This post starts out normal, but dissolves into a massive rant about 1/3 of the way through. You have been warned.

My house just tried to kill me.

Yep.

It tried to brain me with a lump of plaster and metal.

As you are reading this now, I obviously have not replaced my head with a lump of plaster and metal, and the reason I am not concussed at the moment is because of my cat-like reflexes. My secret nickname is Ninja .

In attempting to open the back door, I angered the sleeping Lintel God, and he decided to vent his frustrations by causing part of an iron strut to fall out of the doorway above where I was standing. Luckily, I stepped backwards in time and the lump of Lintel God Rage landed on my foot instead. Cue swearing.

Then half the rest of the iron strut fell out of the doorway, bent in half, and swung for a while until my dad fetched the metal cutters.

It was then that we noticed something interesting about the design of the doorway. It appears that the people who built the doorway had never been to Door School. They had obviously barely made it out of Door Maths, because the extent of their doorway-building skills went along the lines of:

Hole in Wall + Door Frame = Doorway

This may seem like a fairly sensible starting point, but they had neglected to add things such as ‘bolts’ and ‘screws’.

Yes, they built a doorway by propping a door frame in a hole in the wall and neglecting to put any features in to attach it to said hole. I can rock the entire door frame with no effort, and you can see through the gap between the top of the door frame and the ‘lintel’.

I have now typed the word ‘door’ enough times that it no longer looks normal to me. It doesn’t look like a word at all.

I think I’ll stop talking about doors now.

Arrgh! DOORS!

Moving swiftly on.

Race Week has started over here in Cheltenham. For those of you who have never heard of the Cheltenham Races, it is a phenomenon witnessed each year by the people of the West Country (OOAARRR) where herds of humans, displaying full mating plumage, make a ritualistic pilgrimage across the country to block roads, get drunk and gamble. They meet at specially designated areas and hold ceremonies of picnics and beer-can-rug-making.

Also, there are horse races.

Race Week is a Big Deal. There are special radio stations devoted to information on the Races for the duration of the week. Police make statements along the lines of “We will do our best to keep all traffic moving during this time” and then they fail dismally and you end up sitting in 45 minute queues because the 300 cars in front of you have never been to Cheltenham and don’t understand how roundabouts work in Farmerland.

A fun game is to guess how many cars are heading for the racecourse. If there are more than three people in the car, it’s going to the Races. If someone is wearing a fascinator, they’re going to the Races. If it’s a news van, it’s going to the Races. If the car is really, really, really clean…it’s going to the races.

Actually, this isn’t a fun game at all. It’s only fun when you’ve been sat in traffic for an hour with a Land Rover attempting to climb inside your exhaust pipe every time you stop and you’re getting the first symptoms of Cabin Fever. Even then, it’s only marginally better than listening to the radio.

The radio in my car is possessed. It randomly mutes at odd moments. Using the brakes can disengage the left hand speaker, turn the volume up to Eurofighter or blank the display. Sometimes all of the above. Using the accelerator can do all of the above and cause the radio to make noises like Nicki Minaj having a seizure.

When the radio does work, the only thing there is to listen to in the morning is a radio station presented by the world’s most irritating man. (Side note, since Chris Moyles left Radio 1, the title of World’s Most Irritating Radio Presenter has two contenders). The presenting style is Catchphrases With A Hint Of Patronisi-Whoops, I Slipped, OK: Catchphrases Swimming In A Gravy Of Patronising.

GAH! Also, I’m fairly sure they prerecord the show, or at the very least the traffic updates, because I sit in the traffic every day. Guess what? Traffic levels vary. ‘A bit busy’ does not cover every eventuality, every single fucking day.

Also, I didn’t think it was possible for a radio station to make any money by having the same ‘funny’ piece of news repeated every day for a week. They even trail the content of tomorrow’s show the day after they talked about it first.

To use one of the catchphrases: It’s a little bit like this (seriously, when you’ve heard this twenty three times an hour every day, you’ll be sick of it too).

MONDAY MORNING

Presenter: This is the funniest thing ever. No seriously, a guy got fired and sent this email to the rest of the company…[reads email while hideous typewriter-noises play obnoxiously loudly in the background].

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Trailer guy: And you can find out what was in the email if you listen to Xxxxxx’s show tomorrow morning, from six!!!!!!!!!

TUESDAY MORNING

Presenter: This is the funniest thing ever. No seriously, a guy got fired and sent this email to the rest of the company…[reads email while hideous typewriter-noises play obnoxiously loudly in the background].

REPEAT AD INFINITUM/NAUSEUM

Also, they have a quiz every morning. Only yesterday morning, the quiz was one they played last week. Not only was it not picked up on immediately it wasn’t even mentioned. This just confirms my theory that the whole thing is robots, except for one person who pushes the ‘Go’ button, and he was on a tea break.

I’m going to go now, before this post dissolves completely into a nightmare rant.

Advertisements

This is the internet. Go on, start an argument.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s