The reality of how the Corona Virus started and it’s all down to a spell checker.

In Wuhan province, in the Hoof Lung Dung animal experiment laboratories, John Hankok recently celebrated his upcoming wedding to Su Meifyoulike with a stag do.

Being a bit skint he decided to, illicitly, hold a party at the laboratory after it had closed for the night.

Accordingly, and this is the first step along way, he sent a WhatsApp message to his chosen fellow stags a that said “Next Thursday, stag do. At the lab, let’s all suck a damp bat”.

Of course, what he meant to type, and what was auto corrected by the folk at WhatsApp was “let’s all fuck a damp bat”.

His mates, knowing that John was a jolly pervy chap all sent back smiley faces and thumbs up pictures.

On the day of the stag do, John was a little delayed by an altercation with a bus conductor and so sent a follow up message to the group to the effect that they should start without him.

They did and when he arrived he was somewhat astonished to see seven fellow laboratory technicians each sucking on a damp bat. The bats appeared to be enjoying it.

As he sat down, he was handed a perfectly dry bat and decided that rather than upset the group, he’d not mention they’d missed the point (he had not re-read his original message) and just go with the flow, after all they seemed to be having a splendid time.

He asked his friend, Wang, “how do you make the bat damp?” and was pointed toward a crate of beer the chaps had brought with them and told that this way, as well as getting a bit of bat action, they could ingest beer at the same time. All you had to do was wait until the bat dried out a bit and dunk it in some fresh beer and carry on sucking.

Two days later at John and Su’s wedding, the Corona Virus was born.

NHS humour.

NHS humour!!!!

They send me a kit with the stick onto which I must shit with some very vague instructions that include: 

“make a bed of paper so the poo (that’s what they call it) does not touch the water”

Not so easy, first off you use ten sheets of highly absorbent toilet paper to make the bed, and they live up to their description by absorbing at a simply astonishing rate, the water from the pan.

You add ten more, same thing happens, so you give up.

Next attempt sees fifty sheets of toilet paper to bulk out the toilet and a Tesco carrier bag to catch the shit.

Success but only up to a point! I have my shit covered stick which I can now post to the NHS, however I also have a blocked toilet and a shit covered Tesco carrier bag!

I can tell you that the blocked toilet is easy - just call building management and tell them.

I can also tell you that getting rid of a shit covered Tesco carrier bag in a modern London building - all open plan - is bloody hard work.

I had to smuggle it out of the building hoping - avoiding the lift of course and make it half way across the green area opposite before I could stuff it into a bin - belonging to a cafe.

All very bloody stressful I can tell you!

Lady on!!!

Lovely walk with the dog in the rain.

Had a few enjoyable moments watching the local falling over nancy boys play football and shouting “man on” from the sidelines.

Appears to have caused some confusion.

The linesman asked what I was doing and I replied merely joining in with the shouting. He looked bemused.

That got me thinking about the phrase “man on”.

Now I know enough about the falling over nancy boys to know that when someone shouts this at you, what he is really saying is “there is a chap coming after you with the sole intention of depriving you of possession of the football. Kick it, you cretin, kick it!!!!!”

This has caused me to imagine what lady footballers shout at each other - lady on, woman on maybe?

We should be told, especially as when I was a mere callow youth, the suggestion that a lady was “on” meant something quite different!

The laser guided bidet.

It’s Monday and thus I have to tell you of the laser guided bidet.

On a recent trip to Manila, where the toilets are either ultra modern or really quite awful, I sat in my hotel room having a major brown and a thought struck me.

Could I get the bidet (built into my toilet) to spray water onto the underside of my testicles?

Having finished the brown and used the bidet for the purpose for which it was designed, I slid back in the seat and pressed the bidet button again.

Imagine my surprise when my freshly cleaned bum hole took another squirt of gently warmed water.

Somewhat surprised and with totally dry testes and a sparklingly clean bum, I inched forward and tried again, expecting a spray of water up my back, but no, once more the jet found the correct location.

The deduction I have made? Laser guided bidets are the future and if you want to water your testicles you need to do so manually.

