Things We Hate

[slaphead]

Yeah, fucking Baldycuntophobes. Or something.

EDIT:- Peladophobes. Knew there was a name for it, I was close. They're them.

 

[Craig]

Can't be, seeing as they're all actually bald.

 

[Dave-Vale]

I have plenty of hair I'll have you know.

Full c*** starter pack quiff on the go, mate.

 

[Martino Knockavelli]

Sorry? How so, you'll have to explain that one to me, I'm just a bit too thick to see where you're coming from.

http://www.cwgc.org/find-war-dead/casualty/1581333/GENEVER, EDWARD HENRY
My great grandfather. Jewish as well. Anti-semite? Barking up the wrong tree old son.

I will never forget the first time I heard the surname “Genever”. It was early May of 1982. My father was serving on the Sheffield, one of the thousands of brave lads sent to the grey South Atlantic to preserve our sovereignty from the tyranny of the Argentinian Military Junta.

I, my dear old ma, and my gerontic grandfather were gathered around the wireless in the parlour, listening to the narcotic baritone of Peter Sissons. We were torn between dread and hope, all too aware that a spark might escalate this “crisis” into a “shooting war” at a mere moment’s notice, igniting the Malvenic tinderbox into an inferno of killing.

As Sir Peter detailed the armaments of the Argentine 2nd Naval Attack Squadron, a bitter laugh expectorated from my grandfather’s mouth.

Sat at his knee, I turned my face towards him like the alms bowl in the Bhumisparsha Mudra. “What’s the matter, grandpa?” I asked, plaintively.

“Ohh nothing, sweet Matthew”, he replied, patting me gently on my then still hair covered head. But from the faraway look in his one remaining eye I knew that his statement was all too false.

“Please tell me, grandpa”, I insisted.

“Oh the bitter irony,” he responded, “that we fought like avenging angels at that charnel house they call the Somme, but now our ruddy faced sons of Albion are destined to die so cruelly at the sea-skimming hands of French manufactured Exocet missiles”.

“You’ve never spoken to me of your service in the Great War, grandpa,” said I. Adding timidly “nor how you lost your eye...”

My mother shifted awkwardly in her seat, and I blushed at broaching so sensitive a subject.

Grandpa fell silent for a long time. So long that I thought he had not heard me.

“Genever.....” he said quietly, eventually. The three syllables stuck in his throat like a rusty Lego brick. “May God blight you and all of your accursed line!”.

TO BE CONTINUED

 

[slaphead]

I will never forget the first time I heard the surname “Genever”. It was early May of 1982. My father was serving on the Sheffield, one of the thousands of brave lads sent to the grey South Atlantic to preserve our sovereignty from the tyranny of the Argentinian Military Junta.

I, my dear old ma, and my gerontic grandfather were gathered around the wireless in the parlour, listening to the narcotic baritone of Peter Sissons. We were torn between dread and hope, all too aware that a spark might escalate this “crisis” into a “shooting war” at a mere moment’s notice, igniting the Malvenic tinderbox into an inferno of killing.

As Sir Peter detailed the armaments of the Argentine 2nd Naval Attack Squadron, a bitter laugh expectorated from my grandfather’s mouth.

Sat at his knee, I turned my face towards him like the alms bowl in the Bhumisparsha Mudra. “What’s the matter, grandpa?” I asked, plaintively.

“Ohh nothing, sweet Matthew”, he replied, patting me gently on my then still hair covered head. But from the faraway look in his one remaining eye I knew that his statement was all too false.

“Please tell me, grandpa”, I insisted.

“Oh the bitter irony,” he responded, “that we fought like avenging angels at that charnel house they call the Somme, but now our ruddy faced sons of Albion are destined to die so cruelly at the sea-skimming hands of French manufactured Exocet missiles”.

“You’ve never spoken to me of your service in the Great War, grandpa,” said I. Adding timidly “nor how you lost your eye...”

My mother shifted awkwardly in her seat, and I blushed at broaching so sensitive a subject.

Grandpa fell silent for a long time. So long that I thought he had not heard me.

“Genever.....” he said quietly, eventually. The three syllables stuck in his throat like a rusty Lego brick. “May God blight you and all of your accursed line!”.

TO BE CONTINUED

I got you all wrong, you're not a c*** at all. You're a very boring c***.

