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Hanging’s Too Good For Them!

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Hanging’s definitely too good for them. I’m talking about the people who use Sellotape (other brands of sticky tape are available) to crudely repair LP sleeves. That’s ANY LP sleeve, not just rare and valuable ones. It’s tantamount to vandalism.

It’s the matter of a few moments to re-glue a LP sleeve properly, but the lazy application of sticky tape can ruin it forever. I’m sure @minibreakfast will back me up here.

Oh, and people who don’t return shopping trollies to the correct bays in supermarket car parks. Hanging’s way too good for them, too.

Any more?

http://i.imgur.com/9rOc9By.jpg

2

Comments

  2. Those drivers on dual carriageway traffic light junctions who are tuning right, but choose not to indicate, leaving a stream of cars stuck behind them. (Not a problem now I live in Dubai we don’t really have such junctions)

    People who don’t even acknowledge I just held the door open for them. ( A massive problem now I live here)

    • Holding doors open for people and not even getting a nod completely pisses me off. Last weekend I held open door for an elderly lady who was quite slow on her feet. I would say I stood holding door open for around 20 seconds – not even an acknowledgement. Being old is no excuse for bad manners you old bat!!

      The other thing is waiting in line st a supermarket when it is extremely busy and the person at the checkout either gaffs around deciding which of 25 cards to pay with and then looking for their points or rewards card and then chatting for 10 minutes about their holiday or the immigrant crisis or the price of fish. There are other people waiting you cretin!!

      • Or (forgive me ladies) fossicks around in the darkest corners of her purse for ages looking for the exact change, instead of what sensible chaps do, just whip out a note and receive yet more change to weigh down their strides with.

          • A special mention for the people who don’t start packing their bags until the last item has been scanned then when they are finally packed looked surprised when they are asked to pay, then the search for the purse then the handing over of a wad of money off coupons half of which are invalid but every one has to be argued about followed by the hunt for the correct money and the search for the loyalty card…

            Deep breath….

    • I live in Dubai too and the roads are rich pickings for those who deserve to die… why can’t anyone use filters onto highways the way they were meant to be used? They’re not T junctions.

      Years of living here has at least made me a much better driver, you have to be to survive.

      • My daughter lives in Dubai and we are here visiting. We’ve been out and about today with me in the passenger seat, eyes closed tight and hoping for the best!
        What a city though …..

    • Plenty of these propping up bars in Thailand, unfortunately. Had one at lunchtime. I was settling down with my Kindle for a relaxed read while I waited for my Tom Yam, and some blerk I never saw before sits at my table, introducing himself as Mallie (“short for Malcolm”) and knocking me back with freshly-applied deodorant. Mallie, over the course of forty minutes, proceeded to tell me all about the problems in his life, both back in the UK and here. Family, girlfriend, work, everything, me nodding occasionally, trying to taste the food over the deodorant. As I was finishing, I asked him how much he knew about me. He looked puzzled. Nothing? And how much did I know about him? He was just “being friendly”, he said. So I goes, I go, right, I go – “No, I was the one being friendly, listening to the problems of a complete stranger for forty minutes.”

      This happens a lot, for some reason. Farangs in wifebeater vests believe their problems are what I’m waiting to hear. Problems which are always, but always, the same.

      Raise high the gibbet, hangman, there’s gonna be a lynching tonight.

      • You must have one of those faces HP. Either these blokes – and it’s always men – think we look like open minded tolerant sorts or they think we’re fuckwits with a life so empty and boring it’s enlivened by listening to their self-centered banality.
        Either way, it’s lose/lose.

        • At least Mallie wasn’t pissed. They’re the worst, getting very offended if you’re not totally fascinated by their troubles. I used to speak French to them (and there were many) in Bangkok, very apologetically, adding a halting apology in English. And of course suffer their contempt for that, but at least they would give up and slouch away to some other victim. I think maybe having a book in front of you sends out some kind of distress signal, read as a cry for human company.

