SwindonSarnie

Jobs… Vacancies… Work… Has anyone seen any?

2011-10-17T11:43:00.001+01:00

Whilst making a lovely bacon sarnie for breakie this morning, I heard on t’radio, that Job Centre Plus offices around the country are flooded with vacancies and they had all sorts of work available too, part time, full time, everything. Now I haven’t been in a Job Centre Plus for quite some time now but I am going to give whoever the politician was, the benefit of the doubt. I have no reason to think he was lying. There must be jobs out there, there has to be.

And my argument is supported by the vacancy signs I see in the town centre. Phones 4 U were looking for new staff, as was one of the girly clothes shops (can’t remember the name of the shop, sorry). Not that it matters, my point being that there are jobs out there, people can earn money.

The government says it’s skint too. Since the wank… ahem... bankers put us into this recession all you hear the politicians moan about is money. We have no money for this, we can’t afford to pay for that… No, you can’t have any cash, we ain’t got any… Oh, what do you mean there are political points to earn if we fund weekly refuse collections, here’s twenty million, make it so.

Skint, skint, skint… Change the record Cameron. You say we can’t afford shit. The boy Milliband says you’re a liar… Cameron retorts with ‘we would have the money but for the last government’… you get the picture. Recession is here, we are all skint… The government can’t help and is looking for more ways to cream even more taxes from Jo-Shmo, whilst letting the rich get away with whatever they were getting away with that put us down this hole in the first place.

So we need to get people off the dole. The sponging twats… There are jobs available… OK, so where is the problem? Tell the spongers that if they don’t take a job that they are on the bread line with no money from the social system being awarded. Simply, don’t do this job, don’t get dole… And I don’t care if they don’t like it.

The thing is, I work… Most people who read this will work too. Now I am lucky, I like my job but I know loads of people who hate their jobs. They work to get by, because they have too. They may be miserable but what has happiness got to do with work??? You do it, you get paid, you live… I don’t see why it is so hard.

So this is my message to all of those sponging little gits who are taking the Michael.

GET A JOB… I don’t care if you don’t want to work in McDonalds, you dropped out of school because you thought you knew better. Well prove it and go do something worthwhile or start flipping those Big Macs you tosser. I don’t care if you think you are better than burger flipping, you’re not. You’re just a jaded idiot. Start where we all did, at the bottom and put some graft into earning money, as opposed to thinking the stuff grows on trees.

And please remember, this isn’t aimed at everyone on the system. I understand times are hard, people are losing their jobs. My heart goes out to you all and I truly mean that. But this isn’t about the people out there actively searching for employment… Big love to you lot, please don’t think this is about you… NO WAY!!!

If I want a bacon sandwich, I have to go to work and earn the money that allows me to pay for the bacon, bread, ketchup. Now if I don’t work so hard and don’t get so much, I am buying Tesco budget white bread, some crappy bacon bits and ketchup that is runnier than piss… and has the same twang about it. Now if I want a nicer bacon butty and go out and work a little harder, maybe I can afford the granary cob, the finest hickory smoked back bacon on the shelf, hienz ketchup and some proper-bo butter… that’s what economics is and if you don’t get that then you are stoopid. EARN… SPEND… LIVE… it helps the economy, it helps you, it bails out the idiots in Parliament.

The government don’t assist in financing bacon each week, I am not getting anything for nothing, I just wonder what the differences are between me and the average sponging twat???

Part 2 of 2 – Strictly Come Dancing – One Mans Marmite Sandwiches is another’s Bacon Butty.

2011-09-30T14:59:00.003+01:00

From Lettuce Sarnie to BOGOF tokens at Subway, part two of the Strictly line up 2011.

Holly Valance – The leggy blond Aussie (female version) will be another firm favourite, due to her previous (if rather short), pop career. Music videos prancing about and looking sexy is no guarantee she’ll know her Rumba from her Salsa but it does tend to ensure a top 4 finish. More Rocket, Iceburg and Romany Lettuce on wholemeal with no butter or mayo.

Jason Donovan – He may not look as good in tight lycra as his Antipodean counter part but ‘Too many broken Hearts’ Donavan will be a firm favourite with the voting public. Whether he will see the final or not is as predictable as whether the Wallabees will see the Rugby World Cup Final. There is a chance but more than likely wont.

Lulu – I promise not to use the word ‘shout’ when discussing… DOH!!! I think Lulu will triumph in this competition and may even be a finalist.

Nancy Dell’Olio – This year’s fire cracker, her partnership with Mr Angry (Brendon) could be quite the audience puller. I suspect Nancy is more Bruschetta than Panini and I expect Brendon is rueing the day he was paired up with her. Still, I am looking forward to seeing her dance as well as gobbing off. I am going to guess she will give us all a giggle and dance well too.

Robbie Savage – Robbie Savage in a pink shirt, yes! Every year there is an issue with certain types of male not ‘giving’ themselves to the dance. Austin Healey struggled but when he worked out how to allow his macho status to be lulled into a Viennese Waltz he fell into the gig and pulled out a blinder… I think Robbie will be faced with the same test but I can’t help but think he will fail – huge. I may be wrong but there is more chance of a Tesco pre-packed sarnie packing fewer calories than homemade.

Rory Bremner – One of the first to go? Maybe but when you take a bite into fried egg sandwich you don’t expect to taste tuna. Could his ‘day job’ save him from an early impression of one foot in the grave – I don’t believe it.