 

[Martino Knockavelli]

I got you all wrong, you're not a c*** at all. You're a very boring c***.

“It was March 1918,“ he began, unprompted. “We brave boys of the 1st East Yorkshire were to take the Crucifix Trench at Fricourt. It was a scene to make the Sunken Road at Fredricksburg look like a teddy bear’s picnic. But we had the orange cheese eating lads of Leicester to protect our flank - or so I thought.”

“Our captain, Eliakim, was sent to confer with his opposite number with the Leicestershire regiment, and I accompanied him to carry his yarmulke. Their captain was a hale and hearty fellow, but I knew instantly that something was amiss with his adjutant. He seemed a strange little man - part angry, part distracted, and his hands were covered in mud. It was all up to his elbows.”

Never had I heard my grandpa speak at such length, but he continued apace.

“We went over the top at dawn, the echoes of the bombardment still ringing in our ears. It was an abattoir. Like walking into the maw of a leviathan with bullets for teeth. Brothers in arms fell all around me, never to rise again. But we fought like tigers, which is ironic since most of us were Hull City fans but vehemently opposed to the renaming of our proud football club.”

I nodded in sombre agreement.

“I lost track of all conception of time and space. All around me was smoke, screaming, slaughter. I found myself in a bomb crater on the edge of a copse. To my right was Eliakim, as miraculously unharmed as I. What are we to do now? I asked him, the realisation that our ranks had been smashed to pieces hitting me like a jagerbomb”.

I sat silent, transfixed, appalled by the haunting power of that nightmarish image.

“Eliakim took a breath, preparing to give me an order, but suddenly his eyes were wide with terror. I followed his gaze, and saw that through the hellish haze of battle shambled an ungodly figure. It was 10 feet tall, and moved towards us with a demonic gait which confirmed it as anything but human. It seemed to be sculpted from the dirt itself, from the filth and the mud which consumed the bones of our exterminated comrades.”

Grandpa paused. He was visibly shaking, his mind's eye full of some remembered horror mercifully invisible to me and my mother.

“The words that Eliakim screamed still chill my bones to this very day: OY GEVALT! IT IS THE GOLLEM!”

TO BE CONTINUED

 

[RavenBish]

People should wear poppies because they look nice. That's my opinion anyway and people died in order for me to be able to have that opinion - so if you don't like it then fuck off.

 

[mistermagic]

Poppies annoy the living crap out of me. But I don't hate them.

 

[T.A]

We all feel the same about the French.

 

[SALTIRE]

They were originally started to help support the officers in WW1 and not the ordinary Tommies. As I have never had officers in my family I don't wear them but I do have 4 family crests that I wear on my shirts or coats at this time to remember my own grandfather's and great grandfather's who fought in those wars and were all lucky to come back uninjured. Have no problem giving to the British Legion though.

 

[mnb089mnb]

I've got absolutely no problem with French people. Two of my mum's best friend's children are French. Just don't like the annoying OTT French people with their onions round their neck, with berets on their head riding bicycles, going Qu'est-ce? Qu'est-ce? Does my fucking head in.

 

[mistermagic]

I've got absolutely no problem with French people. Two of my mum's best friend's children are French. Just don't like the annoying OTT French people with their onions round their neck, with berets on their head riding bicycles, going Qu'est-ce? Qu'est-ce? Does my fucking head in.

Again. Onions? No idea where that came from. And you missed the baguette.

 

[HertsWolf]

The food on cross-Channel ferries.

I could defecate tastier spaghetti bolognaise than that, Transmanche Ferries! No fucking wonder Lord Lucan jumped over the side.

 

[shane]

I got you all wrong, you're not a c*** at all. You're a very boring c***.

“It was March 1918,“ he began, unprompted. “We brave boys of the 1st East Yorkshire were to take the Crucifix Trench at Fricourt........

That exchange is one of the best I've read on a forum this year. Bravo.

 

[ArmchairDiehard]

Racists who hide behind the poppy to spout their shit

Disgusting

 

[BlueBee]

People who have a go if you don't wear a poppy. There's actually real people complaining to BBC cos Sienna Miller didn't wear one on Graham Norton the other night...who gives a shit?

 

[Pagnell]

The poppy that didn't get the opportunity to rest against her funbag presumably.

