tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39536009826560805822024-02-07T18:39:31.271+00:00The Irksome Grump.The written word of a middle aged grump, underwater rat throttling champion and observer of human frailties. Easily bribed with red wine and cheesy nibbles.ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-11666895549637975202014-07-03T15:47:00.001+01:002014-07-03T15:51:33.858+01:00Travelling at the speed of blight.I am not ordinarily a commuter. Working from home means that I don't have to travel with the morning hordes of miserable looking worker drones on trains.<br /><br />I did however, have to travel into London yesterday on an invite and the promise of some freelance shifts, which meant I had to travel by train, the only logical way of travelling into London for a delightful half day of breathing in car fumes and being bounced around by go getting London pedestrians in a hurry.<br /><br />Having been robbed of my life savings at the ticket desk by a surly looking heavyweight wrestler type with all the charm of a particularly downbeat Kim Jong Un with a frown, I took my seat aboard the sleek looking train that pulled up to platform one.<br /><br />I say my seat, half of it belonged to a man with a huge arse in the seat adjoining it, who was dozing fitfully. I plonked myself into the space that was left with a cheery 'Morning!' Which released a few more precious inches of bum space. The carriage began to fill and all the seats were now taken, meaning I had to sit uncomfortably close to another mans' trouser flies next to my right ear, and the view of a shoulder bag that blocked out any peripheral vision.<br /><br />A mixture of morning coffee, shower gel, body spray and commuter seat resentment was interwoven with the smell of long term career disappointment. And to think people endure this, day after day after day.<br /><br />I was by this time, reading a book by Gary Bainbridge who himself is no stranger to the complexities of commuter life and the crushing disappointment of having to deal with other people. That, and the inability to come to terms with revolving doors, self flooding hotel rooms, complicated vouchers and vending machines. The man truly is a calamity magnet. Smiling at the thought that Liverpool has a man that keeps calamity far away up North, I settled down.<br /><br />It was at this point, half way to Waterloo that a passage from the book disturbed the quietness of the carriage. Now, letting out an ordinary 'Pah-Ha-Ha' would indeed cause a few close by people to look at you with disdain, but having let out my 'Pah-Ha-Ha,' I then followed it up with a snort of such magnitude on the return inhale that everyone, and I mean everyone, turned in my direction.<br /><br />There were looks of alarm, pity, annoyance and sheer shock on the faces of my fellow passengers.<br /><br />'Sorry' I said... 'The book, you see, he's just punched a bee in the face and...'<br /><br />Slowly, the faces returned to their newspapers, phones and tablets. They must have been reading about business, fiscal indices and law, for not one of them had a smile on their face, a look of mischief or a dreamy, far away look of imagination and the punching of bees in one's garden.<br /><br />So I thank you Gary, for lightening my mood during a slow and painful journey. However, I cannot travel on this route into London again. I'm sure Twitter was awash with tales of the incredible snorting man, I may even have had my picture taken for future reference, so will have to avoid train travel in future. I will though, be taking your books onto the next 'plane I go on and attempt to frighten the bejesus out of the cabin crew with a well timed guffaw and snort.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> and is still waiting on the invention of the hover board.<br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-43057462396308857762014-06-18T13:04:00.005+01:002014-06-18T13:04:56.875+01:00A New York State Of Mind In Aldershot.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Having squandered a little time with my good lady wife in the shopping metropolis that is Aldershot in Hampshire, i felt that we needed a little down time from window shopping at Luis Vuitton, Cartier and Lidl. Knowing there was a newly built restaurant nearby, we decided to give ourselves a treat and eat our lunch New York bar and grill style.<br />
<br />
Carefully dodging the cabs on Maddison and 4th, or Aldershot High Street, we made our way to the mall, sorry, 'Morrisons' next to the Police precinct where 'Aldershot's finest' do their business of cleaning up this dirty town. <br />
<br />
Ok, it was a Frankie and Bennys, but the idea of sitting in a leatherette booth, eating a burger and fries appealed to me. I also liked the idea of being watched over by hundreds of black and white photo's of 50's mobsters, baseball players and random, portly looking Italian American gentlemen who in days gone by would have made sure that if i showed any disrespect, i would be 'sleeping with da fishes,' not in New York harbour, but in the local municipal duck pond.<br />
<br />
I needed to get myself into a New York state of mind. I needed to think 50's, i needed to think mobster. Sauntering inside, i imagined myself in the real New York, sorry, 'Noo Yoik,' ordering a 'Cwaaffee,' lighting a cigarette and chewing the fat with 'Little Tony' and 'Paulie knuckles' at the bar.<br />
<br />
However, instead of seeing the Statue of Liberty out of the window, if i squinted really really hard, i could see the reflection of the Army surplus store in the windows of Morrisons. A Police cruisers' siren cut the air... Or was that an ice cream van? It was hard to tell in the cacophony of what is 'Downtown' Aldershot.<br />
<br />
Instead of Tony and knuckles, i got Sandra from Basingstoke at the bar, a waiter who i shall call 'Spotty youth,' and leatherette booth's filled with Aldershot locals, keen to take advantage of the lunchtime specials between breakfast and the fish and chip shop.<br />
<br />
I soon learned that to get between the locals and their afternoon fries in this part of town could result in unpleasantness that could start in what is known here as an 'Aldershot Minute.' You could end up getting 'whacked.'<br />
<br />
As the voice of Johnny Burnette singing 'You're 16, you're beautiful and you're mine' filled the air, i looked over towards the open kitchen area where the short order chef cooked ribs in a curtain of flame. Disappointingly, Little Tony, knuckles and the rest of the East Side Mob were not sat there playing cards, discussing the 'rubbing out' of Don Giovanni from the West Side, in the increasingly violent turf wars in Aldershot over who controls the drugs, the gambling and VD Veronica who plies her trade near the War memorial in Central Park, next to the swings.<br />
<br />
Ignoring the fact that Johnny Burnette was hankering after 16 year olds, i looked over to the more private booths in the far corner. Joe Pesci was nowhere to be seen, Robert De Niro and Ray Liotta had gone out shopping with the kids and Al Pacino had obviously said goodbye to his 'little friend' and retired to Eastbourne to shout 'HooHaah..!' at little old ladies.<br />
<br />
Dean Martin started to warble about a moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie....<br />
<br />
I snapped out of thinking about the consequences of such a lunar and culinary disaster when 'Spotty Youth' asked to take our order. <br />
<br />
"Pastrami on rye, tomayto, (not tomato) sour cream... Hold the mayo with pickle on the side..." Is what i wanted to say, but didn't. I also refrained from using 'BaddaBing,' at the end.<br />
<br />
"Two cheese burgers and chips please." I replied in my Midland accented English. 'Spotty Youth' smiled at me as he asked if there was anything else. I looked at him. In my mind's eye, i could see myself saying, " What? Do you think i'm funny? funny how? Funny like a clown?" but resisted.<br />
<br />
"No, nothing else thank you." I said. Returning my gaze to the window, i marvelled at the buildings opposite as they towered a full 3 stories into the damp, overcast sky. The town of Aldershot, known internationally as 'The Crab Apple' and the world over as 'The town that never sleeps' (Except between the hours of 11pm and 6am.) certainly had the vision in those days of building big, i thought idly to myself.<br />
<br />
I looked around once more and decided that Aldershot, however hard Frankie and Bennys try, will never recreate that New York state of mind. My mind wandered and in it, a line from Scarface appeared...<br />
<br />
Tony Montana: Me, I want what's coming to me.<br />
Manny: Oh, well what's coming to you?<br />
Tony Montana: Aldershot, chico, and everything in it. <br />
<br />
BaddaBing.<br />
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Paul Martin is <a href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman" target="_blank">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter. <br />