Audi, you bunch of idiots. Advancement through technology? More like raised stress through stupidity.

Let this be a lesson to anyone who is thinking of buying an Audi!

I emailed this to them nearly a week ago, having raised the alarm with them on Twitter, and all they do is send me Twitter messages asking me to DM them.

Given that they are clearly unwilling to do their job, I will simply share my recent experience with anyone bored enough with their life to read my blog.

Email to Audi Customer Service - the use of the word Service in their name is clearly ironic and some very dark Teutonic humour!

"Last Friday I phoned Audi Maidstone as my car, after just a five thousand mile interval since Audi Watford filled it up, needed Ad Blue.

Upon getting through to Audi Maidstone (AM) I explained the situation and was told with a great deal of confidence "Don't you worry Mr Martin, pop in any time and we'll fill you up like a kipper". Rather stupidly I didn't question this fact and simply enquired as to opening times.

AM open at 8 by the way.

I could not make 8 as I was due to have my hairs cut that morning but did get there for roughly 08:45.

I introduced myself at reception and was told to take a seat and someone would be there to help me shortly.

BTW. To the designers of your seating, seats without backs are not funny, they may look cool but they are dreadful to sit on!

So I sat, and then I sat some more.

All the while the reception people were desperately offering me coffee or in fact any type of beverage I could think of.

This may come as a surprise to the people at Audi, but if I want a cup of coffee I go, typically, to a coffee shop such as Caffe Nero. In the same vein I would not consider taking my Audi to Caffe Nero for a service, though I suspect they'd do a better job.

Turning down "free" coffee would appear to be the equivalent of kicking a puppy to death to the AM people, they were truly astonished that poor service could not be fixed by a cup of coffee.

Eventually I was greeted by a beaming reception person who grandly announced that it was my turn to "be seen".

Needless to say, I was a tad grumpy by this stage as what I ought to have been doing was going to Bluewater with Mrs Martin and my daughter to choose and then buy an iCandy pram/pushchair combination in anticipation of the arrival of my first grandson.

What I was actually doing was getting the runaround from the AM people - the human equivalent of being in a phone queue where my call is important, but not so important that it actually gets answered.

So service chappie then instructs me to sit in front of him (I understand the psychology of this and will not fall for it, besides I've been sitting for an age in the hilarious chairs already) and I decline and stand stating very clearly that "there's no need to sit as all I need is some Ad Blue".

"Certainly sir" says chappie, "let's see when we can get you booked in!"
"Sorry?" I said, "Booked in? I was told by reception than this was a drive by and that you'd do it in the spot"
"Oh no", says chappie (with a knowing grin), "No, no no, we'll get you booked in in no time"
"Look mate" I said, "I'm not here to get booked in, I need to get filled up, pay up and then clear off, I simply don't have the time to waste"

Chappie then assured me that it would be alright and that he'd get me filled up "some time this morning".

Some time this morning!!!! Are Audi drivers so short of friends that a morning sitting on a hilarious chair drinking free coffee being served platitudes by reception takes the place of a life??

And so I informed chappie that this would not do and could I simply not just purchase the stuff and bung it in myself.

This suggestion was greeted with a look that suggested I'd proposed slashing the tyres on the brand new R8 in the showroom and he sighed and went off to get another chappie.

I was told to go and sit in reception!

To be frank I was just a tad more grumpy when the "other chappie" turn up, who also instructed me to sit, again I refused, and we set about our business.

He informed me that I needed two ten litre containers of stuff and a "tool".

He then had a stab a lecturing my about Ad Blue and why Audi were great and I was the plank.

I didn't quite see it his way and told him so.

He gave me my stuff and the tool, I paid him and he cleared off.

Have you ever carried a ten litre bottle of Ad Blue, quite heavy, and I had two plus the tool! Was any help offered? No!

I then got home to discover getting Ad Blue into an Audi A4 Black Edition is akin to getting toothpaste back into the tube.

Just getting the filler cap off, which appears to have been shoved in next to the fuel cap at an angle suggesting people who take it off have very thin but hugely strong fingers, was a challenge.