 

[mowgli]

I don't think any less of anyone who doesn't want to wear a poppy it's a personal choice. Jon Snow the channel 4 newsreader got loads os stick last year but i don't understand why. We are still allegedly a democratic country so it's up to the individual to wear one or not.

 

[Pagnell]

Desperate bullshit football reporting like that.

 

[Aber gas]

Racists who hide behind the poppy to spout their shit

Disgusting

I saw a gaggle of these c*** in my town centre this morning. I initially thought they were from a veterans association and gave my daughter some change to put in their collecting pot, as we approached I saw the bf badges.They didn't get any change. Absolutely shameless and completely disrespectful scum.

 

[Dave-Vale]

People who have a go if you don't wear a poppy. There's actually real people complaining to BBC cos Sienna Miller didn't wear one on Graham Norton the other night...who gives a shit?

Read through the last few pages. This has been discussed in depth.

I hate my Doctors Surgery. Opens at 8, shuts 12-2 for lunch, opens at 2 until 6. Half day on a Thursday and Saturday. Closed Sunday. Usually get told to go to the walk in centre of it's not urgent where you get to see a senior nurse, who, whilst I respect their opinions and judgement, is not a doctor.

 

[Pagnell]

Read through the last few pages. This has been discussed in depth.

I hate my Doctors Surgery. Opens at 8, shuts 12-2 for lunch, opens at 2 until 6. Half day on a Thursday and Saturday. Closed Sunday. Usually get told to go to the walk in centre of it's not urgent where you get to see a senior nurse, who, whilst I respect their opinions and judgement, is not a doctor.

This. Getting appointments at my doctors surgery is near fucking impossible. You don't make an appointment to see a doctor, you call to make an appointment for a callback from the on duty doctor, who then, depending on what you say, decides if it warrants an appointment. And the on-duty doctor is rarely your own GP.

But then I hear what it's like in America off my wife's cousin who's married to a bloke from New York and lives there, and I realise how good we have it.

 

[blade1889]

tbf Triage works a hell of a lot faster than if everyone just got appointments. Can be annoying but its a good system.

 

[mowgli]

Takes me 2 weeks to see my GP. I have to see him as it's an ongoing problem that i've had for 3 years. I got an appointment with another GP in the practice who asked why i didn't see my usual GP who would know more about me.

 

[spireite]

Takes me 2 weeks to see my GP. I have to see him as it's an ongoing problem that i've had for 3 years. I got an appointment with another GP in the practice who asked why i didn't see my usual GP who would know more about me.

I hear genital herpes is horrible to live with mate, condolences

 

[mowgli]

I hear genital herpes is horrible to live with mate, condolences

Damn been sussed

 

[Luke Imp]

Not being able to get a taxi after a night out.

Went into town on Saturday night. Absolutely rammed, never seen it so busy and started queuing for a taxi about 3am on Sunday morning. At about 3.45am, from a certain point in the queue (way before me), we were basically old there was no hope of getting a taxi any time soon and our best bet was to ring for one. Rang round and the earliest I could get one was 7am.

Decided to walk the 7 miles or so home as opposed to ringing the 'rents and around 3 miles in, remembered that at a certain point at the top of an 'A' road, there were no street lights, no path and it was thick fog so I knocked that one the took the reluctant step of waking them up at 5am.

 

[SALTIRE]

I don't think any less of anyone who doesn't want to wear a poppy it's a personal choice. Jon Snow the channel 4 newsreader got loads os stick last year but i don't understand why. We are still allegedly a democratic country so it's up to the individual to wear one or not.

Sad people love a moan. I remember when thon queen mum died and one of the beeb newsreaders didn't wear a black tie and he was castigated all over the place about it.

 

[BlueBee]

Move to London. Problem solved.

 

[HertsWolf]

Opens at 8, shuts 12-2 for lunch, opens at 2 until 6. Half day on a Thursday and Saturday. Closed Sunday.

Personally, I think these new extended opening hours at GPs that you've highlighted just encourage the sick to turn up mob-handed with their vomit and bugs and spluttering. If I was in government, I'd get rid of bus subsidies, bus passes, pavements, zebra crossings and tax credits. Make the sick walk along dual carriageways to a surgery in the next county. If a complete absence of community care and decent healthcare provision is good enough for Pakistan, the Yemen and Texas, then it's good enough for Britain.