or so I thought.

I had only caught a glimpse of the licence plate, but the layout looked like the Belgian one. Imagine my surprise, and then lack of surprise after Phuts post to note the it was a New Jersey plate!

So take note, US rib fans - if you're in Jersey City (the cars origin according to the stickers), and you see a VW golf, dark blue, licence plate NTG-107; don't go near a traffic circle, in fact throw some garlic at it, just for me.