Once off, I discovered that this fluid enters the car at a simply glacial pace, and only if I stand in the rain holding the container up high. This was a challenge for me and I am a beefy bloke, how little people do this is beyond me!

And so I have to ask, I have a new Audi that I am lumbered with for three years, is this really what Audi ownership is all about? If it is I can now see why Audi owners never indicate as they are too exhausted just owning the car in the first place.

I've experienced some shoddy service, I once had a Vauxhall so believe me I know how bad it can be, but this bunch take the biscuit.

I am not sharing this story for any other reason that to attempt to get the people at AM to acknowledge they can NOT do Ad Blue at the drop of a hat, you need to book the car in!

If they simply tell the truth, that would be great.

I admit I made a terrible error in choosing an Audi as I had no idea that I would lose one Saturday in every six either fighting with AM to do the job, or doing it myself, but it was my choice and I must stand by it.

Disappointed does not even begin to describe how I feel and I have to say that despite the car being very good indeed, I think the Audi experience is truly dreadful.

If AM reception need some training in telling the truth, and the back office people need some training in customer "service" I'll happily provide that free of charge so that other people do not have to suffer the kind of experience I did.

BTW, I am not a customer service expert, simply a 56 year old CIO who, if I provided the type of experience to my customers that you provide to me, would be sacked, and quite rightly, on the spot.

All the best.

Peter Martin
07786 443266

1001 carrier bags please.

Now that you have to pay 5p for carrier bags, I suggest you all try this as it blows their mind!!

Go into your local supermarket, Tesco is best as the staff are all so fucking stupid they have no idea how to handle such things.

Buy a couple of things that will easily fit into one carrier bag but too big to fit into the miniature bags they sometimes have.

Dimwit at Checkout: Do you want a bag for life?
Peter: Given I have lived more than I have to live, that might not be such good idea.
DAC: Bags are 5p now, I'll have to charge you.
Peter: That's fine, I'll have a thousand and one bags please.
DAC: Sorry?
Peter: I'll have a thousand and one bags please.
DAC: A thousand and one?
Peter: Yes, I'll need a bag to put my bags in. So a thousand and one bags. That should come to £50 and five pence.
DAC: I'll have to call the manager.
Peter: Go ahead.

DAC called the manager who asked me if there was a problem.

Peter: Not at all, I just need some bags and five pee is a bargain, so one thousand please!

Chaos ensued!!

The ball of ear-wax incident.

My ears produce a lot of ear-wax.

A lot, and by a lot I mean I can get a q-tip full from each ear every day.

My ears produce so much ear-wax that often the pressure in my head forces the ear-wax to fall out naturally - it is expelled as it were.

Very often this happens as I walk along and causes no offence.

A while ago however some ear-wax appeared in less acceptable circumstances.

In a meeting in fact with my boss.

I'd not been working at this place for long when this happened:

Just me and her, we were chatting away about something or another and all of a sudden I felt my right ear pop, felt a very gentle tap on my shoulder as the rea-wax hit and then saw to my dismay the ball of ear-wax land on the table between us!

The ball of ear-wax was the size of my pinkie finger nail to give this some perspective, so easily spotted and very dark brown.

I tried not to notice but she had, and being naturally confrontational we had this conversation:

Confrontational Boss: What is that!
Peter: Ear-wax.
CB: Sorry?
Peter: Ear-wax.
CB: Where did it come from?
Peter: My right ear.
CB: Your right ear?
Peter: Yes! My right ear.
CB (looking somewhat peaky by this stage): How.
Peter: It just fell out, it happens all of the time.
CB (who by now was reduced to repeating virtually everything I said) It just fell out?
Peter: Yes. Shall I remove it?
CB: Yes please.

The meeting didn't last for much longer, I think she may have puked.

A fart in a flannel.

No, this is not a euphemism, it's an experiment that I tried many years ago with quite spectacular results.

Aged about 21, I had a girlfriend (who became my wife) 15 years my senior and thus quite mature.

I clearly was not.

One day at her apartment I decided to "capture" a fart in the bath and set about soaking the very plush egyptian cotton flannel ready for action.

