how bone is your missus.

One of these zoomed past in the opposite today as we drove to our usual Friday pubby.
View attachment 669465

The Long Haired Camp Commander in Chief:
"Is that for advertising or something?"

Unpaid Press Ganged Butler:
Not really. It's a mini :rolleyes: tanker.
If a pub runs out of the skooshi bar tap stuff, they call in one of these and it connects up to recharge their pressurised container"


The Long Haired Camp Commander in Chief:
"Fantastic"!

Unpaid Press Ganged Butler:
Yeah...good innit?

o_O

Newspaper in Ndola, Zambia reported some genius hacking his way into a ten foot fibreglass Coke bottle advertising display at a fuel station. Cops grabbed him and while getting trundled off to the chokey, he plaintively called out that he was intending to sue both Coke and the fuel station owners for false advertising, and anyway he was innocent because the bottle was empty.
 
IT and the female of the species.

She's sat there, remote control in hand, feverishly stabbing away at the buttons. "I can't get the Disney channel on!" Imagine my indifference.

"Have you tried turning it off and on again?", I "helpfully" suggest. Look of non-comprehension. "We're paying for it and there's something I want to watch!" Continue, if you will, to imagine my indifference, apart from the fact that we're paying for something I never watch. FS woman.

She manages to turn the TV off and then turns it on again. Still no joy apparently. My indifference level remains unchanged. "Help me!" she says demands.

So I heave the old carcass up and wander over to the TV. Now the back of our TV, like most people's I suspect, is a rats nest of wires and plugs.

"Which plug is the TV?" I ask, not being able to suss out which it is. I never watch TV these days, so the TV and anything to do with it are a mystery to me. "I don't know", she replies, "I think it's the black one."

"Which black one, oh light of my life, there are three of them. Can't you come over here (i.e. get your fat arsse of the sofa and sort this out yourself, not that I was reckless enough to say that) and help me," I asked. "You do realise I don't have any qualifications in unplugging things and you could equally well do this yourself, which you'll have to do anyway when I'm happily dead." Imagine how well that went down dear reader.

Onto my hands and knees and, just to be on the safe side, unplug EVERYTHING. "What are you doing that for?", comes the panicked call from the arsse-superglued-to-the-sofa end of the room. I don't respond. 30 seconds later, I plug everything in again and struggle to my feet.

"There you go poppet, I've done everything I can do, if it still doesn't work, you're on your own."

"Now the internet has gone off on my Kindle", she wails. "That's because I unplugged the modem, as well as the TV dearest. Just give it a minute to reboot." **** me, how unreasonable can I get? Wait for something? Not have it immediately? The very idea! What an uncaring person I am.

She still can't get the Disney channel on. £5 says it's my fault somehow or other. Meh.

Funny how their technical fix for all IT/TV/decoder faults is to randomly stab at every button in sight multiple times until the thing is completely stuffed and requires two hours of patiently undoing their mess to sort out.
 
It could be she's used to dealing with left and right from the patients point of view. Normally when the notes says something like "amputate right leg", it's from the patients point of view.
I thought black markers come into effect by more level headed types prior to the victim being put before the butcher?

And as a slight aside which I may have mentioned before.
Back when I was in the NHS we had a Consultant Orthopaedic surgeon (ex Army type who swore in that upper class way that isn't offensive for some reason), his dog broke its leg and being Head of Orthopaedics he certainly didnt need a Vet to fix such a minor thing. Mr Smith takes his pooch flips it on its back and places the 'broken' limb in a cast - dog is now unable to even hobble.
Yes you have spotted the mistake. He removes the cast from the perfectly fine limb and his wife makes him take the mutt to a Vet.
 
I thought black markers come into effect by more level headed types prior to the victim being put before the butcher?
Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't you. Still happens though, and on body parts that can't easily be marked.


 
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NSP

LE
From the website 27b/6


----

SQUEEZERS & WHATSITS​




I bought a dirt bike recently. A YZ250F for those interested in such things. To justify the purchase, I told Holly that it was for her.


"If you learn to ride," I said, "I'll buy another and we can go riding together on trails."


On sunday, Holly and I drove to a secluded trail nearby and unloaded the bike.


"What's this button do? asked Holly as she hopped on, "Is that to start it?"


"That's a bolt. You have to kick start it," I replied, showing her how to put it in neutral and start the engine.


"Where's the accelerator?"


"You twist the right-hand grip," I answered, "And it's not called an accelerator on a motorbike, it's called a throttle."