          • Yes you can have wonderful engaged “conversations” with people so long as you are asking stuff about them.
            Every now and then I get jack of it and,after a time , I say “ok, now it’s your turn”…stunned non comprehension …”I’ve just spent x minutes asking questions about you, your job, your family…now it’s your turn”

            Conversation usually ends there.

              • They’re self-obsessed. The time they don’t spend telling others about their wonderfully unique lives, they’re going over it all in their heads. They’re totally occupied by their own point of view and have no experience of accommodating another.

                Why they don’t listen to my story – far more important! – is a mystery to me. Twats.

      • One of the many things I find refreshing about Oz (and there are obvious reasons for this, I know, ok?) is that nobody ever remarks on the fact that I’m a pom, not even other poms. So I never have to put up with those where-are-you-from-do-you-know-X conversations, or indeed Mallies wanting to tell me their life story.

  6. I WILL back you up, JC, it’s bloody awful stuff. A roll of double-sided craft tape is much better. Sometimes in order for the album sleeve to stick back together you need to scrape off the old glue, as it dries out into a kind of hard cement over the years. A plastic card (i.e. bank, library etc.) is great for this.

    At a fairly recent boot sale I got a couple of LPs with only their inner sleeves (including the Floyd’s Obscured by Clouds for 50p! @gary), so the double-sided tape once again came into its own as I made some nice new outer sleeves from white card. Cost? 50p each. I even made a few 78s covers the other day too. All very Blue Peter.

  8. You know those people who, ten minutes into a 20 hour flight from Australia to London, recline their seat all the way into your lap and leave it there, oblivious to your rising blood pressure?

    Well, hanging would be like a bloody holiday camp for them.

  10. Three slightly niche ones:

    People who wind mic/speaker cable around their hands/elbows. It’s never the same again.

    People who use Gaffer Tape to secure coiled cables rather than electrical tape.

    People who save a quid a roll by buying cheap Gaffer tape. In no time at all, the cables are covered in sticky residue (ooh er etc).

    KILL THEM ALL!

  11. Not just people who put bags on spare seats on public transport. Oh no, that’s too mundane, and largely to be expected , sadly.

    Those people who block SIX seats by sitting on the aisle seat and then strewing their bags on two or three of the other six, essentially physically blocking off the other seats and symbolically marking their territory. I saw this the other day, twice in the same carriage. So, that’s two people taking up 12 seats.

    BUS* WANKERS.

    *(or TRAIN WANKERS.)

  12. My next door neighbour, who last night parked her stupid bloated training shoe of a car (it’s a white Fiesta on steroids) diagonally across three – count ’em! THREE – parking bays. We have residents’ parking outside our houses, and there’s not enough bays at the best of times. I stood there actually gaping at it. Couldn’t fackin Adam and believe it.

    • The pensioner opposite me who parks across the dropped kerb*, forcing the couple 3 doors up with their twins in a buggie, to cross between two parked cars on a blind bend.

      (*) and who, when I politely mentioned it, told me to F-off, slammed the door in my face, and called the police claiming harrasment. Welcome to the neighbourhood, you bell-end!

    • Early summer – purchase and assemble small wooden bin storage unit in front garden to prevent foxes attacking bins and strewing detritus and dirty nappies across neighbouring gardens. The neighbours lend a hand.

      Last week – council planning office write to inform me that I will require planning permission for the “structure”. Cost of storage unit: £200. Cost of planning permission: £175.

      This week – Note to planning office that their own records show no record of any planning applications for such units in the entire history of the borough. Note also that more than half the houses on my street have them due to urban foxes. Politely point out that the section of the Town and Country Planning Act 1990 under which they are attempting to require planning permission clearly doesn’t cover this type of unit, which is essentially furniture (hellooo law school).

      Today – Receive email: “Your comments are noted by the council. You require planning permission for the structure. Please either submit a planning application, remove the unit or face prosecution. Please submit a form if you would like to complain about the other properties on your street”.