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ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-54372411295910210882014-05-30T14:38:00.000+01:002014-05-30T14:45:29.984+01:00A Small Act Of Genteel Domestic Terrorism.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I recently found myself wandering the streets of Coventry once more in a vain attempt to pass the time. I avoided the cream cake emporium due to the <a href="http://irksomegrump.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/retail-therapy-cream-cakes-and.html" target="_blank">unforseen circumstances</a> i found myself in on my previous visit. I didn't think enough time had elapsed for my fuzzy CCTV photo to have been taken down from the 'Troublesome Customers' noticeboard, next to the 'Shoplifters / Vagabonds / Wanted' noticeboard in the staff room. Having had a shave and a haircut, returning me to my Tom Cruise good looks, i may have got away with it, but i didn't want to take the risk.<br />
<br />
Since it wasn't Christmas and no family Birthdays were on the immediate horizon, i wandered the shop fronts in search of something, anything, to occupy my idle mind. Following a very agreeable coffee in a nice Italian coffee shop in the city centre that had no children in it, i was bored and as we all know, boredom leads to terrible, terrible acts... For i am now a wanted man.<br />
<br />
I looked around. Clothes shops... No. Mobile Phone shops...No. I stared at the bland row upon row of shiny outlets owned by the Multi-National conglomerate corporation of 'Same Shit Different Logo Ltd,' with headquarters based in the tax free Virgin Islands and a CEO based in a £30m London town house in Belgravia with a holiday home in the Bahamas. I wondered just where it all went wrong for them... My inner Che Guevara surfaced and recoiled at the decadent west.<br />
<br />
I wondered why the Inland Revenue and Her Majesties Customs and Excise negotiate tax agreements of a few millions, based on an income of Billions, whilst at the same time sending Bailiffs to recover small benefits over-payments to families who can't afford to repay. I wondered why we tolerate the fact that more and more food banks are required in this so called affluent nation. Day centres for the disabled and the vulnerable, the old and the poor, closing for the lack of funds.<br />
<br />
A small act of domestic defiance and protest was in order. Nothing to trouble the Secret Service you understand, i don't want to end up in Guantanamo being force fed water through a blanket with a cattle prod up my jacksie, no thank you. <br />
<br />
I hatched my dastardly plan. 'I am a domestic terrorist genius,' i thought to myself, but without the added heavy armaments, lethal attitude towards my fellow man, a balaclava or the actual terrorising of the general public, i'm not a lunatic.<br />
<br />
I walked into a well known retail outlet that sells cheaply made items from poorly paid third world children and sells them at a massive mark-up price and then keeps the tax free profits. You know the type. My heart began to race, a trickle of sweat formed on my brow wondering if Kiefer Sutherland was about to jump from the trouser rack (waist sizes 32 to 38) and torture me using a biro, a CIA business card and a coat hanger, whilst simultaneously downloading the shop schematics to his PDA. (Keifer, they are called 'blueprints' you tit.)<br />
<br />
I banished all thoughts from my mind... The time was now... Should i fail, i hoped my small cell of fellow urban Guerrillas would remember me for what i was about to do, until i remembered i haven't any fellow members. I was an army of one.<br />
<br />
I deftly swapped the price tags from an expensive suit with that of a cheaper, logo'd pair of trousers... Not once, but twice.<br />
<br />
My plan was a simple one. As far as i'm aware, UK law states that the marked price on an item is what it should be sold for, so i figure the next customer will bag a bargain and the store will lose around £16.38p. That's £16.38p back into the hands of the public where it belongs. Having set the trap, i left. As an added act of defiance against the state and it's greedy money masters, i left without calling the Police with a code-worded warning message. I'm sorry, but i'm trying to start a revolution here y'know.<br />
<br />
Anyway, that'll teach 'em. With a few more acts such as this, i reckon i could deprive Mr Moneybags, CEO of the Same Shit Different Logo Company, of quite a few poolside gin and tonics. As such, with my new secret urban Guerrilla identity, my next post will come from my secret cave hidden in the Surrey hills, just outside of the M25 near Dorking.<br />
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Paul Martin is <a href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman" target="_blank">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter, and has just given away his identity... Bugger.<br />
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ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-20003946541673866742014-05-30T12:15:00.000+01:002014-05-30T12:15:47.353+01:00Magicians... A Bunch Of Chancers.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
I've been watching the telly again. Yes, yes, I know. I'm always watching the telly or lurking in public places in search of more juicy blog posts about the foibles of being out and about with the unpredictable British public. I just can't help myself.<br />
<br />
This time however, I was watching a magician turning tricks on a busy public road to passers by who had slack jaws and a penchant for going "No way man..!" when something surprising happens. In other words, easy prey.<br />
<br />
A pack of cards, sleight of hand and a posing magician inevitably leads to the question "Is this your card..?" So let's just stop it there and ask yourself a question...<br />
<br />
You're in a public street with a magician, a pack of cards and a film crew... What on earth did you think was going to happen..? Of course it's going to be your card. There's no way on this little Earth that it's not going to be your card. Magic is just a load of old bollocks for the feeble of mind... So here's an idea:<br />
<br />
The next time a man in a top hat and cape, followed by a film crew stop you in the street and ask you to pick a card, any card, play along until the very end. ( I should point out that it is just as likely these days that the street magicians are dressed in baggy jeans, sneakers and a hoody... Do not be alarmed. ) Either way, when the card is revealed and the inevitable question is asked of you, stare blankly at the magician and say with considerable gusto...<br />
<br />
"Well, you fucked that up didn't you..?" Smile, then be on your way without looking back to see the deflated, yet confused street magician going through his pockets to see where he went wrong... It'll be a hoot. You won't make it onto the telly, but it'll be a hoot, and you can go home with a warm fuzzy feeling inside.<br />
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Don't give these 'magician' chancers the oxygen of publicity, that's what I say. Oh, and if you're going to practice 'magic' get yourself a top hat and cape, because nobody trusts a hoodie and i'm just as likely to mistake you for a street thief and treat you to a display of the Queensbury Rules. <br />
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Chancers... And another thing, stick to the local variety theatre stage and stop doing magic on public pavements. People start to rubber neck and you block the way, stopping those of us shopping for spam and hobnobs from going about our lawful business.<br />
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Paul Martin is <a href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman" target="_blank">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter. </div>
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ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-38507424810883401832014-03-15T17:21:00.000+00:002014-03-15T19:35:38.643+00:00Retail Therapy, Cream Cakes And Predictability.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's become something of a tradition when i visit my Dad, that on a Sunday afternoon just after dinner, we dig into a box of cream cakes that i have bought in town earlier that morning.<br />
<br />
Now what could be simpler than driving into town, having a coffee and a browse in the bookshop, followed by a short visit to the supermarket for a box of cream cakes..? In the normal course of events, nothing. This being me however, i found myself in an awkward situation that i had no idea how i got myself into before it was too late.<br />
<br />
On arrival at the supermarket, i found that they had moved the aisles around and sorted the food out into different places in a smart and customer friendly strategic manner, as per the newest retail management practice manual, Page 62, entitled 'Regular Customer: Confusion and Mind Games.' The downside being for me, that i couldn't find the damn cream cakes.<br />
<br />