Russell Grant – This year’s John Sargeant? Actually I don’t think so. I have a feeling the fella may have some energy on him. True, he may finish each dance sweating like me queuing at Subway with a buy one get one free token but I think he will do well.

Part 1 of 2 – Strictly Come Dancing – One Mans Marmite Sandwiches is another’s Bacon Butty

2011-09-29T07:45:00.001+01:00

From cheap soggy tuna baguettes to a Waitrose Wild Salmon and Dill Mayo in a free range granary cobb, this is a quick run down on this years contestants with thought on how far I think they will go (of course, explained in my own special way).

Alex Jones – The quintessentially lovely, British / Welsh Rose. She is everyone’s favourite but I have a sneaky feeling she cant dance to save her life. Don’t get me wrong, I cant be horrible to lovely Alex but if you saw her in the group dance on opening (pairing) night and if you searched her out on the trailers Auntie is filling all inter-show slots with, you would have seen what I have… She’s more an old cucumber triangle that’s been left out in the sun after a picnic – theoretically everyone’s favourite until you take a bite and realise its not living up to its mark. I really hope I’m wrong – I like cucumber sandwiches.

Anita Dobson – “You’re not my muvva!” “YES I AM… Duff… Duff… Duffduffduffduff… Oh sorry, Right pub, wrong landlady. Can you get jellied eel sarnies? Never mind, I think Anita may be the dark horse this year. And again I don’t mean to be rude but Strictly have struggled to crown an oldie as king or queen of the fake tan. Perhaps Mrs May may???

Audley Harrison – Like his crappy boxing days – knocked out in round 1. Nuff said… Even comparing him to thick slices of succulent roast beef in an organic crusty roll, with sloppings of super English mustard wont help this dude get past Craig revel-Horwood in one piece. Sorry dude.

Chelsee Healy – No jokes about the two large baps she will, inevitably, be cramming into tight lycra tops for the foreseeable, please. Is she a chav or does she just play ‘em on t’tele? Maybe this will be the beginning of a spin of series, ‘Stric-lee Kum Chavvin’, where each week Chavs have to dance in a pit of rabid Staffies or get their knees caps bitten off – I’d watch it.

Dan Lobb – Don’t know who this geezer is. Hmmm, may have to do a bit of homework here.

Edwina Currie – Surely the egg mayonnaise sarnie. The one that’ll stink but only the day after… I just wonder how many times the word ‘major’ (geddit??? Huh, see what I did there… major… Major… John Major…) will be mentioned.

Harry Judd – Drummer boy may be a favourite of mine… Not, like ‘favourite, favourite’ – that title goes to Erin or Flavia… or Christina… or… well you know where I’m coming from. I mean ‘favourite… to win’. He has previous courtesy of Pudsey and a subtle mixture of youth (for the energy) and maturity (for the… maturity) needed for ballroom and latin (i.e to dance it without looking like a right plonker… I’ve salsa’d, I know what I’m talking about.) The McFly-er is either the winner of Strictly 2011 or a new burger from Maccie-Ds.

Oasis, The Labour Party, The X Factor and a nice bit of Piccalilli on a Cheddar Cheese Sandwich

2011-09-27T21:53:00.005+01:00

All that is good may be rapidly going to the dogs but inspiration comes from the strangest of places and while the rest of the world tries to steal the bread from my grasp, others offer me a choice of different fillings to wet my sandwich appetite.

I recently read an interview with one of the Gallagher brothers. I’m not 100% on which of the two it was but I think the words came from Noel (but only because I don’t recall my upper lip snarling, my teeth glaring and spittle flying across the room as it tends to when t’uvva Gallagher is in the news – gifted, maybe; arrogant, perhaps; a role model for someone you love, never).

Good old Noel was discussing the fourth Oasis album (released all those years ago), he said he regrets ever releasing it, he didn’t want to write it and only did so because of contractual obligations. Now forgive the rant but WHAT?!?! I remember waiting ages for that ruddy album, I remember turning up to the local Our Price at 8:30 in the morning to get my copy as soon as humanly possible. I took that much prized C.D and went and sat on the seafront at the Barbican in Plymouth, listening to it on my Sanyo Disk-Player alone because I wanted to ‘hear the music’ (over and over). The pure joy of owning the latest Oasis album was insurmountable, I’d handed over my hard earned cash and glowed with excitement, I was the biggest Oasis fan in the world and by the time I got to my pub job around eleven-ish, I was already learning the lyrics (and all this from a southerner).

These days I am no longer a fan of the Northern Brothers’ Grim. Their music was too repetitive for me. Snarly Liam became too arrogant, the whole show was too boring. The fights. The ‘have they split up, haven’t they?’ became ‘who gives a toss if they split up’. I got bored and moved onto The White Stripes. Still, I must admit hearing that the northern monkeys had cashed in and let their artistic integrity be scuppered really pee’d me orf!

And then I read today that Labour have plans to stop the ‘quick buck’ nation that we, as British citizens, have become. Reading, whilst standing on the shoulder of giants, this informative piece (thanks BBC) I couldn’t help but notice that Ed (leader of the reds, Milliband) wouldn’t give any direction as to how Labour would get into government to bring about these changes. He couldn’t tell us what Labour stood for, just what the Camerons’ were doing wrong in government. Ed’ hasn’t handed out policy, he won’t commit to anything, in fact if you made him wear blue satin boxers, with a mustard yellow pin stripe instead of the red cotton ones he dons every morning, you wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from any of the other ‘coalitioning’ muppets that hang around Downing Street these days. Nobody wants to commit, nobody wants to act, nobody has the doo-dahs to stand up and be counted. The world is a fickle place and we are all paying for that.

