Our cat* is a proper mentalist. For the first nine years of life, it was a cold, calculating, face scratching little bastard with a mind sharpened to the point of evaluating every decision on how it could end up with more food. I knew it was a bit of a player on the transition from cutesy, puring, soulful ‘get me, get ME‘ to ‘see ya, wouldn’t want to be ya‘ taking all the time it took to free it from the local Cat Rescue.

And it is because Darwinism has yet to equip your average domestic feline with opposed thumbs that we ever saw the ungrateful bugger. Only the successful operation of a tin opener separated it from being a latch-flap pet – well that and its’ visceral joy at trapping fear shitting mice in a bin shaped wall of death scenario. At 4am. Every night, In our bedroom. For a fucking eternity.

Thankfully the passing years have slowed the vicious little sod down, so it’s rare now that I find my morning stumble interrupted by the squidgy horror of bare feet accessorised by bloody intestines. Instead, it has switched tactics, and is now fully in touch with its’ bonkers side.

First the looper fucker decided to take on a sleepy rabbit which ended in a towel based rugby tackle of the shit scared ** bunny, and the softest of rebukes from Carol “Now, please don’t bring rabbits into the house anymore. If that’s ok. Oh here’s some prime steak to get over the trauma”

And now it has taken to climbing the side of the log in a doomed attempt to gain entry through a tightly closed window. In the spirit of context, I should explain that due to lack of cat exit/entry system, I manually flap it every night in the manner of the Flintstones’ opening sequence.

It appears to have taken this quite badly, and after a few bloody amusing cat wailing plaintively against a locked door situation, the brain damaged nutter has taken to making a frankly dangerous ascent of the North Face of the Pine – only to find it can’t get back down.

So what does it do? Does it wait patiently to morning? Does it retrace its’ steps and hang about until it is let back in? Does it fuck?***, instead it yowls like the mad bastard it is and waits for a) some kind person to let it back in or b) a not so kind person to try for a home run using nothing other than a i) cat and ii) stick with a nail in it.

And now it’s taking to hiding in the bushes, sulking like a nine year old*** and refusing to return to the mother lode until a a family member prostrates themselves on the deck, with cat food delicacies rubbed into their hair.

I really want a dog. A proper pet you don’t have to bend down to pat. Something loyal, steadfast and friendly. I’ve been scanning the local adds for “Dog for sale: Eats anything, Loves Cats”

* Semantically less troubling that “Carol and the kids’ cat which shares a house with me, while I spend every day inventing new horrors to prove how much I hate it”

** Let me insert the word literally here.

*** Unlikely after the op. One is annoying. Any more and it’d be a swift combination of sack, water and bricks.

**** A sulk so deep they call it Cousteau.

… this time of year. For women, Tennis. For men, masturbation. Oh come on blokes, who spend eleven months of the year watching twenty two girly-men mincing about for ten grand an hour, or declaring a fascination for thirty more engaging in mud wrestling with funny shaped balls, have suddenly become tennis aficionados.”Oh can we put the Tennis on love”. Red button, Google for who has the biggest tits in the woman’s’ game, select match and get all jiggy with the remote control*. “No, not the men – especially that English hating Scot whose clearly descended from a certain W.Wallace – their power ruins the very aesthetics that make tennis so special” is a lie chucked into the black hole of disbelief worn by long suffering wives and girlfriends.

“Let’s watch this instead” / “Who’s playing?” “Not sure” / “Sharapova you say?” / “Pretty?” / “Well okay I suppose but not a patch on you” hurtles he-lies comet** while one’s inner willy is giving it the pumping elbow “Woooaaaahh, get a LOAD of that body, if she grunts like that on a tennis court, she is going to be absolutely sodding cosmic in the sack”

And now she’s out. Beaten by her rather plain compatriot only recently released from a facefull of teenage acne. And not just beaten, comprehensively stuffed which kind of gets us back to where we started. So a million men lament the buggeration that a once in a generation talent/beauty morph is pounded off court by a girl whose had giblet stuffing in her recent vocational history.

So I’ve heard anyway. I’ve been watching bit of the football occasionally flicking over the BBC smugness to see yet another plucky brit narrowly beaten 6-0, 6-0. Only the Scot left (I love this, “I am not Scottish, I am a Scot” – right on fuzzy hair, reject all that English middle class loving, good on you) and he’s clearly hunting for some distant Spanish ancestry to save him from showing any allegiance to the flag.

Wimbledon may be an institution but it’s a bloody odd one. What people remember of the empire gate-crashed by a million nations who are significantly better at the game. It’s last night of the proms with tennis racquets instead of conducting batons, but the whole displaced nationalism and dangerously edged hats shines through, even tho the sainted Tim has passed onto the commentary box.

Still now all the nice boys and girls have been knocked out, there’s confusion multiplied by 10,000 spectators trying to work out if they should transfer their affection to a fella who clearly cares not the slightest for their adoration. That makes it worth watching even tho the glamour puss has been shown the door.

* I have so many lame wank gags lined up, there’ll be a small prize for who gets them all.

