Rage Quit

I haven’t made a post in a while, but I won’t be starting this post with the much cliched “I haven’t made a post in a while…” Because I’m really edgy.

So anyway, I haven’t made a post in a while because I’ve been very well behaved recently and I haven’t pissed many people off. That said however, every time I get in the car I seem to get in trouble.

I just left my job and moved home so the money is obviously a bit tight, to reflect this I’ve been buying own brand 10p value noodles and filling up the car less. I’m pretty pleased that I managed to get to derby and back (about 100 miles) on £10 worth of petrol.

It sounds like witchcraft but it’s perfectly possible, here’s how:

When I’m leaning back in my Micra, cruising up the M1, riding dirty, one working speaker blasting out a bit of Ralph Vaughan Williams ft. Thomas Tallis it’s very easy to slow right down to about 45-50 mph.

This could be blasted as stupid. But I put it to you that it’s not stupid when I know exactly what I’m doing. In the interests of economy I am forcing lorries into the middle lane (who are limited to 57 mph). That leaves only one lane for overtaking, which causes a bottleneck behind me.

People are held up and drunk footballers in their Land-Rover’s don’t get to put their foot down and cause an accident.

Basically I’m saving lives.

In other news. A man swore at me in nuneaton.

So last week I found out there was a salon in Coventry called Blitz and anyone who’s ever heard about a gentleman called Hitler will most likely understand the connotations that occur when putting together the words COVENTRY and BLITZ. Poor taste? Probably. Worth moaning about? Probably not, which is why all I did was post this link on their facebook group…

I left it at that because I wasn’t all that interested, I was drunk and it was 4am. I expected to hear nothing back but then oddly all this kicked off! As you can see I hardly said anything, but she has this uncanny ability to get herself worked up.

I know I’m a bastard but it made me chuckle so I thought I’d share it and I’ll post up part two when I get my apology!

edit: BTW if anyone would like to send them a message, I would encourage you to do so on their facebook group here.

Probably shouldn’t reveal her name
Hey I am the salon supervisor at blitz beauty salon and we have an amazing reputation, you are more than welcome to come in and see how it looks!! I’m very annouyed by your childish behaviour! My close friend who owns it will let you know the reasons why it is called that? Do you not have better things to do with your time and I’m glad one of our clients had asked for you to be removed you sad pathetic individual!

Scott O’Neill
First of all, Congratulations on reaching the giddying heights of supervisor at your friends shop. It’s very comforting to know that even those who haven’t the talent to progress in a real work situation have friends to help them out by employing you for their murder condoning salon. 

I suppose you’ve named your styles after other atrocities such as Hiroshima or Chernobyl? Or how about glow in the dark hair dye for a Japan disaster special?

Privacy issue if I do right?
You are totally nuts?? Just to correct you yet again we are a beauty salon not hair salon? Grow up please take a trip out we work very hard to provide outstanding treatments and looking at your profile your lips are horrible! But yet again I think you are beyond help you nut job!(I LOVE THE PART ABOUT MY THIN LIPS)

Scott O’Neill  
It makes no difference to me whether you trim hair or pubes for a living. Do you think this is any way to talk to a member of the public? Or a would be client? Think of all the trade you have now lost off me from all the lip plumping treatments I quite clearly require. I could quite easily take my business off to your rival salon down the road. He hates Jews even more than you do but a least he keeps it to himself.
I think all that Botox has gone to your head.

Oh fuck it, why not.
Just grow up!! I don’t give a shit who you are I just know I work damn hard in the salon and jerks like you are pathetic I’m sorry but I won’t keep calm and we don’t need any extra business as our salon is rammed everyday! We don’t offer botox or lip plumpers but you have just gone off the scales bout our salon called blitz!! Please take ya business elsewhere as trust me you turn up in our salon you will not be welcome! We are women in our 30’s I have a lot of stress going on personal and do not need this behaviour! Also you are dealing with the owner on the offical site and trust me she will have an answer for you every time she is a very sucessful business women 3 salons, what do you do all day sit on sadbook pissing people off! Unfortunatly I’m one of the therapist who can’t keep quiet just do your facts before you do your comments!!

