Council Tax blues

One of the most dreaded postal arrivals throughout the UK is the yearly Council Tax bill. Arriving each April, this soul-destroying, single piece of A4 paper is concisely broken down into barely-manageable monthly payments of such magnitude that all across our fair country, people are living with a form of social schizophrenia induced by its financially-crippling brevity. How much we individually pay is dependent upon which band your property has been squeezed into and how many are dwelling inside your house at one time or another; whether these denizens happen to be employed or not is a moot point to these ‘State Shylocks’ because unemployment benefits of some kind will fill the monetary void, thus keeping everyone happy.

Playing the eBay buying game, again… Pt 2

So there I was, bereft of my new Asus 1001HA laptop due to it going missing in mid-transit: a transit, I may add, that I had had to organise myself due to the seller being a complete simpleton and not having the postage money until he’d transferred my PayPal payment into his bank account many days in the future. After speaking to the lads at Interlink Express late Tuesday, I was informed again there still wasn’t any further scanning of my item in their system, so the festering hate continued to rise within me, much like a hangover’s bubbling bile rise.

Playing the eBay buying game, again...Pt 1

Another day arrives and yet another laptop flops down onto my doorstep from a dubious eBay purchase to further complicate my newly-developed technophobic life to the stretching point of no return. I say technophobic because this is the fourth laptop I’ve bought from eBay, the world’s biggest car boot sale for unwanted shit and with each one bought, I’ve found myself plunged deeper and deeper into the buyers’ nightmare of having to trust the dredges of society in order to try and grab a bargain. As any undertaking to save oneself money will be plagued with potential problems, you’ll be glad to learn for your reading enjoyment that in this latest two-part instalment this infuriating situation is well catered for.

What the f**k is that...?!

Breaking News: Rampaging Bigfoot caught on camera destroying Cop car!

Happy birthday The Boiling Rage: one year on in blog land

The Boiling Rage blog is one year old today. I’ve now been tapping the plastic keys on my QWERTY keyboard for the last twelve months in the hope of getting accidentally discovered and being found to be mildly entertaining. During this time, I’ve tried to post at least a single article a week and I’ve stuck to this regime most of the time, although for some reason I’m looking at 44 posts for 52 weeks, which gives me a shortfall of eight missing entries, seemingly lost forever somewhere in the virtual ether my blog dwells. Now, it’s unknown whether these lost paragraphs and misplaced snippets are of any consequence to Humanity or if their eventual discovery will tip the balance of the universe in favour of good against evil, so conjecture is irrelevant (but nice to presume): personally, I’m not holding my breath, though anything’s possible when faced with the unexpected sighting of such wordily slop.

A lost memory, recalled...

It’s funny how childhood memories are remembered, when as a grown-up you look back to a time in your distant past: trying to recall specific instances and vague nuances, the mind can and does form stringed-together sequences that sometimes need an adult’s perspective to bridge the missing gaps. These ‘mental gymnastics’ can lead to a falsified recall and contribute to all kinds of health problems in later life if not analysed properly, from such extremes as being convinced you were molested as a child at the hands of a family member to believing you were abducted by Aliens and underwent medical examinations while you slept!

BT Infinity: promises, promises...

Just the other week, I bumped into a good mate of mine inside a local supermarket as we were perusing the fruit and veg’ aisles and he dropped a bombshell within the first couple of seconds of our meeting: he’d just signed a new 18 month contract with BT for their new “Infinity” broadband service. After my incredulity began to subside, he went on to explain that one of their technologically-lacking cretins had promised unlimited downloads instead of the ten gigabyte cap he was now limited by and a connection speed increase from an already healthy 6mbs to a pretty blistering 15mbs.

New MP3 player, new Top 10

My newly purchased 4GB MP3 player arrived this weekend to replace the old and knackered 512mb one I’ve been stuck with - yep, there are still some people who aren’t even up into the gigabyte arena in the year 2010 - and though my current player had a smashed LCD and had lost of its equaliser function, the poor neglected thing had served me well for the last two years. Through all weather, the miniature jukebox has played its little silicon heart out each day during my ten mile cycle to work and once I realised using rechargeable AAA batteries would save me a small fortune, its running costs have been virtually unnoticeable, much like its dangled weight around my neck.

Sirens, Buses and a wall of noise

Noise, I f**king hate it. Anything overtly loud really boils my blood and if there’s one thing that guarantees mental implosion, it’s a siren. Sirens - whether they are emitted from a Police car, ambulance or fire engine - are destroying my very existence in this farcical, reality facade we all have to dwell within, although my life is made immeasurably more depressing because I live in a first-floor flat ten yards adjacent to a main road. This means I’m continually bombarded by a cacophony of ear-splitting alarms at all hours, regardless of decorum or respect for the sleeping masses strung along the two mile stretch of Rochdale road that runs from my abode to the Royal Oldham hospital. Also, being placed just a couple of hundred yards away from a major four-way junction makes things even harder still, as all emergency vehicles blast out their warnings as they accelerate towards any potential blockage with their blue neon lights flashing and their electronic horns wailing, oblivious to all and sundry.

A slip of the tongue

Early one Sunday morning the other week, while out and about looking for some potential bargains on a car boot sale, I happened upon a three-way heated debate involving a husband and wife stallholder team and a prospective male buyer who’d somehow caused the growing vocal catalyst me and many others were now stood around listening to. The wife was short, fat and incensed, the husband was big, fat and incredulous and the poor bloke appeared humiliated, dazed and confused with all this unintended attention aimed at him and was defensively trying to calm the situation down.