Now i know the reason for moving stuff about in supermarkets is to confuse the customer and make us wander around the whole building in search of what we came for, and hope that we will pass the aisle with dustpans, plastic gizmo's and wet wipes, we will see them and exclaim, "Hey, you know what? My kitchen floor is filthy, i may need that dust pan and the wet wipes… i shall buy them forthwith." As if customers actually do that… Eh..? They seem to think we are utterly predictable, malleable and sheep like.**<br />
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Well i'm wise to them. Cream cakes is what i came for and cream cakes is what i am leaving with. Nothing more and nothing less.<br />
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I spied a loose gaggle of supermarket employees at the end of the aisle, helping those who have become stuck at the unmanned, self service checkout tills that needs a person to be there, in order for people to use them properly. I approached and without a second thought, tapped the nearest of the four employees on the shoulder and politely asked...<br />
<br />
"Excuse me, i'm a little lost, but i expect YOU will know where the cream cakes are..?"<br />
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An innocuous question i think you will agree, but not when you have inadvertently picked out the largest of the large female employees and basically said that due to her size, she will obviously know where the cream cakes are.<br />
<br />
I swear i didn't see her as that, It was not what i was thinking. As normal i was not thinking at all, i just picked the nearest employee of the group and that was it. A hello, followed by a question followed by disaster.<br />
<br />
She glared at me. I swallowed hard. The situation was now dawning on me as to what i had just done, and however misconstrued my intent, i was now on the receiving end of a very hard eyeballing.<br />
<br />
"Second refrigeration unit on the left, next to the milk and cheese." She said, foregoing the usual 'Sir' at the end. I let that go, now was not the time for impertinent questions and a lecture on the finer points of good customer service.<br />
<br />
"Thanks… I… Errr… Thanks." I left hurriedly for the milk, cheese and cream cake aisle and could feel the daggers behind me. No matter, i made it unscathed and intact to the cream cakes and found what i wanted. There was no way i was going to retrace my steps to the self service checkouts though, so i made my way to the main checkouts.<br />
<br />
Having wandered through the aisles, I approached the checkout with my cream cakes, two bottles of South African Pinotage, disinfectant for the toilet, a box of cereal and a plastic gizmo.<br />
<br />
Hang on… I don't usually pass the red wine / disinfectant / cereals / gizmo aisles on the way out… Oh, the utter, utter bastards.<br />
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Paul Martin is <a href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman" target="_blank">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br />
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** The author would like to point out that he is in no way predictable, malleable nor sheep like.<br />
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ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-54715201698021337432014-03-13T16:56:00.000+00:002014-03-13T18:33:54.374+00:00Alfresco Dining And The Plastic Sachet Of Doom.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Finding myself at a local hostelry with my good lady, i thought it would be remiss of me not to indulge in a flaggon of real ale or two, along with a fish and chip dinner in the afternoon sunshine. It is after all, what sunny afternoons in the UK were invented for.<br />
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The hostelry in question, one of the now ubiquitous pub chains along the lines of 'The hungry donkey,' 'Big plate,' or 'Gut buster pub,' that pervade our once independent village squares and town high streets, was a pleasant enough place. They did however, insist on antagonising me for no good reason.<br />
<br />
Having ordered my fish, chips and mushy peas, i got down to the business of filtering the as yet unidentified flaky bits from the bottom of my glass of real ale through my teeth, a real British tradition i think you will agree. The waitress soon arrived with a small original 18th Century antique faux wooden bucket, containing our knife, fork, napkins and what can only be described as a slack handful of condiments sealed in small, plastic sachets. Oh, the ambience of fine dining, pub chain style.<br />
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Our food arrived suspiciously quickly, but looked and smelled as it should so i banished any thought of ready meals from my mind and looked for the salt. As it turned out, the salt was at the bottom of the 18th century original faux wooden bucket, just next to the 'Made in China' stamp. They were in teeny tiny paper sachets which when opened, deposited small amounts of salt into your lap and onto the floor.<br />
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The vinegar was a bastard. Sealed in tough, rubberised plastic sachets, they were a test worthy of the Crypton Factor, in that if you did manage to open them, any attempt at removing the contents therein resulted in an arc of vinegar over your shoulder and into the eyes of the person on the next table... A small child in my case. I think i got away with it.<br />
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"Is everything to your liking?" Said a waitress.<br />
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"Yes, yes... Everything is just fine thank you..." Said I, as my missus rolled her eyes as if to say... "Here we go."<br />
<br />
Having opened 3 sachets of salt and two of vinegar to my taste, a small gust of wind disposed of the empty plastic and paper on my behalf, over to the far end of the beer garden.<br />
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Next up was the Tartare sauce... Three sachets should be enough. Placing the first sachet of plastic between my teeth i managed to split it in two and dribble the sauce over my fingers and leave a small piece of plastic wedged in the tight gap between my two front teeth, dangling a half empty sachet from my mouth.<br />
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"Is everthing to your liking?" Said a passing waitress for no other reason than she happened to be passing. I think they are trained to say this to any person who is eating.<br />
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"Yeth, yeth... Efferthink ith juth thine thank you..." Said I, with my stiff upper lip.<br />
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As i licked at my greasy fingers, my better half had deftly opened the remaining sachets with the aplomb that only women married to stupid men can do, and deposited the sauce in a neat splodge at the side of my regulation, oversized pub chain plate. She looked at me as if i should be sat in a kiddies high chair, wearing a bib.<br />
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"Is everything alright..?" Asked yet another passing waitress. Whether she was asking as a result of boot camp training or at the plight of a grown man with plastic stuck between his teeth and tartare sauce on his fingers, i did not know. Nor did i ask.<br />
<br />
"Can I hath a thooth pick pleath..?"<br />
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"There should be some in your bucket..." Said the waitress.<br />
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There was indeed some toothpicks at the bottom of our faux wooden bucket. small plastic ones, sealed in a paper sachet. <br />
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Paul Martin is <a href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman" target="_blank">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br />
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ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-17750573975527065782014-03-07T15:33:00.003+00:002014-03-07T15:33:44.919+00:00An Unexpected Evening Of Light Entertainment From Glastonbury...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Can you turn the amp down a bit on that Lute..?" Said William Shakespeare famously to one of the two gentlemen of Verona, during the battle scene in A Mid Summer Nights Dream... And I can sympathise with him.<br />
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I've often thought about the type of people who go to rock concerts, music festivals and the like. You see there I was, watching 'Murder She Wrote' on the telly with a cup of tea and a hobnob, when I inadvertently sat on the remote and turned over to some godforsaken teenage 'music' channel.<br />
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"Hellloooo Glastonbury..!!" Yelled an inappropriately dressed, tattooed young lady from the stage.<br />
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"Whhooooo..!!" Came the reply from thousands of youngsters who were quite obviously out well past time on a school night.<br />