Then I read an article on the X Factor.

Now before I go on, there may be a spoiler here, for anyone who doesn’t read the gossips. Please, if you love the tv show and don’t want the ruined to be shit… Sorry, I mean the shit to be ruined, then please stop reading – although who really gives a toss if Sian Phillips failed to get a visa for Kelly’s Judges House in Miami.

The rules are there, if you are a convicted criminal then certain things are not an option to you. You’ll never get a job driving the Queen if you’ve been done for drink driving offences.

And this is what I mean. People need to take responsibility of their own actions. Stop fannying about and blaming everyone else. Sian, you couldn’t get a visa because you is proper gangster, deal with it. All those nights, blagging to your mates that you’ve got a criminal record, showing off your new ankle bracelet, well who is laughing now? (Whoever replaced Sian in Miami, I suppose). Tough shite if something you did in your past stops you in succeeding in the future, we all know how it works – take hold of your own life, stand up to be counted and never let your integrity be scuppered (artistic or otherwise). Its like a nice bit of picallilli on your cheese sandwich. Know how much you like and apply – one mans ‘too much’ is anothers ‘not enough – please open another jar’.

Part 3 of 3 – The Failing Economies of the Mediterranean States in the Eurozone

2011-09-25T15:04:00.000+01:00

Sunday morning peered it’s not so sunny head over the shoulders of a late (but sobre) Saturday night. I was tired but that is to be expected at a music festival – the miles you walk add up quicker than the calories in a 12 inch meatball and cheese subway, with fries, full fat coke and M&M Cookie.

Not that I was to be down about it, Sunday was also the day Muse headlined the main stage and to say I was excited... well it would be the understatement of understatements. I have seen Muse several times now and each time I have been very drunk. But today I had decided against the perils of drinking heavily all day – today I would see my favourite band sober.

Importation:
I’d spent a bit of money too. A festival can be expensive and twenty pound notes were not lasting as long as they used to. We had the younger contingency of our group camping at the festival (as the oldies, we hotel-dot-com’d it in the town centre, cheating or glamping – you decide) but each morning we picked up some stuff from the Sainsbury’s located right next to our hotel and marched it to the front zipped canvas doors of the youths’ base camp. Crisps, cakes, beer, pre-packed Chicken and sweetcorn sarnies... you know the score – rations for the upcoming day and reason to share a pre-twelve o’clock, warm can of Carlsberg in celebration of another successful smuggling racket before another trudge to the days entertainment.

Before we knew it we had hidden booze down our pants, queued to get into the arena where rows of security checked bags for glass bottles and cans. When I got through, I felt euphoria at beating the system and we unloaded said drink back into the rucksack (I don’t normally like wearing a rucksack at a festival as they tend to get in the way, smacking into people as you dance). Not that it would matter because I was staying off it for the day.

We headed to the Radio 1 tent, unravelled the crusty mud splattered picnic blanket and set up shop just outside the marquee (in front of the big screens) and I wondered if it was too early for a sausage and egg wrap.

And I would have probably caved in to my sandwich desires but I had already decided today would be the day I spent no money within the walls of the Reading Music Festival. Nothing, not a penny would leave my wallet. I had the rucksack full of booze (thanks to the big bulky security guard not willing to touch my naughty bits) and several ‘Be Good to Yourself’, low fat, pre-packed sarnies tucked away for a day’s feed. I think the kettle chips had already been crushed under the bottles, as had the Salt Beef and Horseradish on white but I think the salmon and dill mayo on granary was situated comfortably near the top of the bag – all that and Muse. Today was set to be a good, good day and I kicked back (as much as you can on a shared muddy picnic blanket).

That was when my thoughts of crushed sandwiches and warm lager was interrupted by a seven year old girl.

Entrepreneurial:
“Excuse me, have you finished with that?” she asked, pointing at the empty paper cup that had rolled towards me on the ground.

I picked up the cup and handed it to her. The girl gave it her friend (‘duty mule’ to her ‘duty nerves to talk to strangers’, I guess). They both smiled and politely thanked me and walked towards another empty paper cup a few meters away. The second girl had a pile of paper cups in her hand, the stack probably more than a meter long. They were tidying up but they were certainly too young to be working the festival. I watched them as they picked their way through the immediate area adding more empty cups to their collection.

“They get money back for each cup they return.”

The explanation had come from one of the girl’s mother, who was following behind ensuring her daughter and friend were fine.

“They must have a few quids worth.” I said, looking over to the ever growing stack.

The mother smiled and walked on.

Now, if you read my previous blog about Chavs, it will come as no surprise to you how full of admiration I had towards these two young girls. Children who were willing to work to get hold of money. I wanted to say something to their Mum, but who am I to tell strangers how impressed I am at their child’s work ethic. These kids were not spoilt little brats expecting everything to be served on a plate for them. They were willing to work the system for their own gains, put in a little hard graft for the reward. It’s been a long time since I have seen that attitude so readily on display. The world-is-a-changin’ but not everyone is falling for the ‘Don’t bother and the government will give you free money’ malarky that is the attitude of your average sponging Chav.

Taxation:
But where did the money come from to pay these little entrepreneurs?