Scott O’Neill  
I have no idea about what you mean about being a therapist that can’t keep quiet? So you think I imagine none of you talk? On the contrary I think this has caused quite a stir and that you were all huddled around the computer, planning what to say next. And if by do my facts you mean do some research, well where would be the fun in that? I still haven’t got an answer to explain the justification of the name blitz aside from some poor nonsense about checking the English dictionary for a German word from your manager. Here’s another German word. ‘Coventrieren’ It was first used after the Coventry blitz and it means total annihilation.

 Jackie Barden
Scott I was off yesterday and my poor husband to be is in hospital having major surgery, the lady who you were writing comments on the site has nothing to do with me she lives in newcastle at her other salon blitz, please, as for the lady who explained the meaning? She is one of our clients, I have a lot more on my mind, my partner in hospital today so this is where it stops!!

Scott O’Neill  
So if it’s nothing to do with you, why did you start sending me some pretty foul messages on here? Forget what I have to say about the salons name, you have been very callous when I have tried to remain civil. If you want me to forget my problem with you an apology would go a long way, or is that beyond you?

Watford was always getting picked on by the bigger clubs and would constantly be bullied whether he was home or away. But then Aidy came along like the protagonist in an 80s Hollywood flick and after a few homes truths and a montage, he convinced poor downtrodden Watford that enough was enough. 

Watford then sought his revenge on all those that had come to his house in the past, he even found the courage to go out and beat them in their own homes. This caught the attention of the bigger boys and soon Watford was invited to take a place at the premier lunch table to dine with the school’s elite.

Now a few years on, instead of inspiring the uncool to kick some arse home and away, he’s at home sat on his arse watching home and away. Home home home.

But where did it all go wrong for poor old Aidy? Well his first problem is that he doesn’t live in a rags to riches film set in an American high school. He’s stuck in a gritty British drama about a little tosser with a dream to become a big tosser, he fulfils his dream to become a big tosser before losing everything and returning to being a little tosser again.

His second problem was that he took on the Kobayashi Maru of Coventry City. An unbeatable test designed to see how managers will react during a no win scenario. The experience here will make or break their careers, will they handle the pressure and go on to great things or will they crumble and fade into nothing.

They are placed in charge of a failing football club before the end of the season and have the task of saving them from relegation before leading a glorious promotion charge. As an unwinnable test, the manager will never achieve promotion and the simulation will only last approximately one year before they get the sack.

So given that we have established that it wasn’t Aidy’s fault, we can only judge him by his actions as the leader and what events led to receiving his P45.

During his time here, dealings in the transfer market have been sparse and key players aren’t being handed new contracts. But can we blame this on Boothroyd or should we instead be looking at the owners reluctance to spend any more money? Remember they wouldn’t fork out for a hotel for the team when they went to Doncaster a few weeks ago…

He hired a convicted sex offender which served to alienate a large section of the fan base. Many of whom vowed not to return until he was gone. My own opinion of this is quite the opposite, he’s paid his debt to society by losing his freedom for 18 months, I care less about an individuals past than I care for the future of CCFC. I hear Gaddafi can kick a ball?

Perhaps the biggest factor of Aidy’s downfall was his approach to the game. His apparent reliance on the hoofball system was astonishing to behold. The players would lump it up time after time and it would never lead anywhere. Again, can this be his fault, or because the players are too pumped up on diet pills and appearance fees to care?

In this case I’m going to say it was Aidy’s fault. I’ve seen the players booting the ball for half an hour before putting together sublime moves to split defences and create clear chances before returning to hoofball yet again. They’ve got something, but aren’t being given the room to show it.

His dealing with the media was to be fair to him, as honest as it could have been, given that there was a lot that went on behind the scenes that we didn’t, or weren’t supposed to have known about.

So was Aidy right to be shown the door? For his sake I would say yes, at the moment his pride will be hurt but in the long run he’ll earn success somewhere else and he isn’t going to have the relegation of Coventry City Football Club on his conscience. 

No, that honour goes to SISU, the high-school headmaster, the designers of this unpassable test, or put simply the faceless hedge fund that is trying to break all connections with this bad investment.

