Gate Gourmet Staff Don't Deserve Their Jobs - Fucking Fire Them All

They should fire the lot!
Gate Gourmet has always made shit food, now their staff make shit decisions!
I have no sympathy for those who were fired. We live in a capitalist society, - look after yourself or fuck off.
And what is all this sympathy striking? If I went on strike because the local sandwich shop had sacked some staff, I would get the sack, and rightfully so.
Illegal strikes are holding this fucking country to ransom. BRING BACK THATCHER!
It doesn’t exactly sound like Gate Gourmet was doing that well anyway, so realistically either they fire some or they fire all. If Gate Gourmet is going bust, how exactly are they going to support their employees? And don't suggest the government should step in, - I ain't paying more taxes on top of what I already do just to ensure that some low-skilled, ignorant 'catering' staff can remain in a company that has gone bust.
I DON'T OWE THOSE FUCKHEADS A LIVING.
They should have signed up to LearnDirect and gained some new skills.
If a company is underperforming to such an extent as Gate Gourmet is, people lose their jobs.
THAT IS LIFE, AND IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THAT.
Get over it. Get a new job. The world needs toilet cleaners too, and I am sure the Gate Gourmet staff could transfer their skills to that industry quite easily. Then they could strike in sympathy every time someone has to take a shit. Hurrah!!
Had I been a customer at Heathrow I would gladly have faced prosecution for punching some Gate Gourmet moron right where it fucking hurts. What about the financial implications for all the people stranded? 15,000, many of whom are NOT rich, privileged people, who have saved up or months, perhaps even years to go abroad, only for some lazy twats to go on strike so they can stay in bed. The people who didn't get the sack should be fucking thankful they still have employment. This is not Russia, Danny.

Touch the screen and feel the music

Woke up Saturday caked in sweat. The O'C was coming over for a quick jam and some beers, so I pulled myself together and got stoned.
The jam went well, - beers were consumed, spliffs smoked and music made. The O'C was skinning up like there was no tomorrow and by the time it was four o'clock I was very lean.
The Professor called and announced his imminent arrival in London to, as he put it, "get drunk". Faced with a night of heavy drinking I needed a quick nap to rid myself of the THC raging through my body. The O'C, initially game for some alcohol based evening activities, made his excuses and left. To be fair, I was having thoughts of chickening out too, but knew this would not be an option. I made some lunch and poured myself some rum and coke.
By the time the Professor arrived I was stoned AND drunk. We quelched some beers and anti-narcoleptic prescription pills the Professor had ordered earlier. They didn't exactly do much, and I think the Professor's obsession with amphetamines had made him go to desperate lengths. I was a bit miffed, too, because he didn't tell me he was going to put in the order. What good are drugs that keep you awake if you don't have drugs to put you to sleep? So no clonazepam, no diazepam, no pamela at all in fact. Good move, Professor..
When darkness crept up we headed for the 'Ditch. In a news agent on City Road we bought two bottles of Buckfast. It doesn't exactly taste nice, but if it is good enough for council estate kids in Glasgow it is good enough for me.
The foundry was open so we got some drinks and hung out. Several coke deals were taking place, resulting in one punter being escorted off the premises, high as a kite.
Inevitably, as we were getting plastered, the subject of a squat party arose in our conversation. Acquaintances of ours were having a do in Streatham, but the thought of going there didn't appeal to us in any way. Rumours had it that Headfuk was organising a party so attempts were made to find out where. The Professor struck up a conversation with some random stranger equally intent on going to wherever Headfuk was taking place.
After they called time at the Foundry our next destination was the Strongroom. Not quite sure why we went there, but I think it involved the Professor's new friend and details about a party. We sat on the benches outside in the courtyard drinking Buckfast when we were joined by three guys also looking for the Headfuk party. One of them (his name was Nitin if I remember correctly) tried to explain a method he had developed involving making music by touching monitors and channelling the radiation from the screens through the body and out via gold mask. How this is supposed to work, or even what it is supposed to do was beyond me and the Buckfast didn't help my understanding.
Whilst I was drinking and trying to get to grips with masked musicians touching monitors, the Professor was already getting into trouble. Two fuckwits where in the process of getting kicked out due to a felony of which I was blissfully unaware, and the Professor obviously had to step in. I decided not to get involved with any of the Professor's antics and finished the Buckfast. Two from our company finally got word that the Headfuk party was taking place in Alperton, NW London. After much deliberation the Professor and I joined Nitin and his mate in a minicab and headed for the world's largest industrial estate. Once inside we bought some base and pills and got even more wasted. The gabba on offer was pathetic but thankfully there was some very decent drum and bass being played. Despite being in Alperton Lane, there was hardly a crackhead in sight which was extremely refreshing. The venue was a fairly new place with lots of space and hardly any piss. The beers cost £2, though, which I must say was completely out of order. I obvioulsy wasn't that bothered seeing as I was already tanked up on a liter of Buckfast, multiple ruma nd cokes and a plethora of beers, but when I take base I need to drink alcohol.
There was no attitude at the party and whilst the Professor was off doing his own thing I lost my bodyweight in sweat making my moves in the D'n'B room.
The sun rose and we decided to head back before the drugs wore off and we realised where we were and how little money we had left. Took the central line to Liverpool Street and asked if the station staff there if they could make an announcement for Mike Leberkaas, which they did.
However funny that was, I was knackered and pushed for the journey home. We walked through the City back towards Islington, bought some Guinness, cans of Nourishment and the Sunday Sport. The rest of the day was spent doing nothing, listening to Motorhead's greatest whilst trying to communicate without speaking. By 3pm the 'peth hadn't worn off, but I still felt weak and uninspired so I resorted to listening to the Community Shield on radio as opposed to seeing the game in the pub.
Still buzzing but physically exhausted, I finally succumbed to sleep around 2.30am. another day, another assortment of liver-threatening antics.