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"Whhoooo..!" They shouted again, having lost the ability to say anything remotely coherent.<br />
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"Here's one you all know..." Shouted the scantily clad lady on stage, as she started to 'sing' in what only be described as 'not singing.'<br />
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"Whhoooo..!!" Screamed the crowd as they obviously recognised the 'tune' and started to sing along whilst bouncing their heads in time to the 'music.' <br />
<br />
I began to think that the singer was being rather presumptuous about the song being one that we all knew. I had never heard of it before, and it certainly doesn't appear in my collection of vinyl LP's and singles. I know, I checked. I also checked my small collection of these new fangled CD's... Nothing. But then I stopped listening to popular music when 'The Jam' split up and the Army cut all my hair off, gave me a rifle and pointed me in the general direction of the Soviets... Just for fun.<br />
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Another "Whhoooo..!!" blasted out from the telly, bringing me out of my Cold War memories as the singer shouted out to nobody in particular... "Are you ready to rock..?"<br />
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I should say so. At probably a few hundred pounds a ticket, I would most certainly be 'ready to rock' but only if I could bring a deck chair, my own spam sandwiches and a flask of something warming against the chill. Oh, and a place at the back, near the car park next to the beer tent.<br />
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Bloody noise... And if those kids aren't back home by 10pm, they should all be grounded for a month. That'll learn 'em.<br />
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Paul Martin is <a href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman" target="_blank">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br />
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ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-86854076183306827452014-03-03T11:04:00.001+00:002014-03-04T13:32:28.514+00:00Does This Look Infected..?Here's a little tip for you all:<br /><br />If you get to the point where an injury, no matter how small, makes you ask someone else if it may be infected... It's infected.<br /><br />This happened to me the other day as someone, let's call him Dave, decided to ask me, a renowned non medical person of some repute, whether his bright red, pus filled, angry looking cut on the back of his hand was infected.<br /><br />I looked at it. It was as obvious as when Sigourney Weaver said to the guy in 'Alien' just as a creature burst from his chest... "I would get that looked at if I were you... I've got a tube of Savlon.."<br /><br />Listen up. The give away to an infection is soreness, redness and pus. The best way to treat it is to do something about it before you get to the pus stage because there may be a very real chance that you will progress to the next stage of untreated infection...<br /><br />A short course of hospital food, then death.<br /><br />It's no good waiting for my opinion on the rate of Staphylococcus aureus bacterial infection and consequences, as the blood specked, oozing pus seeps into your shirt cuffs is it..? Why are you asking me..? And why are you showing it to me at lunchtime over a panini and coffee..?<br /><br />I fully expect to see this post picked up by a medical professor and published in the next edition of The Lancet, where GP's will see it, stroke their chins and declare... "He's right y'know.."<br /><br />Until then dear friends of mine, stop showing me your obviously infected wounds and go to the Doctor, or buy a tube of 'InfectaGo' or something similar... Because that pus has just put me right off my melted cheese panini.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-49154192093239587282013-12-04T11:06:00.001+00:002014-03-04T13:32:40.810+00:00The Big Breakfast Bru-Ha-Ha.Man cannot live on toast and chocolate coco pops alone, so said Aristotle in one of his more lucid moments before the battle of Waterloo, and I would agree. On occasion, the full English breakfast is required to keep a working man on his toes throughout the day, preventing lapses in concentration before the 10:30 tea and muffin break.<br /><br />With this in mind, I stopped off at a likely looking place for a plateful of coronary inducing trans fats in the form of some bacon, egg, sausage, beans, mushrooms, fried bread and hash browns. And since they had a sign outside declaring 'Breakfast served here,' I thought I was on to a winner.<br /><br />It turns out that by arriving five minutes after breakfast had stopped being served I was in fact, onto a loser.<br /><br />"I'm only five minutes late, no chance of a cheeky breakfast..?" I pleaded.<br /><br />"Sorry love," Said the comely serving lady behind the counter, "We stopped serving breakfast, were now onto the lunch menu if you would care to have a look."<br /><br />I picked up the faux leather bound menu and perused its contents. It turned out I could have egg on toast, beans on toast and mushrooms on toast. I could also have a bacon sandwich, sausage sandwich, bacon and egg sandwich or a bread roll containing all three.<br /><br />"Can I have the egg, beans and mushrooms without the toast.." I asked.<br /><br />"No, I'm afraid not. They all come with toast."<br /><br />"Can I have the bacon, egg and sausage without the bread roll and combine it with beans, egg and mushrooms on one serving of toast..?"<br /><br />"Sorry Sir... But that would be a breakfast. And we've stopped serving breakfast."<br /><br />It appeared that the only way to get breakfast in this place was to order 4 or 5 separate lunch items, which would result in all the breakfast I wanted but with 8 pieces of toast and a leftover bread roll and five cups of tea, all for the princely sum of £16.95p instead of £4.75p for the original breakfast but without all the toast, tea and bread rolls.<br /><br />I know. It's confusing. They could cook all of the breakfast items separately, and call it something else on the lunch menu, but wouldn't cook it and serve it together on one plate, because that would be called a breakfast... And they've stopped serving breakfast five minutes ago.<br /><br />"Can I help you mate..?" Said an unshaven man through a serving hatch in the wall.<br /><br />I explained my confusion as to the current breakfast / lunch menu, and the fact that all the ingredients for a full English breakfast were still on the menu, but now seem to be sold as lunch items separately and can no longer be combined.<br /><br />"Yeah, sorry..." He said. "We stopped serving breakfast like, five minutes ago..? We don't do all day breakfasts."<br /><br />I took a deep breath. A very deep breath. It would seem that they just didn't get it. I gritted my teeth. They did..! They did do all day breakfasts, except sold the very same items separately and called them lunch..!<br /><br />"I can do you a bacon and egg sandwich..." He said unhelpfully.<br /><br />"Can I get that with beans, sausage, mushrooms, a hash brown with a cup of tea..?" I asked.<br /><br />He frowned, then lifted one eyebrow as if a great idea had just popped into his mind. "I don't see why not.." He said. "We could call it brunch."<br /><br />"I would put that on the menu." I said.<br /><br />"I might just do that..." He replied. "That's, erm... Let me see here... £4.75p please."<br /><br />I despair of some people. I really do.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-60510049250081360152013-09-04T15:10:00.001+01:002014-03-04T13:32:53.345+00:00Energy Drinks Disaster Awaits.I've noticed a lot of things over the last few months, like young people who say 'like' a lot... What I mean is, like, I want to, like, tell you something, like. But that isn't what I want to talk to you about today... Like.<br /><br />No... What it is, is people who drink large amounts of energy drink for no good reason. These people are generally hanging around street corners, guzzling energy drinks as if they have just stopped for a breather in a particularly long run. I don't think they need the energy for anything other than watching passing folk and cars.<br /><br />I've noticed them in cafe's, shops, and even at their place of work, where they apparently need more and more energy in order to catch up on Facebook or get up to do the filing. This is not normal. For a start, energy drinks tend to taste like shit. Secondly, I believe they are dangerous to the general well being of society.<br /><br />It's a wonder that they manage to do anything except palpitate and sweat their way through the working day. Do they need one first thing in the morning..?<br /><br /><i>"I've got a hard day at the office today dear... New delivery of paper clips. Pass me a can of CaffPow would you..? I'll pour it on my cornflakes. Would I like a lift to work..? No thanks dear, I'll bounce my way there."</i><br /><br />Whatever happened to a coffee in the morning and a stiff Scotch at the end of the day to wind down..? I don't know about you, but my day is not complete without nodding off to the early evening soaps at the end of the day, which is why they are made in the first place, to get the populace to go to bed early and stop them causing trouble on the streets. <br /><br />More and more people though are drinking these energy drinks. And this in turn can make them stay awake and alert until at least 10 o'clock in the evening... Maybe even 11. It's a recipe for disaster.<br /><br />I tell you this, the upsurge in the energy drink market is a slippery slope to caffeine and sugar induced rioting in the streets. These energy drinks should be banned and replaced with warming cups of Ovaltine and a Radio 4 play to settle them down a bit. I hope the powers that be are reading this...<br /><br />One day you will thank me.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-88364116739788897632013-08-31T14:03:00.001+01:002013-08-31T14:16:04.419+01:00A Time Machine, Marty McFly And Trouser Insurance.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is something that has bugged me now for many years. I hadn't thought about it for a long time until I caught a glimpse on the telly the other day of the hit 80's film, 'Back to the future.' <br />