What’s that coming over the hill? Administration. Administration.

follow me on twitter: @scottwoneill

It’s that time of year again! That’s right, come has the anniversary of the date that I successfully managed to steal the crystal placenta while cleverly being able to escape a collapsing tunnel which quite frankly was a health and safety hazard. It’s an occasion I have tried to brand “Scott O’Neill and the temple of Womb” but due to copyright issues and also factors of taste, this has not been widely adopted, instead this event tends to go by the original working title of “My Birthday”

This is a real shame because I think that a reenactment of this daring escape, performed by me on some kind of inflatable assault course would be the only possible way to make me feel at all bothered about this whole non-event in the first place.

In any case, this ritual has now come to pass for another year and I feel in a very good position for reflection as I travel home to Leeds on a packed megabus, which I have selfishly taken the back three seats of.

I suppose the main reason I don’t like celebrating my birthday is because I have grown out of this sense of automatic entitlement that all of us have as children. I don’t need a round of applause when I wipe my own arse without calling for mummy. Although I imagine that a corridor lined with smiley clapping people after I open the toilet door would be pretty amazing.

I think if I reach the age of around 80 then my birthday would become something I would suggest be discussed for celebration by the Numskull board of directors that I hope reside in my head somewhere. Because by this point the best thing I could possibly hope to achieve would be to manage to keep away the dark spectre of eternity for one more year, but not when I’m 21!

My family should be sitting me down and asking me why I still haven’t achieved anything with my life after all the time and money they have poured into me, they should threaten to pull out from any future funding unless they start to see a return on their investment. They should realise that children was definitely the wrong market to be buying into, especially as they see how well shares in software have improved year on year since my birth.

This year I have found my birthday especially difficult to ignore, as I am constantly reminded that this is a big one and I have to do something for it! Well, I didn’t go out and get pissed like I am expected to because I can do that any time I want. I spent my birthday exactly how I wanted, doing nothing. I watched a film, had lovely chicken pie and had an early night. Pretty much the polar opposite of what those horrible bile producing twats on my super subhuman 16th birthday programmes would have done. I won’t start moaning about that show otherwise this intended short note will turn into a novel.

God, I know you don’t exist but just so you know, I hate humanity.

To whom it may concern,

I have long admired your delicious cheese. For years you have filled my sandwiches and have done so very well. You have become more than just cheese, you are a friend to me. This is why it has hurt me dearly to write this complaint, but I feel it is for your own good.

You may have read in the national press that I won £1.70 in a recent poker tournament, it was actually £1.60 because I counted it wrong but nevertheless it was enough for me to purchase a fresh tub of your cheese spread.

I then put it in the fridge, went to work for 7 hours and subsequently returned exhausted and hungry. What better treat to have at bed time than to have an old friend hug my bread and kiss my throat on the way down.

But I feel that in your quest to become the premier brand in versatile cheese aided cookery you have perhaps lost sight of the reason i first fell in love with you. You used to coat my slice like a thin film of spit on a toddlers chin only more delicious, but no longer.

While you are most certainly cool and your creaminess is second to none, I can’t help but feel that you’re no longer a spread. You roll pointlessly around the bread, carving out great swathes of great white as you go. You leave patches unseasoned and the resultant sandwich is a mine field of flavourless gaps sparsely populated by bursts of overpowering flavour. It’s ruined.

If you can’t make something that spreads properly then I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t want you in my life any more. It will only hurt us both more in the end.

You are dead to me.

Today saw the addition of poker to the Tasty Sandwich Cup. A win in this was much needed as I am now at the bottom of the league table for both darts and fifa 11, the latter of which I have subsequently announced my retirement from.

The stakes were high, stretching my wallet to the max. In fact I couldn’t even afford the £2 buy in so it was reduced by 30p. Nevertheless, it was a tense battle of bluffing, double bluffing and many more poker clichés that lasted for literally as long as five to five and a half minutes.

Fortunately my class shone through and I emerged victorious with my honour, my dignity, but more importantly I was £1.70 richer.

Tomorrow I will treat myself to food, and for a few hours at least the world will seem like a better place.

My winningz. But how gammy does my hand look.