Later, I guzzled my last bottle of beer with a slight regret that this would be my last alcoholic drink of the day. But at least a clear head would help with my memory tomorrow when someone could ask me how Muse were and I could answer them (as opposed to the usually hung-over ‘Awesome... I think.’) The clear head also allowed me to consider the recycling thing going down here.

I took the perception that the four pound a pint lager I had been guzzling all weekend was funding this corona-style-recycling-refund policy. For every four pound you paid and walked off with a full paper cup, ten pence of that was earmarked for funding Santa’s little Festival helpers who cashed in on the fat and lazy who couldn’t be arsed to return their cups.

And then it hit me, if I didn’t buy cold, fresh lager then these young children would not be able to make a living. It was my personal, social and moral responsibility to spend money so the insular economy of the festival could survive – and that is how I ended up drunk, slurring my appreciation for an internationally acclaimed three piece rock band and dancing like a right pissed numpty in a crowd of strangers who were all probably getting more and more annoyed the more my rucksack banged into them... Honest guv’.

Part 2 of 3 – Chav Wankers

2011-09-20T04:27:00.002+01:00

On day 2 of the Reading Festival I was particularly looking forward to watching Seasick Steve on the main stage. He was due to rock from about 1:30ish (forgive the rough timings) and I thought I would appreciate his blues, rock, awesomeness with a nice pint of four pound Tuborg and, a quite convenient, lunchtime sandwich (another seven pounds spent but this time on a cheeky bacon and egg baguette to include the vinegary fluorescent red excuse for tommy k that is always served at this kind of social outing – Hienz it was not!!!).

There was a mass throng of movement towards the mainstage. The man known as Seasick (to his mates???) had an early set and I must admit I would have been a little happier if his greatness was rewarded with a later timeslot but organisers of these festivals are a fickle bunch and although the main stage slowly filled with people of all ages to watch the bearded guitarist, 130 (ish) was the time to do it, like it or miss it (unless you were prepared to settle for I-Player when you returned home Monday – for which I was not).

We loitered about nearer the back of the crowds and I watched the set whilst happily chomping on greasy bacon and a rubbery baguette (the tommy k was strangely satisfying) and guzzling my third pint of the day. I was a happy man. Seasick Steve was flicking his way through his homemade guitar selection and yelling at us (musically) that ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’. I was in heaven and as I looked around me, I realised I was not the only one.

Throngs of people (as I said, of all ages) were dancing, drinking and smiling. Kids (and when I say kids I mean anything from 16 to 18) were watching Seasick next to older revellers. Everyone was enjoying themselves, beer in hand and I wondered why this good natured peaceful drinking in such large crowds does not happen on your average Saturday night out in Swindon town centre?

The reason – Chav Wankers.

Swindon is not unlike Reading. A soulless, grey, monstrosity that has slowly grown since the late 70’s (early 80’s???) from young vibrancy to Chav filled shite-hole. The buildings are grey and old (and due to be knocked down) or old and grey (and due to be given ‘listed building’ status). BHS and Primark have both moved three or four times in the twenty years I have lived here but still remain shit shops… We have no Fat Face and Animal was here but went out of business because they sell expensive hoodies and they got more stuff knicked than bought (lets return to the Chavs).

Over the last thirty or forty years streams and streams of people (not just in Swindon but all over Britain) have taken from society. As decades have passed and generations have bred (bred, not bread…) these same people have turned a once considered ‘helping hand into a ‘I expect this money and am willing to punch your face off if you don’t give it to me’.

With this slow change in attitude has come a reluctance to accept personal responsibility and a belief that everyone owes them something. They value respect as long as it is aimed at themselves (yet they are unwilling to return that simple and most basic of social favours and again will kick your face off if you don’t agree). These people would petition the EU Court of Human Rights (if they knew what it was) because it’s unfair they have to sign on at 10 o’clock on a Tuesday morning and that is when Jeremy Kyle is on.

These are the lowest class of people but where other countries have ‘the poor’, the U.K have a class of citizens called Chav Wankers and don’t go all ‘lordy-dordy’ on me. I am not criticizing people who need help because they have fallen on bad times, I’ve signed on myself and can fully appreciate the dole system (I know it’s not called that these days – fucking Job Centre Plus… whatever), I’ve claimed and I am not ashamed to admit it. I’m on about the gits who take the piss. I’m on about the little twats who call getting their money ‘pay day’, I’m on about the Chav Wankers who get this money, walk into the nearest Wetherspoons and blow the lot on cheap beer only to loiter around bus stops and mug old ladies because they cant afford to pay their rent.

And while the rest of us have to tolerate this type of person every time we walk around the town centre because the Police wont do anything about the vermin, shops are closing because nobody comes to town any more… We’re all shopping on the internet… I wonder why. There may be an app for everything but I have yet to see one that threatens to stab you while you surf Amazon…

O.K… Breathe… One… Two… Three… That’s better. Sorry for getting carried away. Where was I? Oh yes, Reading Music festival and me championing them for there ability to keep Chavs out.

So lets return to all the revellers, thousands of them. Most are on their second or third pint (I know this is a generalisation) and you can take for granted that the later the days gets, the more beer will be drunk. Later on, as the headliners The Strokes, finish their set the fields and tents of Reading Music Festival, like every other main festival in the British summer, will fill of drunk, stoned and sober people. Girls will giggle as boys try to smooth their way in and the same throngs of sober people who flooded the arenas will return to their tents (hotels… A-hem!!!) to sleep off the drink.

And have I ever seen anyone fight at a festival?