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Now what's been bugging me all these years isn't the fact that they made a time machine from a Delorean, however implausible that it may be... No. What has been bugging me is what occurs when Marty travels back in time to the 50's and finds himself in his home town.<br />
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You see on arrival, he wanders down his street and is promptly knocked over by a car and is rendered unconscious. The next thing you know, he wakes up in his young mothers bed without his trousers on... Think about this a while...<br />
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This is not a logical response to finding a casualty in a traffic accident is it..? Just who was it that decided the medical response to an unconscious young lad with a head injury, is to abduct him from the street, remove his trousers... Just his trousers mind you... And put him in a young adolescent teen girls bed..? And for the love of humanity, why..?<br />
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Did they not have medical emergency response in 1950's small town America..? A first aider perhaps, who knows how to check an airway, stem blood flow or splint a broken bone. Apparently not...<br />
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What they do have is a maniac on the loose with a penchant for debagging young men without a care in the world for medical sensibilities and the well being of the patient.<br />
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I tell you this... Next time I'm travelling to the USA, I'm taking out some serious medical insurance with an anti abduction clause. Also, I shall be insuring against malicious trouser theft. You can't be too careful can you..?<br />
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Paul Martin is <a href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman" target="_blank">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br />
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ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-53309612823668475282013-08-20T14:33:00.001+01:002013-08-21T18:38:55.528+01:00Carry On Starbucks.You probably think that I spend a lot of time hanging around in various coffee shops and you would be right, I do. Being on the road and waiting around is part of my job so I have imbibed my fair share of arabica goodness.<br /><br />Today though, i thought the baristas at a certain Starbucks, (I will mention no names, Farnborough.) had started to flirt outrageously with their clientele. Either that or they were in full dress rehearsal for their amateur performance of Carry On Starbucks. Having ordered my usual latte, I was asked by the charming young lady barista...<br /><br />"Would you like anything to eat Sir..?"<br /><br />"No thank you.." Came my reply.<br /><br />"I've got a lovely muffin..."<br /><br />I raised my left eyebrow, stifled a schoolboy giggle, and refrained from letting out my inner Kenneth Williams. "I'm sorry what..?" I said.<br /><br />"I've got a nice muffin Sir, if you would like it..."<br /><br />At this point, my inner Kenneth was replaced by a full on Sid James. Just what was she offering to show me? It was obvious to anyone who doesn't have a dirty schoolboy / Carry On film orientated sense of humour, but not me... Oh no...<br /><br />"And I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts..." I retorted.<br /><br />She looked at me perplexed.<br /><br />"Sorry Sir..?"<br /><br />"Nothing... Just the latte, thanks."<br /><br />Some people just don't get it do they..? I bet she has never even heard of Kenneth Williams or Sid James.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-41291495569438050192013-08-16T13:18:00.001+01:002013-08-16T13:23:25.373+01:00Steamed Milk And Chocolate Sprinkles.Yet again I found myself on the road and in need of refreshment. Coffee, that'll hit the spot. A large latte no less with foam and choco sprinkles in a plastic lined cardboard cup. I am nothing if not a connoisseur of fine coffee establishments of the roadside service station variety.<br /><br />I took my place in the medium sized queue and noticed there was only one man at the till, in a row of five otherwise unattended tills, dealing with the customers, one at a time and very slowly. I waited my turn as the queue extended behind me. I could hear tuts, harrumphs and long, drawn out breaths of impatience.<br /><br />Everyone in front of me was paying for fuel, but I, I was not. I only wanted a large latte, and this I knew, was going to cause him to abandon his till to make it. The queue in front slowly disappeared and it was now my turn.<br /><br />"No fuel, just a large latte to go please..."<br /><br />I heard a loud harrumph from behind me. Not a small imperceptible harrumph, but a fully audible, I'm going to let him hear my displeasure at being held up harrumph. No matter, this was not my fault and I wanted a coffee. The man abandoned the till and headed for the coffee machine.<br /><br />Placing the plastic lined, cardboard cup beneath the spout, he pushed the large latte button and my beverage of choice flowed. The people in the queue waited. I watched the steamed milk as it slowly started to fill my cup. As it neared the top, before the foam was dispensed, the man removed the cup. Steamed milk still flowed followed by the whoosh of foaminess that was now going into the spill tray.<br /><br />What he gave me was a medium latte in a large latte cup, with no foam and no chocolate sprinkles.<br /><br />I wasn't going to stand for this. As he started to place the plastic lid on the cup, I reminded him of the order I had made.<br /><br />"I ordered a large?" I said. "I'm sorry?" He replied.<br /><br />"I ordered a large latte... Could you top that up please? You removed the cup before it finished."<br /><br />He looked at me. I could see a dark cloud descend upon his furrowed brow as he mentally decided how he was going to deal with this pedantic troublemaker. A tut emanated from over my shoulder, as the waiting queue started to form a loose lynch mob. I was not to be distracted from what I saw as a crime of obtaining money by deception.<br /><br />"I can't top it up, it's a machine... I'll have to make you a fresh one" said the till man, as he again walked towards the coffee machine. I glanced towards the queue. Around ten pairs of eyes bore into me with varying intensity from mild irritation to downright murderous thoughts.<br /><br />"One LARGE cappuccino... Two pounds twenty please.." Said the till man, in a sarcastic manner.<br /><br />Did he just say cappuccino? I think he did. He bloody well did you know. I was now in a quandary. I had a large drink, just not the drink of my choice. I really, really wanted to say something about latte being a close cousin to a cappuccino, but all of three to four minutes had elapsed and the queue were now starting to look for pitchforks in the BBQ aisle section. So I relented.<br /><br />I paid and took my coffee to the sugar stand and gently removed the plastic lid... You guessed it... No chocolate sprinkles.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-60639594801328052612013-08-08T13:50:00.001+01:002013-08-08T15:10:09.342+01:00A Summers Day Sabotaged.So the school summer holidays are upon us in earnest and I'm on the road having dropped No1 Son off at his adventure to the zoo, courtesy of the youth club. So I will quickly nip home and relax in the garden, child free for the next 5 hours of quiet bliss which incorporates a mandatory snooze in the warm sunshine.