BLAH BLAH WORK BLAH BLAH

Working on a Friday is about as much fun as ignoring an ingrown toenail.

Here is a list of valid excuses to get yourself off work, so you can enjoy the weekend early:

* Claim you are 7 hours away from solving world peace
* Just tell 'em you're ill. Works every time for me
* Pretend that you're a witness in a high-profile drug smuggling case and that you have to miss work by order of the Queen's Magistrates
* Argue that you have to stay at home, because your bong won't smoke it self
* Fake amnesia. When you return on Monday and they query you about it, just tell them that you've forgotten
* Tell them unless they let you go home early, they are liable to prosecution for discrimination against people who don't like working on Fridays
* Claim to owe Boris Becker some cash. If they ask you the relevance of this with regards to taking the day off, start crying. Leave the building for exactly 37 minutes then return wearing a stars and stripes bandana. If this doesn't work, quit. Working is fucking shit anyway.

What do you mean you've never tasted Canadian muffin?

The only thing more retarded than Denmark laying claim to Hans Island is Canada laying claim to the same. In terms of geography Canada is the more logical choice for ownership, but who cares about logic?
The Danes have just released an open-source beer known as Our Beer or Vores Øl in Danish ( http://www.voresoel.dk ). If the Danes are willing to share their beer brewing secrets (and they have many - they make the best beer in the world), surely the stiff Canadians can share a bit of rock?

My theory is that the Canadians keep violating Danish sovereignty just to get the booze the Danes place under their flags when they patrol their kingdom. Gammel Dansk (or 'Olde Danish') is a world-renowned brandy capable of curing even the most fervent hangover, and quite capable of causing one such too.
The Canadians' reposte? Placing whiskey under their flags.
First of all, any spirit from the North America's is by default second rate to that of anything produced in the old world. Secondly, it is unfair to to leave alcoholic piss in such remote places. What if a polar bear needed a strong drink? Would you be happy to let it drink Canadian whiskey?
Me neither. For the sake of ensuring clean alcohol for our arctic furry friends, I say ban Canada.

Want a job? Grow up!