      You’ve got to laugh, haven’t you? Either that or go down to their offices and HANG THEM.

      • What a fucking country. Really. In Siam, you can build a house for people and sort out the paperwork later. Such as it is. You have to get it registered with a number, though. At the local office we were given a choice, none having anything to do with other houses on the same road, no sequential logic. Thais like to choose on the basis of lucky numbers.

        You might say, with some justification, that checks and balances are essential for (ectect), and you’d have a point. But life goes on quite nicely without bluenoses from the commissariat town hall poking their nose into your life.

      • I did exactly the same thing when we last lived in Cornwall – except the (original) culprits were seagulls. Not a peep out of Cornwall council.

        Talking of which, I don’t care about this any more, because we’ve got nice possum-proof wheelie bins, but people who always left their rubbish sacks out the night before because the dustmen came ‘so early’, ie 7am. Obviously the seagulls got up earlier than that, and spread their garbage all over the furshlugginer street. Inevitably the dustmen didn’t see why they should clear it up.

    • The twassocks around here who park in the entrance to the electrical sub-station that covers the whole of town, despite the numerous “No Parking – Access Required At All Times” signs scattered around.

      Firstly this causes pedestrians to walk in the road on the inside of a fairly tight bend. Secondly it means that if the sub-station breaks down or catches fire, there’s nowhere for the emergency vehicles or back-up generator to park.

    • I once had to ask to move tables in a restaurant to avoid the naked display of mastication going on at the adjacent table. The waiter clearly thought I was a twerp but it was turning my stomach.

      I’d also waterboard anyone that sniffs.

  14. People who respond by email to a good turn that has been performed on their behalf by sending back the message “Thx” Not even a period at the end. Makes you wonder how grateful they’d have to be in order to spell out the fucking word.

  15. Am with you JC 100% about trolley users. My area is bloody full of trolleys left about the pavement once their sodding SUVs have been filled and mum/dad – whoever – cannot be arsed to wheel it back about 100 yards, because they are so flaming busy. Bastards, quite frankly. I will take them back but if I find one who leaves it there, they are really going to get it from me. It’s uncouth, selfish and moronic. Presumably if they manage to raise their eyes from their smart phone they might not take it kindly if someone were to leave trolley outside their place, so why they think it’s alright to do so everywhere else really defeats me.

    Whilst I’m about it.

    – People who litter.
    – Homeowners who will do nothing about litter in front of their place. Pick it up, put it in a bin and then wash your hands. Easy, it’s not dogs hit.
    – People who walk whilst reading their phone. It’s getting worse. I stand in front of them, smile sweetly and oblige them to move.
    – People who have absolutely no understanding of personal space, and I’m talking London Underground here. They will go into the busiest carriage, the next one is nearly empty. People who occupy the middle of the 3 seats on an empty train. That can send me into a frenzy.

    • Sometimes it’s only a few yards from the trolley bay DL but they still can’t be arsed to take it back. I’ve seen abandoned trollies roll into parked cars aided by a strong gust of wind .

      • Including mine, in Homebase about 20 years ago. I tried to claim for the subsequent dent on the grounds that the people they employed to round up trolleys weren’t doing their job, but they hid behind the park at your own risk notice. Bah.

  16. Litterbugs are my lifelong nemesis. They should be hung,drawn, quartered and then made to clean up the mess. Unfortunately I can’t see it ever getting any better since kids today seem totally oblivious to the whole concept of litter disposal.

  17. British tourists in London on the tube.

    Specifically those who have believe the myth that Londoners are cold and uncommunicative and insist in chatting conspicuously and voluably. To prove how open and friendly they are in comparison.

    What they don’t realise that yer a vridge Londoner on a tube is usually en route to or from home or work. These will be places often 30, 40 , 50 miles apart. Said Londoner is in commute mode; wishing he or she wa simply at either place and not in transit. Not on holiday and not in the mood to engage with chippy fucking wankers who think they’re ‘friendlier’ than you.