<br /><br />My local authority and the highways agency have other ideas however. In the time it took me to drive through a small town, drop off the boy and return, 20 or so heavy set blokes in hi-vis vests, along with digging vehicles, dump trucks, pointy cones and traffic lights have somehow managed to cause a tailback from here to eternity.<br /><br />They weren't there 30 or so minutes ago, and neither was the entire population of North East Hampshire, in their cars, patiently waiting to thwart my ambition of just a little bit of child free rest and recuperation. This is just not bloody fair. I manage to last a mere 30 minutes of crawling, stopping, crawling and stopping before my inner demons surface and I call the entire membership of the local roads authority a bunch of fuck witted, lame brained, moronic shit for brains dickwads, for ripping up the roads in summer time.<br /><br />I felt better for my outburst, but also grateful that my car window was up as I did so, for the little old lady in the car next to me may have overheard some truly awful language not heard since the trenches of WW1.<br /><br />I queued for a full hour along a dual carriageway before being able to turn round and go a different way. Knowing the back roads can sometimes be a blessing but also a curse, for today is also the day that every farmer with his tractor has decided to come out and cut the fields of grass for silage. Learner drivers are still learning, potholes the size of the Grand Canyon are in abundance and... No... For Gods sake, no...<br /><br />The queue stretches ahead like a metal snake... <br /><br />It seems I'm not the only one who knows the back roads and so it seems, do the local roads authorities, who have decided that today is not only the day to rip up the roads, but also the day to fit new roadside lighting along this particular stretch of highway.<br /><br />I'm only 8 miles from home, a cool drink and an afternoon nap... But today, I may as well be on the fucking moon.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-43079087662215272013-07-15T11:24:00.001+01:002013-08-08T15:09:50.845+01:00The Husband Crèche Humiliation.It has come to something when us blokes can't be trusted to venture onto the high street for a pleasant afternoons shopping for home essentials like toilet roll, cheese, (extra mature) a Toblerone, a child's toy light sabre and a box of cheap beer.<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=13/07/15/329.jpg'><img src='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/13/07/15/s_329.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br />What do you mean? That's quite a normal sounding shopping list for a man who walks the streets of retail therapy alone and unsupervised. Now I know that last time the Missus sent me out hunting and gathering for salad, quiche and baby potatoes, I did in fact come home with a play station, 2 games, a war film and an iceberg lettuce, but that's not relevant here...<br /><br />What is relevant, is that people obviously think that we men, as a whole, cannot be trusted and as such, have invented the 'husband crèche,' where we can be kept an eye on by more sensible people.<br /><br />I am appalled. It is a gut wrenching sign of the times where I, as a grown man of advancing years, intelligence and experience, can be treated as a child and must be reigned in. Inverse sexism is what it is.<br /><br />I am a man, a hunter, maker of fire and provider of shelter and protection. But I am also a modern man, so I must compromise, share and be equal to the concerns of my other half. However, I must stand firm and take control of this situation without confrontation.<br /><br />So this time, I compromised a pint of best bitter, a bar stool and the possibility of a meat and potato pie as she went shopping for the accoutrements that our family are really in need of... Like fresh food and cleaning thingies.<br /><br />In the 'Husband Crèche' we discussed and philosophised on the important matters of the day, things like the price of beer, battlefield conditions for the modern infantryman and does a cheese toastie, beer and Toblerone make for a balanced diet..? We came to the conclusion that yes... Yes it does.<br /><br />Can't be trusted eh..? Even Descartes or Aristotle couldn't come up with these deep and meaningful theories on modern man, and they were proper philosophers. A Husband Crèche, that's what they needed back then... Now, where's my meat and potato pie..?<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-59239363609967722422013-06-28T13:20:00.001+01:002013-08-08T15:09:50.848+01:00Inadvertent Exposure.I'm sitting outside a TK Maxx, which in itself is a frightful thing to be doing. I didn't go in, I promise you. I just happened to be there when a young gentleman of the Shoreditch twat variety, or Hipster, hoved into view sporting the latest in eighties retro hairdo, clothes and footwear.<br /><br />The sight of him alone made me giggle to myself, but then something truly awful caught my eye. I didn't mean to be looking but once I had seen it I couldn't look away. His too tight skinny jeans were, how can I put this... deficient in the zip department, and he was going commando. Everything was on display like the proverbial last turkey in the shop window.<br /><br />There were people about. Ladies may faint at the sight of this man's unfettered meat and two veg and could drop like flies, no pun intended. Something needed to be done... Swiftly. Just not by me. I looked around to see if anyone else had been unfortunate enough to have witnessed this act of inadvertent indecent exposure... Nope, just me then.<br /><br />As is always the way of my life, he started to walk in my direction. Why me? Do I ignore it or tell him? It would certainly be funnier to ignore it and wait for the inevitable scream that would happen any time now from a passing lady of the fainting persuasion. But what do I say and how do I say it..? Should i do it quietly and politely with a well recognised euphemism like, 'you seem to flying low there old chap..' Or should i just go for it and...<br /><br />"Oi..! You..! Your dick's 'angin' out you plank..."<br /><br />Thank you white van man. Ever the stoical, down to earth and plain speaking modern Englishman. He was parked behind me with a mouthful of burger and a cab full of other builder types, laughing.<br /><br />I mentally packed away my well worn euphemism and sense of British politeness. I guess it's not required any more.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-39643028470066471422013-06-21T13:41:00.001+01:002013-06-24T10:43:57.402+01:00The Gents Lavatorial Rule BookA good blogging friend of mine, <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/scaryduck">Scaryduck</a>, commissioned a <a target="_blank" href="http://scaryduck.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/on-commissioning-proper-study-into.html">survey</a> a while back into the toilet habits of the modern British male. Having been on the road for a few hours today, the time inevitably came when I would need to.. Err.. Relieve myself. There was a petrol station not far off so I decided that is where I would stop. Perhaps this story could go towards his lavatorial study...<br /><br />Walking towards the gents door I noticed in my peripheral vision another man walking towards the same door. Having been here before, I quickened my pace knowing that the gents only had one urinal. If I get there first, he would have to use trap number one, not me. Those things are usually filthy in your average roadside gents lavatories and are to be strictly avoided unless you are in an absolutely unavoidable touching cloth scenario. I made it first with a few steps to spare and opened the door. The man followed in behind me. As we did so, I found to my horror that trap number one was engaged. There were two toilets and three blokes... This could go badly.<br /><br />I stood at the urinal thinking that the man would do the decent thing by realising his gentlemanly faux pas and leave to wait outside. He didn't. He was about three feet behind me, unmoving. He sniffed. I coughed and stared at the wall dead ahead. You can't be in a small gents urinals and stand in silence. It's not the done thing, the rules of the urinals state that if one man sniffs then the other must cough, at least he knew that. Whoever was in trap number one remained silent, he too it seemed, knew the rules.<br /><br />Maybe he was too shocked at finding out there was only one urinal and was too embarrassed to be seen by others walking straight out again. It would certainly look suspicious to any casual observer of the gents door. So I guess he stayed there frantically trying to remember the gents lavatory rule book.<br /><br />Having finished my turn at the urinal I now turned to wash my hands and the full horror of the situation struck me. The tiny wash basin was directly next to the urinal, less than a foot away. If I washed my hands would the man stand next to me as he did his business? We would basically be touching each other at the shoulder, him peeing and me washing my hands. Under no circumstances is there to be any physical contact in a public toilet, it's rule number one in the gents rule book on pain of a potential beating by a stranger, or worse, an invitation to 'Go and observe the nearby badger set..' Also, there was a real danger of splashback or sidespray.