A Few Short Annoyances for a Friday.

Con Air - Specifically its slow degredation from gritty, intense drama into a run 'n' gun musclefest.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed Con Air, I did. But I can't help but think that if it ran for another half an hour there'd be robots and space ships and that in it, Or Nicolas Cage would spend the last twenty minutes parachuting through an exploding universe while God himself played a rockin' guitar solo as Hulk Hogan scored a triple backflip slamdunk in a basket ball hoop seven trillion miles into another universe. What starts off as interesting meeting of minds and agendas in a stolen plane quickly turns into a film that Arnie would've turned down in his heyday, saying "Thur is tew much shooting in eet". I don't mind mindless action films, but when a film starts off so cleverly (And John Malkovich is fucking brilliant as criminally insane genius Cyrus), it's sad to see it resolve with OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO CRASH INTO VEGAS THEN DRIVE A FIRE ENGINE THROUGH A TUNNEL AAAAAAARGH BANGBANG BANG THERE'S THE CHILD KILLER PLAYING CARDS. The film suddenly shits out any pretention of being a serious film for grownups when they end up in the plane graveyard (The moment they remember the plane is absolutely packed to the fucking gills with guns and other weapons, and then just proceeds to degrade itself more and more with each passing minute, like a hooker who's not had a punter in a few weeks and has got to the point where she'll put anything anywhere for a few bob. I know you don't care about it anywhere near as much as I do.



Children of about 13 who have been allowed to your local city unsupervised for the first time.

Who's idea of 'common courtesy' is standing by the shop assistant they've decided they want to shorten the life of, who is already in mid conversation with someone, and going "Excuse me excuse me excuse me excuse me" Continuously at half a million decibels until you're forced to either appease them, or use the most potentially damaging piece of stationery you can find on their head.



People who "know their rights"

No you fucking don't. You know that you're going to go home and ring some head office and complain to some spotty sixteen year old who gives less of a shit than the people in the shop, and you'll be back in the store next week, regardless of your claims otherwise, you spineless cunt.



British Telecom

BT are absolutely, irrefutably, fucking shit at their job. Their job, for those of you who presume it's promising to ring you back and then not, not providing you with the service you are paying for while sending you to every department in their network along the way (then finally giving you the number for the department you need, which you ring, to find it closed, and closed since 1972 at that), is actually to provide you with various differing forms of telecommunication. As you probably know, however, they aren't very good at this. In fact, they are about as good at it as I am at having periods (which I'm frankly rubbish at, I've never even managed one, unless you count the time I sat on a pencil and bled like a motherfucker all over Wrexham). And this annoys me. BT essentially have the monopoly when it comes to phone lines (they own the fucking things), so even if someone else is your service provider, BT still have their manky little paws in your business somewhere. And after years and years of being the only telecommunications company there was in Britain, you'd think they'd have more practice at not being complete and utter shitstick at being a cunting telecommunications company. A quick list of the problems Ceri and I have suffered with BT:

Didn't cancel the previous account here three times

Called us "Miss Savvy" continuously, even when I was on the phone and it's neither of our fucking names

Took 45 minutes of our lives filling in an account form, then losing it.

A pitched battle while we tried to convince them NOT to send us another fucking homehub

Not connecting the line because they'd lost our details again

Promising us seven trillion Mb, and then essentially strapping a hamster in a wheel to our connection.

Giving us their 'Broadband sales' number, which turned out to be BT World Business. (You don't half feel like a prize prick phoning them up. Especially when they give you the right number, which it turns out is the one you rang yesterday, but because you couldn't succesfully find your way through BT's push button dial tone labyrinth, you pressed 6 instead of 7 and got put through to their All Year Round April fucking Fool's Department)

Not knowing when our account was due to close.

Closing that account without telling us.

Ringing me up and asking why we were leaving, then not accepting my answer of "You are bunch of fuckwits who I wouldn't trust with a cup and string."

Bollocks to them. British Telecom? British Phone Cunts, more like.



People who are "Welsh and Proud"to an almost militant standard, but don't speak a word of the language.

Your hypocrisy astounds me. I'm not a particularly patriotic person, so I speak English because a) It's the language I was taght and b) It's more widely used than the old Cymraeg. However, when I'm in a pub and I see you in your Welsh Rugby Jersey, your Woad, your dragon trousers and Daffodil hat stomping about the place, bawling about how much the English are a great big bunch of oppressive twats and how you fucking hate everything about them, stop yourself for a second and ask what fucking language you're speaking, you gigantic clutterfuck.