I then farted underneath the flannel, captured it and made a sort of flannel balloon around it.

I then squeezed whilst smelling and realised that close up, and maybe filtered through a damp flannel, a fart is a very nasty thing indeed.

What I hadn't allowed for was the hideous smell left on the flannel.

Easy I thought, that will wash out and I set about washing it with the palmolve soap bar also provided.

No way was that smell coming out.

I had a little panic and then thought I will have to confess.

And so there was this slightly awkward conversation:

Peter: I've conducted a small experiment that has had some rather unexpected results.
First Wife: Oh yes, what's that then?
Peter: I've farted into your flannel and now it smells of shit!
First Wife (with look of stunned amazement on her face): You did what?
Peter: I've farted into your flannel and now it smells of shit!!
First Wife: Why?
Peter: I wanted to see how smelly it was.
First Wife: How smelly was it?
Peter: Very.
First Wife: Just chuck it in the washing basket then.
Peter: That's where the experiment has gone wrong, I think the smell might not come out.
First Wife: Oh.

The smell never did come out and I've never farted into a flannel since.

The Post Office have gone totally and utterly mad.

Well I am amazed, I have just visited an institution that has managed the almost impossible task of making the complete fucking numpties at Tesco look good. 

It's called The Post Office.

Now in times past, the Queen used to own the PO and it worked, you went in and a two hundred years old assistant assisted you to post a letter or parcel.

Now it is so very different. 

The Post Office just off of Trafalgar Square has plumbed new depths of being completely useless.

First off they do not now have a queue. They have seating areas where, having taken a ticket from the machine, you wait.

There is of course no indication that you need to take a ticket and so initially you stand in what is the closest approximation to a queue in the hope that someone might help you.

Hearing the numbers being called out gave me the tip off and so I looked for a ticket machine and was given number 009. 

I heard 5 being called and then rather astonishingly number 470. Now slightly worried that there were hundreds of people in front of me, I asked a uniformed PO person what the form was.

It was at this stage that I discovered that my own stupidity at not having acquired fluency in Urdu was going to make the going rather tough.

I sort of managed to ascertain that I "should not vurry". So, without a single vurry in my head I waited and eventually number 9 was called out.

I was directed to a slightly odd box, which I entered to find a bloke seated at the other end. 

I presented my letter along with the request in English to have it sent registered.

He chatted away in Urdu for about a minute. I thought it a bit rude that having taken on board my request he was chatting to his mate, but no, it turned out he was talking to me.

And so there ensued a rather bizarre discussion where I had to try and decide what it was he meant using not much more than complete and utter guesswork. 

We eventually settled on my chosen option and he looked jolly pleased. He labelled my letter accordingly, took the rather eye watering amount of £6.70 from me ( for a registered letter from London to Heathrow for fucks sake!!!) handed me my change and then he hit with with this:

Man speaking Urdu: would you like a mortgage or re-mortgage?

Me: sorry?

Man speaking Urdu: would you like a mortgage or re-mortgage?

Me: I'm ever so sorry, what are you saying?

Man speaking Urdu: would you like a mortgage or re-mortgage?

Me: (thinking that the word mortgage maybe means "stamps" in Urdu) a mortgage?

Man speaking Urdu: (looking delighted that we'd finally made a connection,  yes, a mortgage or a re-mortgage!

At this stage I was reeling  and trying to reconcile my need to post a letter with his  desire to sell me a mortgage. 

I declined and just as he was about to start to sell me something else, probably a basket of dead monkeys for all I know, I had to hold my hand up and thank him for his time and for processing my letter but that I didn't want anything else.

FYI the box/cubicle he made me stand in had loads of cameras so I suspect I may appear in the not too distant future on some Dom Jolly style spoof TV programme. 

If it was not a joke then the Post Office management must be totally barking mad as who in their right mind pops out to post a letter and comes home with a bloody mortgage?

 

Peter's Procedure.

Look away if you are squeamish as yesterday I had my first ever procedure!

