Wednesday, 24 April 2013

I Will never Forget The Day When JLS Split.

So there i was, happily ensconced in the bathroom reading Twitter on the bog when the awful, terrible news came through that the pop foursome JLS were to split up. It was an almost comic symbiotic relationship that i have with my twitter friends.

The news came as such a shock to my system that i admit a little fart escaped. Finishing my ablutions, i scratched my balls, coughed and washed my hands. I then turned on the BBC Breakfast news... It was all too real, they had indeed split to spend more time with their cash.

I thought about the dozens of fans around the world who were by now crying into their cereal bowls, mixing the bitter sweet tears of anguish with coco pops and milk. It took me right back to the time that i heard the news of the global phenomenon that was Black Lace of Aga-Doo fame, when their pop partnership was rent asunder...The lonely days of crying under my duvet and not talking to my wife were a tough time.

The feeling then of heartbreak was all so much to bear that i almost called the Black Lace counselling hotline. I will never forget it.

I feel for the JLS fans. I know their pain. If only we as a nation could get together somehow to find who in Britain has the talent to replace the fun foursome. A talent show perhaps, we could call it Britain has a talented voice with the X factor... Or something.

Surely we could find a music producer with the money to find such a replacement. A hands off mentor type who would let them grow, become musically accomplished and find their own style. There could be judges... How about Jimmy Tarbuck or Shane Ritchie..?

All i know is that there are not enough boy bands out there with such talent and now is the time to do something about that. We could find a cute one, a sporty one, a thick one and an impossibly good looking one that eventually gets all the money and fame...

But maybe i live in a dream world.

For now though, i will always remember this day. The day JLS split up. It will be forever etched in my mind with scratching my balls whilst looking in the mirror, having just evacuated my bowels.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

Ass Hattery In A Disabled Bay.

I've just encountered a Dick splash, Ass Hat, and all round fuck witted moron. And I'm not saying that because he drives an overpowered, low profile tyred, BMW with privacy windows.

I'm not even saying it because he got out of the car and proceeded to have a conversation with someone on his blue toothed phone, loudly, so even I knew that sales were better than expected, Jeff in the Audit division is a tosser and that yet again, he's going to be late home.

His cheap shiny suit gave me good laugh, so it wasn't that. No, the reason I am calling him a dick splash, ass hatted, fuck witted moron is that he parked in a disabled bay when there were plenty of other parking bays behind him and next to him.

Clearly, this is a man on a mission. A goal to be achieved, targets to hit and a boss to suck up to. He is a focussed man. Nothing will get in his way.

He is also not disabled. He did not display a blue disabled parking badge.

So, in time honoured English fashion, with a sense of good nature and fair play, I waited for him to go to the store. I then parked my van behind him, got out and left. I am writing this as I sit with a coffee and ample time until my next working appointment.

He's probably late for his. In the words of the great Sergeant Major Williams from it ain't half hot mum... (If you are old enough to remember it..)

"Oh dear, how sad, never mind."

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Friday, 12 April 2013

Elizabethan insults I shall use more often...

Listening to the spotty, slack jawed, baggy trousered youth of today, you could be forgiven that the English language has, how can I put this... 'Gone shizzlin' gangsta blud, innit..?' Yes my dear boy... That's 'Bitchin.'

Forgive me kind gentle reader, i am sorry to have shocked you with such profane language, uttered by street guttersnipes outside your local off licence. Mind you, offensive profanities are not the reserve of today's ineffectual youths in hoods, my word no...

In my life's quest for flowery language, there can be no other verbal insults as good and effective as the Shakespearean Elizabethan of yesteryear, and youths in hoods would be well advised to pick up on this. For example, you may be outside your local purveyor of fine ready rubbed shag to be accosted thusly...

'Oi... Battyboi... Gizza dolla or I slice you innit...'

On being insulted in this manner, a gentleman of sobriety and self worth such as myself would be inclined to flatten the cream faced loon with a blow worthy of inclusion in the Queensbury rules. However, quick wit is the key here, and the manifestation of your superior breeding and well read mind should prevail over mere thuggery. Your riposte should be rapier like...

'You Scullion, You Rampallion, You Fustilarion... I shall tickle your catastrophe. indeed Sir, A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen, as you are toss'd with.'

Write that down. Learn it. It may save your life one day. I'm sure that a reply such as this would so confuse the poor little tyke. He may say something like... 'Say whaaat..?' That is the moment of your destiny, as you would have plenty of time to make your lightening like escape on foot to the nearest office of the constabulary, as is your duty as a citizen.

Mind how you go...

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Monday, 1 April 2013

Aisle Blockers.

I'm not talking of people in churches, stopping people from getting married, no. You know who you are, you utter bastards. Yes you, you and the other people you are talking to in the biscuit aisle of our local supermarket.

You stand there, as if nobody else exists, talking about the kids, the school run, and the price of fish. You are standing there with your shopping trolleys, three abreast, thereby blocking my advance from the cheese counter to the fig roll shelf. (I know they are not strictly speaking biscuits, but bear with me ).

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I apologise for ramming my trolley into your ankles, thereby interrupting your story that would command high fees on the after dinner speaking circuit. However you must admit that by standing and yammering on in the middle of a supermarket aisle is just a tad tedious to the likes of us who like to get in, shop and get out.

Did I say I apologise for ramming your ankles with my trolley..? I did..? What I meant to say was fuck you.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.