<br /> <br />I prayed that he knew of his earlier mistake and would now show common bloke decency by waiting until I had finished washing my hands. Thankfully he did. I sniffed again, he coughed and trap number one remained silent. I took this a a sign that he understood the rules and was sorry for the earlier gaffe, a kind of bloke lavatorial audible sign language that everyone understands from an early age. <br />I turned and studiously avoided eye contact, again, another rule of the gents had been observed. I was relieved that gentlemanly lavatory honour had been restored as I dried my hands under the blow drier and left, but it was close. So very close.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-35121570566206530692013-06-21T11:29:00.001+01:002013-06-24T10:43:42.788+01:00Home Improvement, DIY And Will I Be Needing A Sponge With That..?I found myself on an industrial estate yesterday. I don't work there and no, I wasn't looking for illicit drug dealers, prostitutes or a shady cash deal on a new washing machine from a bloke in a van with no questions asked and no VAT.<br /><br />I was there to deal with another kind of man who strikes fear into my heart every time my wife says we could do with a new bathroom, kitchen, carpet or self assembly wooden contraption for the bedroom or hallway. The DIY showroom man. This is a man who expects me, as another man, to know what I'm talking about. I don't. Sexist stereotyping... That what I call it.<br /><br />I was there to buy tiles for the bathroom and was confronted by a myriad of square ones, oblong ones, shiny ones and ones that glow in the dark. Rows and rows of the bloody things. The man asked, 'What do we have already?' 'Square ones.' I replied... 'On the wall. I don't know how they got there and they won't come off.' <br /><br />'What size wall in square metres are we talking about?' He said... 'Bath length and width, all the way to the ceiling.' I said. The funny thing was, he knew exactly the size I was talking about.<br /><br />'What sort of tile are you interested in?' He asked... 'Waterproof ones I guess.' I said, knowingly. 'Any particular design?' He sighed. 'No flowers, and don't make my bathroom look like a gents underground urinal, other than that we are good to go.' <br /><br />At this point, my wife chipped in with the correct dimensions, design choice with border tiles, tile size and quantity. She then ordered something called tile adhesive and grout.<br /><br />I meanwhile, pretended to be interested in a ladder that was for sale nearby while my wife and the DIY man talked flexible tile adhesive and whether we had a stud wall or solid brick and would she be needing a sponge. What the hell does she need a sponge for..? 'Oh, I see, and what exactly is a stud wall..?' I asked.<br /><br />'Ignore him.' Replied my ever tolerating wife. The man nodded and gave me a look that said he deals with incapable idiots like me on an hourly basis. I fiddled with the ladder as if I was a ladder expert and that he had got me all wrong. It turned out to be a two stage extendable ladder with rubber footings for extra safety, perfect for window cleaning and gutter maintenance. I recoiled. If I had one, my wife would make me climb it and do the guttering, so I decided that we didn't need one.<br /><br />My eye wandered around the showroom. Power tools, lighting, electrical goods and hardware. 'Do we need any Pozzidrive screws..?' I asked... 'No.' Came the reply. 'Wall flange support rods?' Again, no. <br /><br />I found the coffee machine which I made good use of as my wife managed to get a ten percent discount on the deal for buying everything in one go. She even got DIY man to load everything onto a big trolley with wheels. I told him where my van was.<br /><br />Job done. That was easier than I thought. Oh and yes, we are getting a man in to do the tiling. I will let you know how it goes, I think he's going to need my help when he discovers that my wife said we didn't need those wall flange support rods. I won't say I told her so...<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-74419737195336192872013-06-08T15:29:00.000+01:002013-06-08T15:29:06.648+01:00The First Rule Of Bilderberg... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yep, I'm going to link the all time greatest film 'fight Club' with the Bilderberg conference, which this year takes place in a hollowed out volcano somewhere in the Bahamas... Oh no, hang on... Watford.<br />
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By holding the conference in Watford, the world's elite hoped that their presence would be shielded by all the local news of binge drinking, hoodies and a world famous football club, but alas, the press found them out. Unfortunately, the first rule of Bilderberg is that you don't talk about Bilderberg, so details are somewhat sketchy.<br />
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However, my secret, inner resources at a nearby hostelry, tell me that the Bilderberg conference is in fact one big secret punch up between left and right wing leaning factions who ordinarily would not meet each other. Discussions take place of course, but the final settlements are reached by more physical means in the form of a bare fisted punch up in the bar following afternoon tea, and bouts of heavy drinking.<br />
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For those of you who may be a little skeptical, at the end of the conference, look closely at our Chancellor of the Exchequer when he returns to his duties at the House of Commons. He will have a face like a slapped arse. Then look at Ed Balls, his shadow. He will have a shit eating grin on his face for weeks knowing that he will be the next Chancellor in a few years time.<br />
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In other news, IMF Chief Christine Lagarde beat former Prime Minister Gordon Brown with a neat left hook and a kick to the groin in what was described as a grudge match.<br />
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Chairman of Shell Oil beat head of BP with a knockout blow resulting in a merger to create the worlds largest oil company.<br />
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Finally, President Obama, the official referee in such matters declared the Pakistan victory over the Taliban null and void, following heavy duty backhanders by MI6.</div>
ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-58488492498380692502013-06-04T16:33:00.001+01:002013-06-08T15:17:55.314+01:00Getting On With Your Neighbours...I have a theory. In fact I have many, many theories which could lead you to suspect I am sort sort of conspiracy theory nut job. I am not. <br /><br />This particular theory is about serial killers and why, after being caught, the neighbours always say to the waiting press, "He was such a quiet man. Kept himself to himself..." It's because we don't keep an eye on our neighbours any more, that's why.<br /><br />There is a reason why serial killers keep themselves to themselves and are quiet people. It's because they are quietly going about their business of slaughtering innocent people in their basements, and wearing their victims skin as a dress / underpants, whilst cooking brains with onions for their supper.<br /><br />You never hear of the neighbours saying things like, "I always wondered what the blood curdling screams were about." Or, "I thought he was burying his bulbs a little deep, I never imagined he was actually burying the body parts of fifteen murdered prostitutes."<br /><br />So next time you see see your neighbour with a wheelie bin, go and check the black plastics sacks inside. If you see him weeding the garden, ask if he needs any help to dig, his reaction will tell you all you need to know. Next time you are casually looking through their windows or letterbox, look out for bottles of chianti on the sideboard, it's a sure giveaway you're living next to a psychopathic cannibalistic killer.<br /><br />My neighbour has, oh so politely, asked me to leave him alone, but I know what he's up to the fiendish bastard. A drop of red wine with his liver and onions? A likely bloody story. I never did like him, the freak.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-27436534512288789612013-06-01T15:48:00.001+01:002013-06-08T15:17:35.094+01:00An Experiment In Destroying Cornwall...I had a thought this afternoon. Dangerous I know, but bear with me for I believe that I can rip open a tear in the space / time continuum between Cornwall and the rest of the UK, along the route of the River Tamar. This should please the Cornish Independence Front, The Independent Front Of Cornwall and the League Of Cornish Independence no end.<br /><br />Here's my plan. Next time i visit the South West, i shall collect one Cornish fisherman and one Cornish ploughman and place them in a room above a pub in Polperro. In a blind taste test, feed the ploughman a fishermans pie and the fisherman a ploughmans lunch.