Having self administered an enema, which alarmingly came through the post with quite vague instructions, I went to the hospital for 10am appointment.

Needless to say I was 45 minutes early, but this worked in my favour as after I'd registered and had the whole routine explained to me, I was positioned on my side and the Doc got to work.

His initial assessment was that even though I'd done one enema, I was essentially full of shit. Not his exact words but I could see very clearly on the HD screen magnified 40 times what he meant.

And so he gave me another enema. Hospital applied enemas are much more effective I can say as I was very soon quite empty! Though in my confusion, on my way back from the lavatory I didn't realise that the two gown ploy they'd suggested, one each way to give easy access but to hide my gentleman's sausage, had gone wrong as I had both gowns on the same way.

Thus the sausage was hidden but the backside was there for all to see! Ho ho ho, how we chuckled as the foreign nurse tried to help me. Tiny NHS gowns do not a Peter fit and thus we had some sort of wrestling match as she tried to wrench the second gown off of me.

And so, empty, the Doc had a good look, and so did a room full of other medical staff and me. The tech is so cool that I could see by backside from both angles! They can turn the camera around inside of you!!!!

The rather spiffing news is that I do not have bowel cancer today.

All in all a bit of a caper and actually (should I admit this?) quite a lot of fun.

The NHS today come in for a lot of stick but I must say they treated me with dignity and a very high level of professionalism. And for the merkins out there, not a single coin of the realm was required for me for get this treatment.

The costa Cretins.

Costa - Trafalgar Square - you complete and utter fucking cretins.

Peter: (shouting in English to make himself heard over the loud disco music being played) Medium americano, black to drink in.
Eastern European Lady: (shouting in Eastern European to make her self heard over the loud disco music being played) Medium or large?
Peter: (shouting in English to make himself heard over the loud disco music being played) Medium!
EEL: (shouting in English to make himself heard over the loud disco music being played) With milk?
Peter: (shouting in English to make himself heard over the loud disco music being played) No BLACK!
EEL: Take out?
Peter: For god's sake, turn that bloody racket down so we can actually hear each other!
EEL: Take out?
Peter is now having a coffee in The Starbucks around the corner.

Numpties.

Starbucks - you are going the same way as Tesco, be careful.

Starbucks in St Pancras.

Just had my usual punch up with the Starbucker and won, as is also always the case.

Peter: black coffee please, and in a real cup.

Starbucker: is that an Americano or a filter coffee?

Peter: I am indifferent to the daft names you call your coffee, so you choose.

Starbucker: well we only have Americano.

Me: in which case I'll have a black coffee please, medium and in a real cup.

Starbucker: I am sorry sir, we only have paper cups.

Peter: no you don't, look in the cupboards behind you, you have plenty of real cups. The fact that you want people to use paper cups to save on washing up is not my problem. 

Starbucker: I'll have to ask the manager. 

Peter: go ahead, he'll say yes. 

Starbucker then consults with manager who approves the use of a cup.

Starbucker then writes my order on the cardboard ring they put around the cup and hands it, with a China mug, to the coffee maker. CM did a double take as if she was trying to fathom how she was going to reconcile the cardboard ring with the China mug. She looked at me and asked what I wanted, medium black coffee was my reply. She set of to prepare said beverage. 

At this stage a lady appeared next to me, with lovely red hair by the way and this rather brilliant episode took place.

LWLRH: a normal tea please.

Starbucker: (said in the vein of an H E Bateman cartoon when someone passed the port incorrectly) A normal tea???

LWLRH: yes please, a normal tea, small please.

Starbucker: and nothing else? (almost shouted)

LWLRH: no thanks, just a normal small tea. 

Starbucker then shouted incredulously to the woman who prepares the drinks that a "Normal" tea was needed. The emphasis on the word normal was as if the LWLRH had asked to shag a donkey in reception.

WWPTD: a normal tea????? Also shouted.

Starbucker: yes!!!!

Of course needless to say I was laughing real tears at this stage and I asked LWLRH: is it always like this? to which she sighed and replied resignedly that "yes it is, I only want a tea but that fact always seems to upset them"

You see, it is not just me!