crypto copy-cat

Carl

a moving missive from manchester

Carl

every little helps

Carl

it could be you

Carl

Older Blog Posts


do or die. no ifs, no buts

Is it just me, or as Brexit continues to lurch forward to its impending deadline date, does it look more and more likely that Bumble Boris is actually going to do it?

apply, but only if you’re up to the task in hand

Anyone who has read any of my missives on CVs and all they entail will already be aware of my overall scepticism, if not downright disbelief, wrt to the claims made therein. As was always thus I hear you cry and it’s just a case that now, in these employment challenging days, a candidate has to attempt to stand-out from the crowd even more than ever before, in ever-more startling ways. Well, via natural osmosis it appears the overly extravagant claims and qualities have migrated to the other side of the recruiting fence.

god’s own country

Isn’t, as many would have you believe, Yorkshire. And, sadly, I can confirm it isn’t over the Pennines in Lancashire either. No, as it turns-out, God’s own country, with 288 centenarians, is the industrial capital of north-west Italy’s Liguria region, Genoa. Figures, released this summer, highlight the fact that individuals reaching the age of 100, currently numbering almost 15,000, are most definitely on the rise in Italy. And of that figure just shy of 10% are over 105, and counting. Over twenty are aged 110 and above.

the year of the wooden spoon

Rumour has it that the older we become the more we count out our days in coffee spoons. As it transpires, the five members of Team 212 (aka Team Four Play and yeah, we’d already broken the rules by smuggling-in an extra participant) count out theirs in the number of Captain Challenges they’ve competed in.

neither earning nor learning

Cards on the table, and contrary to what it actually says on my curriculum vitae, I didn’t go to uni. Due to an admittedly dreadful set of A level results I was consigned, in the early 80s, to the second tier of further education, and I went to a poly. Sheffield City Polytechnic to be precise and it was exactly the right decision as I was fortunate enough to pick a course I thoroughly enjoyed, achieve a half-decent result, graduate without a penny of debt and walk into a job that warranted what I’d just learned.

man the ballot-boxes

Following Emily Thornberry’s admission on last week’s Question Time, several of you have understandably enjoyed taking the mickey out of the Labour Party’s continued position of constructive ambiguity (aka attempting to be all things to all people). For those of you who may have missed it, Ms Thornberry explained that when Labour wins an up-and-coming general election, the plan will be to return to Brussels in order to negotiate a ‘better’ deal than the one currently on offer. When this is somewhat implausibly achieved they’ll come back to Parliament and campaign against that deal.

do we deserve boris?

Does the world deserve The Donald? And what of Presidents Macron and Putin? Characters all, for sure, but they do appear to have a particular self-aggrandising style where they need to dominate in an almost dictatorial, non-disputable manner. It begs the question do we really get the leaders we deserve?

peak peaky…

The ironic joke goes that once upon a time a kangaroo escaped from Birmingham zoo and it caused locals to muse laconically that it would finally put Birmingham on the map. History does not record any further comment on said marsupial and, notwithstanding its ‘second city’ claim, together with the undeniable fact that it produced both the world’s greatest sauce (HP) and its finest confectionery product (Cadbury’s Crème Egg), Birmingham remains firmly off-piste as a black-country backwater.

back to school

When asked by a shielded onlooker as to why he was doing this, the Gilroy Garlic Festival shooter, who had earlier posted that the fair peddled “overpriced sh*t to Silicon Valley white tw*ts”, replied “Because I’m really angry”. Angry? I’ll say! Never before have three innocent people, irrespective of their breath, been slaughtered in the name of the humble root vegetable.

noses to the grindstone

This weekend marked Bumble Boris’s, the man who set his sights on becoming ‘world king’ as a young boy, first month as No 10’s principal resident and all I can say is that this wasn’t how it was meant to be. This wasn’t meant to happen. All sides, all parties and all people, myself included, made catastrophic predictions of uncontrolled chaos and endless bluster. Remember, this was the same previously appointed Foreign Secretary that Saint Theresa joked could “only just about stay on message for a full four days”.

Read More