<br /><br />Rumblings in the space / time continuum should appear after 10 or so minutes. To hurry things along, ask them to wash the food down with a Scrumpy shandy, 1 part Scrumpy to 2 parts lemonade.<br /><br />The water in the River Tamar should at this point be boiling a blood red colour with sulphurous steam. Then the Coup-De-Grace for the Cornish fate should be applied.<br /><br />Serve them a Cornish Pasty. Not your average meat and potato variety, but one filled with Italian Antipasti. A vortex should begin to appear somewhere over Polperro, resulting in a crack in the Earths surface along the River Tamar, breaking it away from the rest of the UK.<br /><br />Job's a guddun. You're welcome Cornwall.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-14022651934736158292013-05-31T15:07:00.001+01:002013-06-08T15:17:20.183+01:00My Personal Revolution Against 'The Man.' This Is Just The Beginning.I am not a man to worry about what others think of me. I consider myself a decent sort, approachable and honest of intent. I don't want to deftly remove cash from your account whilst selling you crap, nor beat you to within an inch of your life because you happen to disagree with me on a few issues.<br /><br />I get through life pretty easily with minimal fuss and avoidance of confrontation. Until that is, confrontation comes my way. You only have to turn on the news to discover the vast array of confrontation that is currently ongoing around the world due to religion, politics, shady business deals and common thievery of resources on an epic scale. I am but one man with one vote, therefore small fry in the minds of those that seek to control.<br /><br />As I say, I avoid confrontation but it sometimes has a nasty habit of seeking me out. Take yesterday for example. All I wanted was to stop for a coffee, rest a while and then move on. It would seem however that now you have to pay for the privilege of spending your own money. Everywhere you stop the car, you have to pay 'the man.' Well I don't want to pay 'the man.' Not any more.<br /><br />Why should I pay 'the man' 80p for 30 minutes parking so that I can go and spend £2.65p for a coffee that takes me five minutes to get, therefore costing me a grand total of £3.45p for the whole experience? Lets say I wanted to buy a 50p newspaper a little later on in a different high street. 60p to park, for local councils are nothing if not inconsistent in pricing, plus 50p for the paper, £1.10p in total. That means I have to spend £1.40p to spend £3.15p.<br /><br />Now I could, if I were the sort, not pay the parking charges in the hope of getting away with it. Nip in, nip out and drive away with the maniacal laughter of a seasoned super criminal, and no one is any the wiser. I am however, not the sort to get away with it. I never am. Trust me, the moment I walked out of sight would be the moment the parking attendant would discover my illegal transgression and hit me with a £60.00 charge for my impertinence against the system of 'the man.' (£30.00 if paid within 14 days.)<br /><br />I don't want to pay £63.45p for a cup of coffee, (£33.45 if paid within 14 days) not even one where the coffee bean has passed through the digestive system of the lesser African jungle stoat. So I poke my coins into the slot of misery and pay 'the man.'<br /><br />Well no more. Not only do I resent paying global business £2.65p for a coffee, I also resent paying 'the man' his slice of the pie. I have devised an ingenious plan to get my own back, thereby saving me a not inconsiderable sum of money in the process, and contributing to the demise of the high street.<br /><br />I've bought a flask. 3 mugs of lovely hot java, made to my own recipe and without the corporate bollocks of sustainable, forest friendly, fair price marketing so beloved of the corporate suit. No more the comfortable seats, the choccy-Mocha-capo with hazelnut syrup and people watching on the local tree lined boulevards. No more.<br /><br />I can now park in a condom, dog shit and litter strewn, council controlled roadside layby of my own choice, whilst at the same time, lifting two fingers to the parking charges of town centres. That my friends, is the sweet sweet smell of success, and of getting one over on 'the man.'<br /><br />That'll show 'em.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-63919749801845810842013-05-23T13:24:00.001+01:002013-05-27T12:35:12.782+01:00I've Just Slowed Down A Little, That's All.So here I sit in my car, looking out to sea. Southsea, Portsmouth in the late spring is breezy with a washed out sun and the threat of rain. I sip at my just purchased hot chocolate and nibble on a sandwich. I feel relaxed.<br /><br />Watching the Isle Of Wight ferries slip lazily over the Solent, eying the passers by in their wind cheaters whilst trying to enjoy ice cream, made for an enjoyable afternoon of people watching and general fulfilment in my life.<br /><br />I looked into the car parked next to mine. An elderly couple, sipping hot chocolate, stared out from their own windscreen. The tiny old lady was frail looking. She removed a limp sandwich from her sandwich box and gave it a gummy mangling. I looked over to my passenger seat to where my own sandwich box lay and as I did so, noticed the old man in the car to my left. He was sipping a hot drink and eating his sandwich.<br /><br />I returned my gaze to the waves of the Solent. Instead of me watching the passers by, the passers by seemed to be looking at me and my elderly companions, lined up in our cars on the seafront, sipping hot chocolate and gumming our sandwiches to pass the time of old age... Waiting for death.<br /><br />I'm only 46 years old. I'm not ready to go yet. I only came here to eat my lunch and have a hot drink whilst watching the world go by. I switched on the radio. BBC Radio 4, that's good, there is some interesting debates on in a while.<br /><br />So here I sat in row of car bound, elderly people waiting for the inevitability of the cold clutch of death as we ate our sandwiches and sipped our hot chocolate. I wanted to run from the car and leap, bollock naked into the sea shouting "How's this for being middle aged?" But then remembered my bad back and decided against it.<br /><br />I could sit on the sea wall, bare chested, drink a can of Special Brew and whistle at the passing babes. No, maybe not, there's a chill in the air and a threat of showers later in the afternoon. Summers aren't what they used to be when I was a lad. Anyway, I'm not as buff as I used to be. Moobs are not de-riguer.<br /><br />I took out a sandwich and bit manly into it. Mayo slipped down onto my chest staining my newest fleece jacket. The Missus is going to kill me. I noticed that the little old lady in the car next to me had nodded off. In the car to my left, the old man was looking through a pair of vintage binoculars at the passing ferries. It started to rain.<br /><br />Has my life really got to the stage where I would happily sit in my car, listening to Radio 4 and drinking hot chocolate? Hell no. I'm still youngish, I have all my own grey hair and most of my teeth. I might even go down the pub tonight, have a few large ones with the boys... Ah, hang on, it's the last in the series if Midsummer Murders, I can't miss that.<br /><br />No. I'm not old yet. I've just slowed down a little. That's all. That's what I tell myself as I feel my eyes getting heavier, and I nod off the tunes of Jamie Cullum on Radio 4.<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-51354045337318652402013-04-24T11:39:00.001+01:002013-04-24T11:42:11.815+01:00I Will never Forget The Day When JLS Split.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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..?<br />
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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...<br />
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But maybe i live in a dream world.<br />
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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.<br />
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Paul Martin is <a href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman" target="_blank">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br />
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ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3953600982656080582.post-72459724349093132092013-04-17T17:07:00.001+01:002013-04-24T11:39:50.457+01:00Ass 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />He is also not disabled. He did not display a blue disabled parking badge.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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..)<br /><br />"Oh dear, how sad, never mind."<br /><br />Paul Martin is <a target="_blank" href="http://twitter.com/ukcameraman">@ukcameraman</a> on Twitter.<br /><br /><br /><br />ukcameramanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13913622523753544431noreply@blogger.com0