(If you haven’t a clue what this is about, here’s some context link)

This morning I woke up feeling sick, and not the over nommed sick that I get after eating one sweet and sour crispy chilli chicken ball too many, or the sickening nausea of disappointment I get when city let me down on the pitch time and time again.

No, this was the sick to my stomach variety of sick that only strikes when only something truly repulsive has confronted me.

When I first heard this song I couldn’t quite believe my ears, how could anyone ever listen to it, let alone perpetuate its foulness by singing it out loud, children are listening you know.

 But not only are they listening, but also they’re remembering and singing it again to their friends, who then remember it and sing it to their friends. And so the cycle perpetuates until before long we find that these children have grown up and think that the subject of the song becomes an acceptable part of life for them. Is that what we want?!

I am of course talking about the song Grenade by Bruno Mars. Sure it’s a catchy tune and you may think it’s a bit of a laugh to sing it when you’re out with your mates, but have you actually stopped to think about the lyrics? Lets have a look shall we?

I’d catch a grenade for you,
Throw my hand on a blade for you,
I’d jump in front of a train for you,

What message is this teaching our children? That it’s acceptable to be an overemotional wreck of course. 

So what does the Casanova of five years time do when a relationship is turning sour, well he knows from his ipod that the best way to help it get back on track is to prove his love by cutting his hand.

“SEE WHAT YOU MADE ME DO? THIS IS HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU! LOOK AT MY BLOOD, IT’S RED LIKE VALENTINES DAY!”

If that doesn’t work maybe he’ll try the grenade line, or the train one. Or maybe he’ll try the train and the grenade lines at the same time, which would make him an idiot, a terrorist and what’s more dead. So his efforts to regain his lover’s hand are not only murderous but also futile. What a nob head.

I’ll ask again, is that what we want? Terrorists with sad little bulldog faces, bloodied wrists and neatly curled perms? (This is my best estimate as to where hair trends will go by this point in the future)

It certainly left me happier that my brother’s young daughter, a former CDUK magazine subscriber, with her squishy impressionable mind no longer watches Pop World on T4.

Of course there are those that will think my argument is ridiculous. What’s the harm in a song they say?

Well that’s a fair point but I’m not convinced, so here are the notes from a hypothetical debate on this subject, which has just occurred in my mind while I was waiting for the kettle to boil.

Utter tripe, what are they talking about! I suppose now they’re going to tell me if I let my niece sing the “She said yes Marlon” song when I take them to the football, it won’t turn them into violet rapists when they grow up?

“It’s just a song”, they say. “It’s not meant to be taken seriously! Lighten up and have some sweets, they’re not drugs honestly.”

Thank you I will. But children will listen to this chant and think it’s acceptable to emulate their favourite football stars by punching women!

They reply, “no one has been caught slapping their wives at the football while they sing it. If someone did, could you honestly say it was because the song made him do it, or because he is of questionable character in the first place?”

Well perhaps, but what about my niece, she will think it’s acceptable to do it if 2,000 people are all singing it. This candy is nice, what is it?

Now they crush my argument. They say, “So tell her it’s just a song and not to be taken seriously, but given that most children don’t actually think it’s a candy shop where 50 cent wants to take you to and that Rihanna probably doesn’t feel alright about burning alive. I think it’s safe to say they didn’t take this one literally either.”

But what’s the point, I ask.

“It’s just a laugh”, they reply, “call it a morbid sense of humour if you like.”

And the sweets they tell me were a boiled dose of common sense that unfortunately doesn’t actually exist outside of my head.

But as I feel the sweet nectar of this imaginary snack fill my throat and the logic of their argument sooth my mind I suddenly remember when I complained about the Dennis Wise song and now the Marlon King one, but I won’t complain the next time a song I don’t like does the rounds.

I will reserve my right to disagree with something but I will also remember that it takes all sorts to make a world and just because it’s not to my taste, doesn’t make my opinion supreme and allow me to condemn someone else’s fun no matter how questionable I deem their taste to be.

I finish the common sense drop and as the moment of realisation passes by I can feel the sickening feeling I had before fading before giving way to the familiar sickening feeling of city letting me down on the pitch time and time again, again.