Why do they do it?

I've never been a great fan of what has been called 'popular' or 'pop' music although, I must admit, out of perhaps a hundred songs or pieces put out, there might be just one which catches my ear.

Mainly the stuff comes in two main groups - tolerable and stomach turning.

Nowadays, I listen to BBC Radio 2 of a morning and sometimes during the day. I have certain programmes where the presenter gives me something worth listening to. Unfortunately, the music they play tends to be perhaps 50 percent that I ignore, 25 percent that I can hear without distress, 20 percent that irritate and the rest that make me want o reach for the off switch, some of the latter group that actually do produce that very reaction.

The saving grace for these programs is the presenter and their close interaction with their listeners, banter, stories, funnies, jokes and so on. These are the only things worth listening to.

Now, the BBC has something called a 'playlist' where someone somewhere decides what shall be played when and where. There is a policy that whenever some screeching pop diva or pop kid whose balls haven't dropped yet, comes out with a new record, then it has to be played, and played, and played, and played, and played.

This generally means that I get to hear it each time I listen to my favourite presenters. One day not so long ago, I heard one bloody song, Britney? five times in one day!

What do I do now when they come on? I switch off.

How can I get them to understand that if I - and there must be many many more like me - wanted to hear this particular song over and over again, and if I was so keen on it, I'd willingly go out and buy the bloody thing?

She did it again!!!!

She did, honestly - as truly as I'm sat sitting here at the keyboard, I tell you that the dozy cow went and did again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What? What did she do? you ask.

Last week, when I'd dropped the yougest lad off at what passes for a bus station here, I drove through centre of town, down a one-way street, joining the next road at 'T' junction, controlled by traffic lights.

So, I'm sitting in the right hand lane (those of you who drive on the wrong side will have to stand on your head or something to follow this), waiting for the lights to turn green. In the left hand lane, the lane for turning left, was a grey Vauxhall. I didn't notice the driver at the time - I mean, you don't you you? You check around you, discount what doesn't matter and allow for what does.

So, according to the rule of law and common sense, I would be turning right - that's why I was in the right hand lane. The grey Vauxhall, followed by a bus, would be turning left.

Now, as you turn right, you have to watch your turn, as there is an island in the road, carrying a pedestrian refuge and a traffic light, so when the lights turned green, I started off, discounting the car to my left and headed for the far side of the island to my right.

Mistake! Big mistake. This particular dozy cow, for that is who I saw directly in front of me now, was turning right, across my nose, heading for the same road space!

Of course, I stopped quickly.

I thought perhaps she may have been a foreigner, not accustomed to out traffic rules, or she wasn't bothered - or perhaps she was simply a bloody stupid lousy driver.

That was at the beginning of last week, and I've transited that junction 4 more times, which numbers to add to the many thousands over the years. What with my memory not being too good, I temporarily forgot the incident - until this morning when the self same woman in the self same Vauxhall, pulled the self same dozy stupid trick!

I wonder how many times will she do it before someone a little more agressive than me will simply keep going?

No Borg today

It seems that I won't be assimilated today as there is a slight hitch on the Borg Mother Ship. It seems that the particular bit of technology needed to carry out the job is dead as a dodo.

Boy Child tells me that he hasn't used it for so long that the battery is kernackered. Ah well, I was quite looking forward to that. Sometime in the future, I guess.

Surprised Herself last night. Gave her quite a shock, as a matter of fact. There she was, laid beside me, reading her book, when I said "Hey Lass, I can breathe!" Quick as a flash, she was out of bed and over to my dressing table and back to me with my salbutamol inhaler in hand!

Good girl, except that she'd not heard properly, had she?

For most of the day, I'd had a gorilla sitting on my chest, so, when I crawled off to me pit, I took me painkillers and other stuff, plus the inhalers - the preventers - the old one (Combivent) and the new one (I can't remember the name, but it dispenses a puff of powder by means of a fan when I inhale).

This latter seems to be doing wonders, but the effect is short lasting. I laid down, trying to reduce the need to breathe (one gets used to this breathing lark after nearly 70 years) and must have dropped off as the pain killers kicked in.

That's when I woke with the revellation that I could breathe unhindered!!

This was not to last long, as I awoke again at about 1.30. The gorilla had returned and was suffocating me again. I helped myself to a couple of puffs and laid back down, but the combination of the shit on my chest and the salbutamol trying to get rid of it, I wasn't very happy.

At least, I was able to take in enough air to permit a good, healthy, choking coughing fit!

I laid awake, debating whether to ask the Dear Lady Wife to make the call again, so that the nice man in the nice green suit could come along and force feed me with some of that magic vapour, when I sudden cough erupted, and I managed to breathe.

Then it was time to get up, so me normal tablets and me puffers, including the magic powder. As I type, I'm not feeling as dizzy as before, but just a little light headed - and we got cold, wet, gusty winds outside!!!!!

What's it all about?

Ok, so one of my dear friends on the 'interweb' thing, miles and miles away in the safety of another continent, gave me the monicker of "The Old Goat" and even sent me a little statue thingie of 'Myself' which sits on one of the computer speakers as a constant reminder of her regard for me.

The name 'Old Fart' is one that is more and more being used in reference to my little mishaps, none intentional, but hilarious to the observers - including my dear, devoted family, who find great fun in them.

Now, these monickers I can accept, I can live with, but recently I have discovered a further metamorphosis in myself. I have always considered myself to be a reasonable sort of chap, able to see and accept others' faults and actions, always able to 'let things be'.

Not any more, it seems, as I discovered, quite by accident, that I have become a 'Grumpy Old Man'. I have to admit in all conscience that I haven't noticed this transformation. When did it happen? When? Was it a slow, chrysalis thing or was it a Eureka moment?

I don't honestly know, but I think I might grow to enjoy the status and recognition it brings. "Grumpy Old Man" - now, that sounds nice.

So, that's what this blog is all about - my daily, or if not daily, periodic grouses at life around me, those little happenings that simply irritate or totally piss me off. If I ever master the means of posting pics, then there will be some of those too.

So, where does the blog title come from?

Well, I have a mobile phone which I carry in my trouser pocket at all waking hours. It is there for emergency only, so that, on the rare occasions when I'm allowed out on my own, I am able to call for help should it be needed. Also, 'they' - that is the group of self appointed 'minders' who carry on their daily lives as part of my family - may contact me to make sure that I've not wandered too far off the intended track and that I can at least remember where I live.

If I don't answer quickly enough when they ring, they tend to panic, especially My Darling Bride. I mean, if I can't hear it , then how the heck am I supposed to answer the thing? We tried setting the phone on vibrate so that I would feel it against my thigh, but I've discovered that I do not always feel the vibrations - it depends on how the legs are behaving, or perhaps if what passes for a brain up there is not too preoccupied elsewhere.

I cannot always hear the ring tone against a backgroud of other sounds so - I'm to be assimilated into the Borg! The Boychild is setting me up with one of those wireless earphone things that hangs onto the ear with an earphone. I heard the name Bluetooth somewhere in this context - does that mean the thing bites? Hopefully, when it rings, it will shout directly down my ear without having to compete with all those other sounds. I do hope it's simple to operate.

So, having caught sight of that girl on Star Trek going by the name of Seven of Nine, I thought that, if I'm to be assimilated by the Borg, then I shall be a spare unit, not nearly good enough for their purposes, hence Nine and a Half of Nine.

Keep watching.