No!, NEVER!

Can you imagine any town centre being filled with so many drunken people and there not being a fight? Of course you can’t. There is more chance of seeing a chav in a suit who was not on his way to court. Imagine the mayhem in a town centre with tens of thousands of drunks filling the pubs and clubs.

Yet Reading (or any other mainstream festival) is exactly the same in terms of revellary, drink, loud music, girls and boys (vying for the attention of said girls). You have the nutters who want to stay up all night to par-tay. You have the drunken old men who want nothing more than to get to bed. You have the kebab dribbling gobshites, laughing loudly as they discuss the best bit of the day. You have the queues of people holding pizza boxes whilst waiting for a cab. Its all the same as an average town centre on a Saturday night but with no fighting.

And that can only be attributed to Chav Wankers.

I know for a fact that the Social have yet to grant moneys for Festival tickets and maybe it is only time before some ridiculous government do-gooder decides to make a name for themselves by raising the fact it is inherently unfair that Chavs miss out on such important British traditions. It may only be time before these fuckers invade our festivals with free tickets paid for by the tax payer and when that happens fights will start at festivals and I will stop going to them. I may have to deal with Chav Wankers on a daily basis in my normal life but Festivals are like your average holiday to Sorrento – a break from the rat races we live, a break from Chav Wankers.

Part 1 of 3 - Materialism

2011-09-16T11:49:00.001+01:00

A couple of weeks ago I went to Reading Music Festival. You can learn a lot about society from a music festival, particularly what is wrong in our strange world of materialism, chav wankers and the falling economy of the Mediterranean states of the Euro-zone.

Part 1 of 3 - Materialism

What has all this to do with a sandwhich? Well that’s easy; I was eating an over-priced roast pork and apple baguette as I sat there in the mud making these observations. A waft of urine added depth to the soggy pig meat and runny apple sauce dribbled down my arm, searching out my paper cup clad pint of Tuborg that I almost spilt when I sat down with seven quids worth of bland sarnie.

The sun drifted in and out of clouds that drifted from grey to white to grey again. It had been raining and the fields were down trodden in compressed but drying mud. People were milling about waiting for the next band, most wearing rain coats and wellies as a staple part of the 2011 summer season trend. The boys accompanied these items with jeans that refused to reach up to their boxers. The girls matched flowered wellies and raincoats with tight short jean shorts and knee length socks (boys, minds out of the gutter please... this is serious...)

Nothing special in that, I may hear you say and you’d be right. What’s the big deal in all these young (and older) people enjoying Great British Stiff Upper Lip Syndrome and finding fun in the mud, rain and cold on that August Bank Holiday weekend? And apart from the group of lads dressed up as Wally (Where’s Wally? Well over there with his twenty brothers.) and the odd Borat mankini clad, far too trollied to even realise his mates had dressed him in it, drunken idiot, there is nothing special in it... Apart from the Hunters wellington boot.

The more I looked about the crowds. Whether that was whilst walking from one stage to another, or queing up for a cheeky falafel pitta, I noticed these designer wellies every where.

And these things cost eighty odd quid a pair... for wellies... I know, eight-bloody-quid... WTF!!!

At first I thought it was the odd ‘show off in a group of sixteen year old girls’ here or a ‘mummy’s boy from the somewhere-on-the-thames’ there but I was wrong, there were groups of friends milling about and all of them had the Hunters stamp on the front of their green or red or striped or flowered wellington boots. I noticed groups of Hunter clad girls buzzing about like a swarm of pretentious moths wishing they were butterflies and you could tell the poor friend, with her Primark short jean shorts and wellies from Go-Outdoors.

I even wondered whether wearing the wrong boot may hold you back in these circles of trendy youths. I heard two girls talking about a boy one of them fancied but nothing would ever happen because... and I quote, “He’s wearing Dunlop wellies.”

DUNLOP WELLIES... When I was a kid if your mum bought Dunlop you were the man... Now you can’t get laid because the designer label on your water proof footing matches the tyres on your dads Volvo estate.

But then you have to wonder why not? When I was young I loved my wellies, splashing about in puddles on the way to collect the family allowance with Mum from the local post office. When I was a boy, I loved the wellies I wore when I went fishing, no worm was safe in the estuary mud as I baited up for a Sunday afternoon. But when I was a teenager you wouldn’t have caught me in wellies for love nor money.

But maybe teenagers need rubber footwear like never before. Obviously there are never more of these boots on show then at a music festival and if kids need these items for their weekends of music, rain, mud and booze then why shouldn’t there be a designer welly that becomes so desirable it is now the norm’ to pay eighty odd quid for wellington boots. At a glance the average thirty nine year old’s initial reaction would be one of amazement and as I showed distaste for the excesses and foolishnesses of the stupid, I asked “Why would anyone pay so much for a bloody wellington boot?”

The reply I got was, “I don’t know, probably for the same reason why someone would pay seven quid for a pork roll.”

Returneth The Sandwich

2011-09-08T08:59:00.001+01:00

So, here I am... BACK!!!

For how long? No-one knows (especially me)

Sandwich of the day... I don’t have one in front of me. Things changed, I diet now and all I am saying is Weight Watchers and their stupid points have a lot to answer for (not really, I’m trying to be funny by moaning and picking on WWs but I have nothing to complain about.)