"Well that's just stupid," responded Holly, "I'm going to call it an accelerator."


"If you're not going to take this seriously you probably shouldn't..."


"I am taking it seriously," Holly cut in, "You're not the boss of names. Just show me how to make it go. If you can ride a motorbike it can't be that hard."


"Fine, squeeze the clutch and put it in gear. No, you press down for first..."


"So the clutch is called a clutch and the accelerator is called something stupid? Why didn't they just call the clutch a squeezer?"


"It doesn't matter what it's called, you have to squeeze the clutch and release it slowly as you increase the thro... the accelerator. It's exactly the same process as driving a manual car."


"I'm going to call it a squeezer," stated Holly, "So I just twist the whatsit and let go of the squeezer?"


"Yes, but you have to release the squeezer slowly and twist the accelerator at the same time otherwise the bike will stall. And if you give it too much accelerator and let go of the squeezer too quickly, it will take off and you'll probably crash."


"Okay," said Holly as she twisted the throttle to maximum and let go of the clutch to give me a 'thumbs up'.


The bike tore forward and Holly, horizontal and screaming, travelled almost a hundred feet with the throttle in a death grip before developing speed wobble and being thrown off. The bike flipped a few times before coming to a halt.


Running towards her, I saw Holly climb unsteadily to her feet, hold out her arms as if doing an impression of a plane caught in turbulence, then fall over again. Kneeling at her side and asking if she was okay, Holly turned to me, focused, and said, "You're a terrible teacher."
"And you are starting to sound like my ex-wife, Hol'."

"Eh? I didn't know that you'd been married already?!"

"I haven't..."
 
This morning.Episode 438.
We have come away for a few days. We turn our house phone over to redirect to her mobile. She decides to test it to see if it is working. “It’s not working, you need to call BT to get it fixed”
Now of course, I could have mentioned that calling from her mobile to redirect her call to her mobile was not going to work. Despite the prospect of a 700 mile drive in total silence being appealing, I thought better of it and suggested she used my phone to check.
And for the time being peace has been restored.
Why do "you" need to call BT? If she's capable of ringing the home phone, she's capable of ringing BT surely? Silly me, what a foolish, unreasonable and reckless suggestion.
 

NSP

LE
Why do "you" need to call BT? If she's capable of ringing the home phone, she's capable of ringing BT surely? Silly me, what a foolish, unreasonable and reckless suggestion.
I didn't think anyone needed to call BT? She just needs to use a 'phone that isn't her mobile to check that their landline is forwarding to her mobile.
 
I didn't think anyone needed to call BT? She just needs to use a 'phone that isn't her mobile to check that their landline is forwarding to her mobile.
I know. But why, when things went (not) wrong, did she assume it was automatically a man's job to contact BT?
 
I could never have taught my oldest daughter to drive. I know that about thirty seconds in there would be an argument and the key wouldn't be in the ignition yet. I bit the bullet and paid for someone else (who would be heeded) to do the job.
In May 1979 on my 17th birthday father_mush handed me the keys to the 2500PI Triumph and said, "come on then I'll give you your first lesson" and in the back piled the rest of clan_mush. Many terse words were exchanged over the next hour but I got the car back to the campsite (we were on holiday) without any damage.

The following months lessons consisted of me driving to school every morning, about 12 miles of heated argument, where upon arrival he'd get in the driving seat and drive off to work. The only snag was father_mush had zero patience with me or any other road user and would constantly reach across to operate the indicator (on the rhs of the steering column) if he thought I'd forgotten to indicate, or put the wipers on for me.

It came to a head when a drop-side Transit pulled out of a side road and father_mush reached across and leaned on the horn. The Transit screeches to a halt and a 7' pikey with hands like shovels get out and advances menacingly towards us. Fortunately there was a gap in the on coming traffic and I just floored it. The rest of the journey, and the rest of my lessons were conducted in silence.

I passed my test first time in Jul that year. It was easier in those days.

Father_mush never offered to teach any other of clan_mush
 
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In May 1979 on my 17th birthday father_mush handed me the keys to the 2500PI Triumph and said, "come on then I'll give you your first lesson" and in the back piled the rest of clan_mush. Many terse words were exchanged over the next hour but I got the car back to the campsite (we were on holiday) without any damage.

The following months lessons consisted of me driving to school every morning, about 12 miles of heated argument, where upon arrival he'd get in the driving seat and drive off to work. The only snag was father_mush had zero patience with me or any other road user and would constantly reach across to operate the indicator (on the rhs of the steering column) if he thought I'd forgotten to indicate, or put the wipers on for me.