** I believe St. Peter will take that terrible pun into account when sending me “downstairs“`

A old ‘un but a good ‘un. Only a generation ago would such stalwarts be wheeled out for a group nod, when someone had the temerity to try something different. Further samples from my own childhood include “If you rub it, you’ll just make it worse“*, “Too wrongs don’t make a right“** and “Tha’s not as green as tha cabbage is painted”***

Yet the first one should blaze a trail of truth through a galaxy hosting planets of cheap, bullshit and stupid all of which orbit the sun of greed. I have just about come to terms with head banging impotence at the million suits fucking over everyone else to turn a fast buck. And I’ve become largely uncaring over the corruption of global markets, the insanity of trading on stuff that doesn’t exist, and the decoupling of making big decisions while failing to be troubled by the consequences to everyone but you.

But when an organisation outsources the prime communication for its’ customers to lowest cost bidder and instills a script based ethic for people trying their best in a second language, it still sends me bloody nuts. The link between me paying the bills and them being paid to help me is stretched to the point where I find myself caring nearly as little as they do. Press 1 to be put on hold, press 2 to get charged to hear the website address, press 3 to start the whole pointless process again.

Wait ten fucking minutes to be told “this isn’t our problem. We don’t know whose problem it is, but we’re pretty clear it isn’t ours“. So wearily try again with another faceless company. Same shit, same script, same answer. What kind of fucking madness is it that some fruit in a suit dreamed up a business model where 20{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} customer churn returns more to shareholders than attempting to retain their custom, by innovative techniques such as answering the phone?

And it is not like we’re trying to order a Space Shuttle here. We just want Broadband to be activated on a telephone line but the slightly non standard configuration isn’t on anyone’s screen, so we may as well up the ante “Look screw the broadband, what do you have in terms of serviceable reusable space vehicles?” / “Sorry sir, I’ll just need to call my supervisor” Brrr. Disconnect.

I think it is right and proper to out these corporate charlatans. BT: 13 wasted minutes on a conversation which intersected only briefly on “broadband” and “goodbye“. Tiscali: You’re a shower of useless shit as well. About the same plus the transfers between 4 different departments each with a new way of cheerfully informing us that they didn’t give a shit.

Remember banks back in the 80s? You were stuck with the useless dog lobbers because switching your account was slightly more complex than building a teleport. And they bloody well knew it – now ISP’s are the new wanker bankers with their “oh but you’ll lose your email address if you cancel“.

Well fuck the lot of you. We’re taking it back. A google cry for help unearthed a little known – but highly recommended**** – ISP with a UK phone number. A nice man answered the phone second ring, made all my problems his and apologised for charging a little more than the competitors. We even registered our own domain name, so it’s a single ball-achy afternoon to change every Internet account but God it’s going to feel good.

This is all our fault of course. Since we constantly commoditise every product and demand the lowest price by removing any differentiation, what the hell did we think might happen? So fuck Tesco, M&S can go swivel, Virgin will never see me again. Maybe all of us are going to be nothing more than the demand side of global capitalism but, from hereon in, I’m voting with my cash and paying it over to someone who actually gives a shit. It might not make a difference to them, but it’ll make a bloody great difference to me.

And when my World Dictatorship get ratified, my first order of the day will be to melt down every call answering system, and send out hunting parties for any delusionist who decided shareholders were more important than customers. The scorpion pit is too bloody good for them.

I’d just like to apologise to my mum. I realise I have used up a years worth of bad language in a single post. And, of course, it is someone else’s fault. There is probably even an 0845 number to call.

* Ignored by legions of pubescent boys across the planet.

** Yeah, but it’s fun trying.

*** Bemused at the time. Still bemused 30 years on.

**** You should see what they say about Tiscali and BT. Try ISPReview. It’s pretty damn cathartic.

We all bring our own belief systems to the Internet: My future partner is out there / Nobody knows I surf all day for porn / I play Second Life Ironically / People read my blog / etc, etc.

But at the core, we really know 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2}+ is really a bit shit. Especially if you didn’t grow up wondering why your dad still reads the newspaper, and how come nobody under the age of 40 ‘gets’ MySpace. And yet occasionally, just occasionally the wibbly coughs up something so damn odd you have to share it.

Call it a pointless Mash-Up. Label it viral marketing. Accept it is American. But you cannot do anything but love the Trunk Monkey.

Or maybe it’s just been a very, very long day.

You can imagine my delight that Ross-On-Wye was known – from the 6th Century – as Ergyng. This does indeed literally translate to Land of the Hedgehog. Couple of problems with that; firstly the last two books I read on the History of Britain cast significant doubt that the Celts ever invaded. Or indeed existed as a defined race back 1500 years ago. Second, Saxons and then Normans changed the name twice more, and none of the new designations translate to anything snuffly and prickly.

Never mind, the oldest building in town has a hedgehog* and the little fella is cheekily presented on many a commercial emporium. My impulsive commitment to hand over real money to anyone sporting a hedgehog** has proved rather rash. So far I’ve eaten four cakes, three pasties, a brace of ice creams and am now the proud owner of a concrete mixer***

Still good Karma nevertheless and a fantastic excuse to sample the local pies. Got to go, feel the urge for another one.

* Picture of one obviously. Not one nailed to the town hall. Not since 2002 anyway.

** Not to be confused with the tragic haircut of the mid 1980s. A challenging combination oft he Mullet and the Mohican. It never really caught on.

*** Not quite. Carol convinced me the purchase of a small screwdriver was more appropriate.