I’m three stone lighter than when I last blogged. There is more chance of seeing me with a lovely crackerbread and philli-lite and slices of organic tomatoes, nibbling the corners so I don’t spill any of the tommee juice on the floor than there is seeing me reach my large gob around a 12inch sub, trying to hold it so nothing falls out of the end, bits of melted cheese dribbling down my chin... I feel dirty writing about one, let alone eating it...

Maybe when I get home I will rustle up a cheeky little ham on white, I got some filthy spicy tomato and caramelised onion chutney over the weekend that would polish up a little Wiltshire ham quite nicely. NO!!! OMG!!! WTF!!! Get the fat b@st@rd away from the fridge... he has points to count... (For the record – 2 slices of white bread, 4 propoints; 2 Slices of ham, 2 pro-points; little trickle of chutney, 1 pro-point; slither of low fat salad cream, 1 pro-point. Making a grand total of 6 pro-points for a sarnie...) BOOOM!!!

So instead of filling my fat face, I thought I would write a poem for your viewing pleasure. Now for all you normal people out there with no artistic tendancies, just stay with me here. Poetry is not necessarily a bad thing, so just hang on and check this stuff out. For all you intellectuals, thanks for staying and I apologise for the others you share this with... HAHAHAHA!!! Now, calm yourselves... My poem is called ‘I Want to Buy a M&S Cray Fish and Rocket but I’ve only 2 grand in the bank’.

A-Hem!!!

I want to buy a M&S Cray Fish and Rocket but I’ve only 2 grand in the bank.

And the car insurance is due... so is the road tax, mot and service... Not to mention the car loan and Gap insurance.

The mortgage is due too... as is the mortgage payment protection... and the council tax, electricity, gas, contents insurance, buildings insurance...

And the phone bill, that’s due too.

Although I don’t know why I have a phone, see I got a mobile (it costs me forty quid a month) it can go online, surf the web, read email, facebook, twitter... but I suppose I need the landline for the wifi for the desktop, laptop, ps3, IPAD.

I need it for the skyplus too (which is another bill I need to pay), not that I can afford the 50 inch HDMI flat screen hi definition tele I got on the Argos card, which is due.

I don’t take home so much see, but only cause I got a pension, private health care, income protection, life assurance, personal insurance, travel insurance although I can’t afford a holiday (but you ever know).

Oh, I owe for the pet insurance too... for a cat that never goes out.

How I afford VAT, National Insurance or income tax is... well a little like my finances, beyond me.

The last bill I have (if you don’t include food, clothes, gym membership, going out, staying in) is a diet plan I’m on. For twenty quid a month I get told what I can eat and what I cant... and it helps me focus especially when I get weighed each week by a kind lady who smiles even when I put on.

And that means not only can I not afford the M&S Cray Fish and Rocket...

I’m not allowed to eat it anyway.

There are no sandwiches in this entry (I'm not even eating a home made sarnie as I type... Sorry)

2009-06-08T20:46:00.002+01:00

The Apprentice Christmas Special – Could Sir Allen learn from the mistakes of others?

We all know and love The Apprentice for its sharp-tongued perception of the wheeler-dealer world of cut-throat business. The show underlines the importance of stabbing the hill farmers of Nepal in the back if it means a better profit margin for your business.

But if the whole concept of this popular television show is for the contestants to prove their business savvy, surely Sir Allen is missing a trick. Is remaining loyal to a publicly funded television channel proving his worth? Why hasn’t The Apprentice moved to Sky or ITV for bigger bucks?

So lets have a ‘The Apprentice – Christmas Special’ this festive season. But instead of idiotic or presumptuous wannabees vying for Sir Allen’s favour lets get the channels in to fight it out for the rights for the next series.

It surely would be compulsive viewing to watch the T.V Channels build their business cases. Lets watch each production company break down the show and exploit every aspect of Sir Allen’s programme. Lets witness the tug-o-war tactics and arm wrestling in the boardroom as each channel attempts to lure the show to a new home.

I am sure Sky One would be up for it, as would ITV. Channel Four must fancy their chances too. The BBC would be obliged to turn up and let us throw in some outsiders like Bravo and Five for good measure.

The Christmas Special would follow each Channel as they weaved their ideas into something presentable. We can witness the channels snarling at each other, stabbing each other in the backs to steal good ideas. Add a little edited tension and a little Prokofiev and we have a winning formula, ladies and gentlemen. Of course audiences would expect, indeed demand, the show to be topped off with Sir Allen barking his displeasure in the boardroom. “What do you mean strippers? Bravo… YOU’RE FIRED!”

The BBC would obviously suggest a continuation of the brand based on loyalty and the fact they have never failed Sir Allen before. Quality would be their main selling point with promises to never cheapen the product. Graham Norton could click away at the BBC slideshow and glare coldly at Sir Allen if asked an awkward question.

Ant and Dec could be the face of the ITV pitch. Revenue from advertisement sales would surely get the taste buds-a-tingling. Britain’s Got Talent and I’m A Celebrity could be used as examples of ITV’s pedigree in reality television (?!?). A pre-signed contract would confirm that The Association of Nepalese Hill Farmers will sponsor the show so proving ITV are a channel of the people. ITV could also offer a second production (called The Apprentice: Fire and Forget) to be aired on ITV2 just before Katie and Peter: The Next Chapter.

Sky One would just offer a ludicrous amount of money for Sir Allen to up and move across to the champions of digi-tele. Andy Grey could make an entire presentation based on his wage salary and insist he can wangle a guest appearance on Soccer A.M for Sir Allen with the promise nobody would mention Tottenham Hotspur... Advertising figures would be marginally higher than ITV because Sky One would plan for five minute ad breaks for every ten minutes of television.