It came to a head when a drop-side Transit pulled out of a side road and father_mush reached across and leaned on the horn. The Transit screeches to a halt and a 7" pikey with hands like shovels get out and advances menacingly towards us. Fortunately there was a gap in the on coming traffic and I just floored it. The rest of the journey, and the rest of my lessons were conducted in silence.

I passed my test first time in Jul that year. It was easier in those days.

Father_mush never offered to teach any other of clan_mush

A 7 inch pikey? You must have been terrified.
 

NSP

LE
I know. But why, when things went (not) wrong, did she assume it was automatically a man's job to contact BT?
She knows her place.

Yeah, yeah - Mr. Cholmondley-Warner walt, to save anyone the bother.
 
In May 1979 on my 17th birthday father_mush handed me the keys to the 2500PI Triumph and said, "come on then I'll give you your first lesson" and in the back piled the rest of clan_mush. Many terse words were exchanged over the next hour but I got the car back to the campsite (we were on holiday) without any damage.

The following months lessons consisted of me driving to school every morning, about 12 miles of heated argument, where upon arrival he'd get in the driving seat and drive off to work. The only snag was father_mush had zero patience with me or any other road user and would constantly reach across to operate the indicator (on the rhs of the steering column) if he thought I'd forgotten to indicate, or put the wipers on for me.

It came to a head when a drop-side Transit pulled out of a side road and father_mush reached across and leaned on the horn. The Transit screeches to a halt and a 7' pikey with hands like shovels get out and advances menacingly towards us. Fortunately there was a gap in the on coming traffic and I just floored it. The rest of the journey, and the rest of my lessons were conducted in silence.

I passed my test first time in Jul that year. It was easier in those days.

Father_mush never offered to teach any other of clan_mush
Someone else touching the controls when I'm driving? Shouty sweary time.
 
It could be she's used to dealing with left and right from the patients point of view. Normally when the notes says something like "amputate right leg", it's from the patients point of view.
Which is of course why all of our wonderful surgeons use black marker pen to ensure they pick the correct limb to amputate. Except when they get it wrong and then sulk whilst taking an hour to consult with colleagues and their copious notes to confirm that what I had told him was correct.
Obviously it was of course a computer error.
 
Why do "you" need to call BT? If she's capable of ringing the home phone, she's capable of ringing BT surely? Silly me, what a foolish, unreasonable and reckless suggestion.
Welcome to my world. A few days ago I suggested that next time she goes shopping she fills the car with petrol. From the look of disgust I got you might have thought I had taken a dump in her handbag.
 
Lack of mechanical empathy
She is making iced tea and unfortunately I happened to be present in the kitchen, she takes her glass jug to the water boiler and holds down the button until it’s empty and the pump is clicking and whining, then off she pops to the fridge and puts the jug under the ice dispenser and again keeps on even after all the ice has been dispensed, when questioned on her actions she explained that she wanted more hot water and the “ice maker” must be broken and I should fix it. I explained how these devices work and that they only dispense and not instantly create things she may need, mentioning mechanical empathy but to no avail, as I’m simply making up reasons for why things don’t work properly.
 
I went over to a mates place earlier today to give him a hand cutting up wood and herself tells me that while I'm gone she's going to cut the grass around the house on the riding mower. I get to my mates place and we have just started cutting wood when his phone rings.

He hands it to me and tells me it's herself on the phone. I ask her what she wants and she tells me all huffy like that the riding mower won't start. I ask her if it's turning over and she tells me it is but I need to come home to fix the mower.

I tell her it will be a while as we've just started work and I'm not going to leave before the job is done. She gets all stroppy about it and hangs up on me, when I get home she's still in a huff about it.

I go out to the shed to have a look at the mower and see what the problem is, well it took me all of thirty seconds to find the problem. I went back into the house and told her it works just fine and there is nothing wrong with it but yes there was a problem and if she will follow me I'll show her what it was for future reference.

We go out to the shed and stand by the mower and she asks me what the problem was when I say nothing, I tell her it was a user error. She asks me what I mean by user error and I tell her the user made the error of not checking to see if there was any gasoline in the fecking tank before trying to start it.

Feck knows how many times I've showed her how to check the oil and told her to check it every time she goes to use the mower as well as checking the petrol and the tyre pressure.

She just stood there looking at me like a stunned Knut, I could see my words going in one ear and out the fecking other one.
 
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