davyK wrote:

IBM, when IBM were massive, had approved haircuts. I think there was an approved selection of after shaves too. A mate of mine did his year in industry as part of his degree - would have been '89 - and that was still in force for certain jobs.

Approved navy blue suits too?

Down with that sort of thing.

Knobs who ride those little wheel bikes without lights.

I think he means clowns

You've got 3 nipples?

Are you Scaramanga?

The fuck have they done with Twitter? I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking at on a page now

I'm not going to bother with GameCentral if the fucking sofa advert keeps on fucking with the site. You can't close it down, it pops up every few seconds and messes with how far you've scrolled down the page, so you keep losing your place in the article.

I'd love to know how that kind of advertising actually works. Because I know it's a sofa advert and Wallace and Grommit are involved, but not the company trying to sell me shit. Is it a subliminal thing, where my subconscious brain recognises the brand and I instinctively go for that brand when on the look out for a sofa? Fuck knows. If I ever do remember what brand it is it'll have negative connotations attached to it now. Stupid shit.

That advert is the worst thing the human race has ever done.

I got one offering me the chance to book tickets for a tour by the Osmonds, of all people. Not in Britain either. I like Crazy Horses as much as the next man but that's optimistic.

It reminded me of something from my past.

My Grandad actually had something of a long running, one-way feud with little Jimmy Osmond. No one in the family was ever able to explain to me quite how it began or why, but presumably it first flared up around the period of Little Jimmy’s heyday in the early 70’s.

Basically, my Grandad somehow got it into his head that ‘Long Haired Lover From Liverpool’ was somekind of oblique, mocking ‘diss’ upon the good people of Liverpool and wasn’t happy about it. Livid in fact. He became quite verbally aggressive towards the diminutive, youthful, lank-haired hit maker from that point onwards. Such was the bitterness and rancour of this feud that even by the time I came along in the mid 1980’s, he could still find himself consumed by hatred for Little Jimmy and all he stood for. He remained ever vigilant for signs of the return of his, by now vanquished (from the charts anyway), nemesis.

I only found out about it one Christmas when ‘Xmas TOTP2’ or some similar festive nostalgic hits package was being broadcast (circa 91/92 I’m guessing). I was half heartedly watching, dipping into the Cadbury’s Roses now and again and flicking through Shoot! magazine or Mean Machines or something and he was nodding off on the sofa in front of the fire. Suddenly the familiar strains of an old Xmas favourite began wafting out from the TV speakers:

“I’lllllllllllllll ... be ... your ... long-haired lover from....”

“Oh no...” whispered my Nan.

He woke up in a shot, uttered an indignant cry of: “this twat!” and banged the telly straight off. No channel changing, no volume lowering, no mute button - just straight off. “Bloody hell, not again!” he muttered to himself and went off to pour himself a drink and compose himself a bit. He was genuinely furious about it - Little Jimmy, here ... in his own front room ... at Christmas of all times.

He really hated that little fucker.

That’s why Little Jimmy was always known as ‘this twat’ in our house and the Osmonds as ‘these twats’. He was willing to give the rest of the Osmond family a bit more leeway to be fair, but not much. I wish I could go back and see how it all began and why, I’m guessing a certain amount of drinking was involved (on my Grandad’s part, not Jimmy’s - he was a bit young for all that).

Weird.

Bloody brilliant, I've never had an opinion in Jimmy before, but now I think he's a tosser too

I'd never actually heard the song until now. Pretty sure if I was subjected to it at the time I'd have had the same reaction as your Grandad.

The fact my missus pals only seem to go out with utter arseholes. Main offender last night.. In the past he's slapped me from behind to act tough, gotten really drunk and been very rude to me and my better half, and every damn time we're out together he turns into a mad coke feind, wanting me to get it and take it with him. Never been my thing buddy, cheers. So last night..

All enjoying ourselves. Couple of steaming wrecks try chatting up my Shona at the bar, she comes back and tells the table, we all eyeroll. I am completely fine with people doing that and don't get butthurt about it whilst it stays respectful. The two lads are kinda near and just dancing about being idiots, trying to make enough eye contact with a female to allow themselves to shoot their shot. Batter in lads, enjoy yerselves, just not this table eh. What does my man do? Go and try a fight with them which ends with me lying to the door staff to save his neck and the whole night as its his missus' (and my Shona's best friends) birthday night. And that's not all, later on I return from a cig outside to see the pint and cocktail I'd left behind now was just a pint. I jokingly take a sip of his (same drink) and he goes off on me making a scene about it. Was told later he finished his while I was gone and was just too drunk to notice. Proper shouting at me over a drink, what a time etc. He then fucks off entirely, probably in search of coke, and leaves his missus behind, no phone.

Fucking hell man there's a reason I don't like drinking or "nights out". Maybe I'm a curmudgeonus bastard too but fuck me. I'm too old for this shite.

I try and remain understanding. He's younger, moved over here from Oz to be with her, uprooted his whole life. I'm sure it's been hard for him. But I've reached a point. Dinner and home from now on, it's been agreed with Shug. There's no excuse for shitheadery like that.