Bravo and Five could make a joint bid where they pitch an idea for a format change. Each week (under the proposed new format) the contestants would have to find the weirdest, most dysfunctional family in Great Britain and exploit them in the cheapest way possible. Either that or document the deviant lives of the British gentry. There would be a guaranteed breast count per episode and Sir Allen would get new fire-monkeys appropriately named Trixy Le Blow and Fifi Wanny-Wanny.

Channel Four would insist integrity would be a priority in their new version of the show. Peter Snow could host, with a live Big Brother-esque eviction every Friday night. The ‘new’ Apprentice would be a gritty fly on the wall documentary, a subtle blend of Big Brother, Despatches and Shameless. Each episode would guarantee a high use of profanities and at least two shots of men kissing.

Sir Allen could sneer contemptuously as each channel presents its case, firing each one as he sees fit. It would be a guaranteed audience puller and perhaps one final swansong for the BBC.

We would all watch like an audience in ancient Rome baying for blood at the coliseum. And when we have been all whipped into a frenzy of blood lust and hysteria Sky could win.

Which would be ironic because then, despite the big money offer, audience numbers would plummet and the show would be cancelled, only to be re-launched in about five years time by Bravo… or Five.

They Say Bad Luck Comes in Threes

2009-06-02T15:08:00.002+01:00

It is a definite exaggeration when I say that this week has been a little bit of a nightmare… Oh… My… GOD!!!

My original plan was to review a sandwich from one of those lovely supermarkets. Don’t worry, I am not going to insist we all stop using these industries of totalitarianism. I admit it would be brilliant if everyone stopped using the big supermarket companies and we all started buying our meat from a family run butcher and grew all our own tomatoes, cucumbers and basil. It’s a nice idea but lets be honest the only people who can really consider this a possibility are those who traded their common sense in for loads of spare time, land and money.

So, as I was saying, I was going to review a sandwich purchased from a supermarket and then I was told I may be made redundant. So, in trying to keep within the context of mirroring my life through sarnies, I thought maybe I could review the cheapest sandwich I could find in a supermarket and joke about the fact that this is probably the only bought sandwich I will soon be able to afford.

That seemed like a plan but then thought I could review a drive through restaurant (MacDonalds, Burger King and KFC all support this form of sandwich purchasing in the Swindon area). I did get a little excited about this because I do love a burger…

Then some twat stole the car…

That’s Ok, I hear you all shout, use your bike… Well I would but on the same day the car was stolen I was knocked from my motorbike on Swindon’s infamous Magic Round-a-bout.

And now… well not even a foot long BMT on Italian herb bread with olives, lettuce and mayonnaise would get me out of this all-I-want-to-do-is-feel-sorry-for-myself rut. My bike is totalled, my pride has been knocked and I have finally come to the conclusion that all my ranting about the fact there is no god has p!$$ed him off so much he is now getting his own back.

For those of you who do not know the Magic Round-a-bout please take a quick look on Google (here). The road system I describe is one large round-a-bout in the middle of five mini round-a-bouts. A series of lanes and confusion greets even the most confident road user the first time they stumble onto this icon of local traffic management.

My body aches from being launched into the air and landing on my back in the middle of the road. My lucky stars have well and truly been counted, recounted and then counted again just to make sure. I still do not know how I walked away from the incident.

The car has gone, my bike is going, my job is in risk of going the same way. You couldn’t make this stuff up and if you did nobody would believe you. I feel like I’ve dropped a Marks and Spencer Crayfish and Rocket and picked up a Tesco Value Egg Mayonnaise.

Café Nero - Meatball and Mozzarella Panini

2009-05-26T15:15:00.001+01:00

The world has gone mad and I found out whilst eating a meatball and mozzarella panini.

I was in my favourite coffe shop, Café Nero, and ordered a double espresso and panini. I like Café Nero, the staff are always friendly, the service is more than acceptable and the café is situated on the main artery of Chavs-ville*. I can mull over a café latte and watch all the idiot hoodies walk by with their cheap tattoos and tagging bracelets, pushing prams full of the next generation of dole-sponging, drunken, menace-to-society brats called Britney. I can sip my coffee and watch them shout at their children and drag them by the arm into another pub. I can nibble on a raspberry and white chocolate muffin and ponder over whether we should abolish the dole system all together and settle back into a clear three tier class system, open up the sweat-houses and convert Penhill into a ghetto (lets be honest it would not take much – if anything). We could even sterilise them to stop them breading.

So, what was I saying… oh yeah, I like Café Nero but on the day in question I chose not to chav-watch. No, I chose to read The Independent instead.

And while I waited for my panini to be toasted I read an article on the current state of honey bees in the U.K. The report highlighted that there has been a rise in the theft of honey bees and their hives.

I know it’s stupid but bear with me, please.

So who is stealing all of the bees? Well the report insisted that to steal bees you need to understand them. Who on earth would try and steal a hive of excitable bees? It just would not be worth the money. Well, apparently, the only people who could steal the hives are the very people who keep bees.

And that is where my problem is… Bee keepers are fundamentally a British icon. The thought that the retired general who has bought a plot of woodland, studied the art of keeping bees at night school, who has battled the viruses killing off hives and who has farmed his own honey is the same person who is stealing the bees… Well I just can’t handle that. How does somebody who predominately wears a straw boater put on a balaclava and go out in the middle of the night to poach hives?