      • And maybe they would consider chatting normal on their own, non -London commutes? I don’t subscribe to the view that London is an unfriendly place but you seem to present a compelling argument for it.

      • Indeed it would and of course people do. Commutes aren’t ‘mute’. Boom Boom.

        Blimey I was in a mard last night, it appears. To expand rather. It’s those that visit and remark loudly amongst themselves to the tune of ‘Look at us. We’re the only ones talking and ‘avin’ a laff. It’s true about these Londoners saying nothing’. Or similar.

        I’m also aware of the sweet irony of complaining about not being thought friendly and then signing off by calling other people CFW’s.

        Hurray! Go me!

  18. Filling up with petrol. I usually pay cash, correct amount, so all I have to do is walk up to the counter, tell them the pump number, slap the cash down and I’m away in seconds.

    So why do I always get stuck behind a bloke who’s buying groceries (at a petrol station!) coffee and a pie with a credit card? Then his card is declined so he fumbles around for another, plus his rewards card.

  19. Back to the OP, people who repair book jackets with Sellotape (OBAA) on the OUTSIDE, instead of with Magic Tape on the inside. They will be burnt at the stake on a pyre of Jeffrey Archer books.

    • ‘Course the irony of hanging the pea-brained jobsworth council bureaucrats is you’d have to construct a “small wooden storage unit” to bury them in afterwards.. Far more humane to adopt that other traditional but thanks-to-PC-gone-mad now unfashionable method of punishment – ship ’em off to Australia. Going by the comments below, it sounds like a ghastly place…

    • In a *thrilling* final chapter to the saga of the bin store, I called the fella up this morning and talked him round to my way of thinking. I didn’t even have to threaten to hang him or anything.

      Victory! Victory for the common man!

        • That’s the next question. We lively on a very friendly street and are, ostensibly, on excellent terms with all our neighbours. Yet someone has complained, and without the courtesy of so much as speaking to us first.

          However, what the individual in question doesn’t know is that I come from a family that is no stranger to local feuds. My childhood was little more than a prolonged turf war with other neighbourhood residents, and I am more than capable of exacting suitably bloody vengeance.

          I suspect the perpetrator will out themselves in due course: curtain twitching suburban types always find discrete silence a challenge. It’s simply a matter of waiting for them to reveal themselves and then taking appropriate action. Moo ha ha.

  21. Australia’s a hot country, right?

    Unfortunately hot weather tends to turn people into slobs. And a certain section of the Aussie population think that it’s acceptable to go out in public without shoes. That’s bare feet, not sandals or the dreaded flip flops, but bare feet. It’s not a good look.

    You see it at petrol stations. Many Aussies drive in bare feet for some reason, then walk across the oil encrusted service station forecourt in bare feet to pay. Nice.

    You see it in supermarkets. Often entire families go out shoeless.

    You definitely used to see it in video stores before they all closed down.

    Worst of all, you see it in restaurants and coffee shops where it really does put you off your food.

    When we have visitors from England they often take me aside and ask “Er, what’s the deal with these people in bare feet? Are they poor?”

    I regularly have to restrain myself from shouting at the barefoot Aussies “Put some shoes on, you’re not in bloody Calcutta!”

    Hang them by the (bare) feet!

    http://i.imgur.com/HWgHKAp.jpg

  22. Oh one more thing. In E ngland it’s cold and wet, right. I expect the weather is rarely warm enough to wear thongs often let alone going barefoot. Your feet are always swathed in protective matter so your tootsies are far too soft and delicate to handle the rigours of the barefoot mode.

    But go crazy JC -give it a try sometime- even if just going to the milk bar or whatever you call the corner shop. Preferably before mid-summer when you risk your thongs melting, let along bare flesh.