There must be another answer, there must be.

So I think we should blame the chavs.

Chavs are the equivilant to punks, teddy-boys or mods. Chavs are a movement, an identity. They have their own rules and lifestyle and music and as much as I don’t like them I will admit I don’t understand them either. My main gripe is that they don’t really stand for anything apart from laziness and sponging from the state. At least punks had a code, a way of life. Chavs just want to breed, fight and be too thick to know any better.

So how can such an established paper as The Independent blame bee-keepers when we have a swarm of anti-social-idiots who would happily attempt to throw a hessian sack over a hive in the middle of the night and run off with it? Chavs would do anything for another pint of Stella and twenty Marlboro Lights and they are thick enough not to realise the bees are stinging them – lets be honest by three in the morning most chavs are too drunk to feel anything (perfect for stealing the national honey factories) either that or they’re scuttling another Britney, Tracey or Shaznay around the back of Debenhams…

I say lets head down to The Savoy and arrest any chav with a face full of bee-stings. If there are none there we can also check Ladbrookes, Tesco or Subway.

By the time the Panini was served to me I was fed up. How bad is a world where people steal bees? The mozzarella had melted, fusing both slices of hot toasted bread together. It took three bites before I tasted meatballs which were peppery and a ‘little-cheap-tasting’. And as I realised that the tomato sauce had been spread on the bread hours ago I wondered whether there was anything a chav wouldn’t do to annoy me.

*Chavs-ville – The triangular area between Sir Daniels, Lava Lounge and Halifax where chavs migrate after all day drinking in The Savoy. Area tends to be full of Staffordshire Bull Terriers, men smoking outside the pubs and women in shorts skirts pushing prams with a fag in their mouth and a mobile phone up to their ear. Welcome to Swindon – Please drive on.

The G.W - Beef and Horseradish Sauce Ciabatta

2009-05-20T20:00:00.000+01:00

G.W.

Beef and Horseradish Ciabatta

Date of visit: 16 May 2009.

So I am sitting here. The keyboard awaits my command. My fingers are poised to write this first piece in this new, exciting, state-of-the-art blog.

My brain wracks itself, considering every possible colourful adjective, every fork-tongued comment, every humorous articulation. Can I deliver the killer review… ?

Actually no I can’t because all I think about is how to include the MP’s expense scandal into this?

I can’t find one angle I could use to legitimately incorporate such a news event into my blog.

BALLS!!!

If I chose my first sandwich more carefully I could have said something about MPs learning from Subway. You order a foot long sub from there you get all the transparency you need in life. Everything is right there in front of you, nothing hidden away, no Telegraph reporters looking through your bins...

But I didn’t (maybe I should have saved that thought instead of wasting it here and now).

I didn’t go to Subway (I will just not yet), I went to the G.W which is one of my favourite pubs in Swindon. I like the place. I like the staff (who are always friendly). I like the service (always as quick as possible even when the place is busy). The pub is clean and the menu is large, there are a lot of sandwiches to choose from.

My beef sarnie was on the specials board and only cost four quid but the large plate that came out was full of chips and salad. The value for money stakes (get it stakes… steaks… beef-steaks… do you see what I did there?)... As I was saying the bar has been set because I challenge anyone to find a restaurant or pub that serves more food for less money.

The only problem I had was the amount of horseradish sauce on the bun. I am not sure if you have ever eaten too much horseradish sauce in one go. It’s not very nice. It’s like twenty-five fire eaters trying to impress Simon Cowell while failing to not look down Amanda Holden’s cleavage just in case they burn down the theatre – needless to say the blaze is imminent, its just up your nose and Ant and Dec are not about.

I could have scraped off some of the horseradish but that would have meant I would have had to stop eating… so I put up with the burning sensation like your average syphilis patient.

The meat was very tasty and cooked well (not chewy at all, very succulent). The ciabatta bun (triangular in shape) was soft and fresh. If you are ever wondering where to go for lunch, well you could do worse than going to the G.W (check out their website for details / www.thegw.co.uk).

Right then, I’m off, still find a way to incorporate the expense scandal into my piece so I just going to leave it well alone and say goodbye.

Lets Eat Sandwiches

2009-05-20T12:14:00.000+01:00

So here it is – SWINDONSARNIE. Personally, I can’t believe nobody has done this before.

So what is SWINDONSARNIE? Well to be honest if you are asking that question you are a few lettuce leaves short of a BLT… Sorry, I will stop using sandwich gags, I just couldn’t help myself.

SWINDONSARNIE is where all the sandwich news from the local area will reside. Where is the best place to go for a sandwich? Where is the worst place to go for a sandwich? We will answer all of these vitally important questions as well as be the hub of all sandwich based conversation in the Swindon area.

Each week I will review a sandwich. It could be a restaurant or pub sarnie, it could be a Tesco sarnie. My plan is to eventually have a complete database on the current state of sandwiches in the Swindon area – hence the name and hence why I insulted anyone who really needed to have the bloody obvious explained to them.

And don’t go worrying about the burgers. My interpretation of a sandwich is anything that is served between bread. This includes wraps, burgers and hotdogs.

I will look into cost, service, side dishes, pickles or sauces available. I will be looking into how long you wait for the sandwich, how friendly the service was, how clean the pub is or how many drunk chavs were in the queue at Tesco.

This is it people and I for one am very excited. I love a good bloody sarnie and now we will all find out where is the best place to find it. YES!