  23. That’s what we call them over here. Always have.

    Togs/bathers here and in Qld I think. Swimmers in NSW

    Sloppy Joes in NSW ,windcheaters here

    Scallops in NSW , potato cakes down here.

  25. Over here delicatessen is a place more dedicated to cold meats, cheeses and all that stuff .

    A milk bar is your corner store basics, err milk obvs, fags ,papers, softdrinks, few cans of essentials,sweets.

    • Yes, a deli in UK is also, as you say “a place more dedicated to cold meats, cheeses and all that stuff” . But in WA “deli” is just a catch-all name for a corner shop/general store.

      Never heard “milk bar” except in 50s American films – eg Happy Days

  26. For ‘milk bar’ read ‘dairy’ in nz. Quaint.
    Never seen – with a few particular exceptions – the barefoot look in inner Melb. People here overdress.

  27. Milk bar is by no means a quaint or archaic term in Victoria -it is common parlance though perhaps not with immigrants ( nothing pejorative btw)

    I live in the burbs albeit bayside burbs.

    I’m on barefoot watch now.

    Stay tuned.

    • Milk bars are almost consigned to history though. Now it’s the 24 hour Coles, the 7/11 or the nearest servo. There’s a milk bar down my street but I’ve only been in once and they couldn’t change a $50 note. The shelves looked like a scaled down version of Gum in Moscow circa 1985.

  30. Most blokes feet are pretty ugly, let’s face it. And a few years walking around barefooted isn’t going to pretty them up much. Callouses, bunions, hard skin, funny looking stains. (I should imagine.)

    I consider my feet to be better than most. Don’t mind the odd pedicure, even a bit of paint on the toenails.
    And they’re still fkn ugly.

    • hmm

      My second wife, current and hopefully last, has fucking ugly feet. I complain if she wears my slippers or work boots coz she will stretch them and the bunions have caused her feet to be almost triangular.

      But i love her- I just try not to look down.

  31. I seem to have struck a nerve here with the barefoot thing. I hate to offend the local chamber of commerce, each to his own etc, but I hate it. It’s not a good look.

    I especially can’t stand to see it when I’m eating. Why do you think they have those signs?

    We don’t have to adopt a “Swiss finishing school” attitude to find people walking around in supermarkets with dirty bare feet off-putting.

    It has a third world, pikey, bogan, chavvy (insert your own word here) look about it.

  32. The ones that shit me in Australia are the utter dickheads who wear shorts and thongs coupled with a hoodie. How come their feet and legs are so warm and their necks so cold?

    Then there are the ones who walk around in nothing but a singlet regardless of the temperature. It took me a long time to piece this together but every time you hear of some dickhead who died doing something dickheaded his friends on the news always say, “Wonderful bloke, he’d give you the shirt off his back.” I think that’s why they’re all wearing singlets, they’re such good blokes they gave their shirts away.

    They also always say, “Great bloke, the room would light up when he walked in” Is anyone trying to harness this supernatural bogan power? I mean, if one bogan can light an entire room imagine what an entire MCG full of Collingwood supporters could do!

  33. The big tech companies who make computer printers. One day they realised that they could charge more for the ink than the complicated device that uses it.

    So a decent low-end home printer can now be had for $50 or less, while the five (count ’em) replacement ink cartridges will cost you $100.

    Oh and the cartridges that come with the printer from new only contain a percentage of the ink volume of the replacements. Cute.

    Hanging’s too good for them.

  34. Gentlemen who insist on mansplaining the concert to their long-suffering partners, including attempts at guessing the next line of the song, telling them that the next one is their favourite, and commenting both on the number of guitars the singer has (two) and the age of the trumpet player in comparison to the rest of the group. The irony inherent in that he also talked through the support band at a gig staged in a library was not lost on me.

    • I had a Student Grant type sat behind me explaining the lyrics to his girlfriend at a recent Half Man Half Biscuit gig, I’ve never seen anyone look quite as bored or miserable as she did. They left well before the end, I wonder if she’s forgiven him yet?

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