There is only one thing more pointless than having a job, and that is applying for a job.
Here's a list I've hastily compiled of ways to make your first impression the lasting one:

a) Show up three hours late, and then look hurt when told to go home
b) Don't show up at all: this method I find is especially handy for avoiding an interview and not getting a job
c) Tattoo swastikas on the back of your hands. During the interview nervously raise your arm to a salute, stopping yourself mid-action and then mumble something about foreigners and the zionist conspiracy
d) Prepare a makeshift toga and do the interview smoking a pipe, occasionally interrupting the interviewer with statements like; "It's my own mixture, you know" and "You can't beat a good pipe". At the termination of the interview, compliment your prospective employer on his / hers "suave" tie or well-groomed teeth. Stub out the pipe on the side of someone's desk and ask them if they've ever bicycled from Hull to Wrexham
e) Start off proceedings with the declaration that unless the company can get over the fact that you like pickled eggs this simply won't work out.
f) Insist that your name is entirely different from that on your CV and that quite frankly you're disgusted they haven't noticed
g) Bring a toolbox. Especially useful for office-style jobs. Tell them that if things don't work out, you are willing to perform some low-level maintenace work free of charge, provided they turn out all the lights, play Celine Dion and reschedule Christmas

On poker, golf, and why golf is not the new poker (not explained in article)

Woke up Saturday morning slightly hung over and drenched in sweat.
Had to go to town before heading off to Reading for a monthly four-way poker tournament, ‘The HaringenKop”.
Didn’t want to go to town, as it was very sunny and hot and I all wanted was a pool and some Neurofen. And some liquor.
You see I was forced to go buy some new shoes. Big deal I hear you say.
Yeah well not really. The problem is that Saturday morning / day is the least likely time in my life where I’ll go shopping. I needed new shoes badly, however. How badly is another tale in itself, but we’ll gloss that over for now.
I set off, and the temperature kept rising. The headache was subsiding and the layer of alcohol-based sweat covered more or less my whole body.
Obviously I didn’t find any shoes and so headed for Paddington in my All-Stars with holes the size of Birmingham.
At Paddington I conferred with the Kaptain, and found my train. The platform, and the train itself, was more or less empty. Had nine minutes to spare so I quickly skinned up and lit my joint. One drag down and a sudden rush of people headed towards me from a train just arrived. Seeing as I was smoking rather pungent stuff, it was hard to disguise what I was doing. Nevertheless, I had to finish the spliff before I got on the train, and tried my best to shield my actions. Not very successfully may I add. Having finished the spliff in record time I shrugged at the passing commuters’ looks of disdain and got a seat on the train.
This is perhaps a good time to explain a it more about the HaringenKop.
Essentially a four person freeze-out £10 tournament of Texas Hold’Em, it has been played the last weekend of every month since January at various locations in the UK.
Started by Lord Bramley, Kaptain Kazemi, the Professor and I, it is the most intense regular game of poker I play. With blinds doubling every 3 rounds, it is rare that anyone beats the game.

I arrived in Twyford, and hung around the station car park waiting for the Kaptain.
Every time I leave London I am always struck by the silence.
The Kaptain picked me up; we bought some booze, ice and cigars and headed towards Casa Kazemi. I downed a bottle of Hoegaarden whilst we were waiting for the Professor (who allegedly had been stuck in a traffic jam for an hour). The Kaptain was making drinks and I had a perfectly mixed Vodka, lime and brown sugar concoction (can’t remember its name – someone refresh my memory?).
The game started as usual, all nerves and edgy laughs. I was determined to break my recent run of poor play and my determination (and new strategy) paid off. Kaptain was the first casualty, followed by Lord Bramley. The Lord was somewhat upset that his form had been set back. Then it was down to heads up. At this point I knew what and how I was going to play, and felt fairly confident going up against the Professor.
A few hands later and I could claim the Kop for the third time this year, extending my lead in the league table and netting £40.

Following the usual damped spirits associated with the end of another Kop, it was decided that we go play some golf. Simon had appeared mid-game and was equally keen. The Kaptain booked a tee-off time at Hurst Golf Club, near Woodley. At this stage I had drunk a litre of San Miguel, a Hoegaarden and four neat vodkas with fresh lime and sugar. By the time we arrived at Hurst the weather looked mean and I was getting wasted.
Following a comical tee-off and some more beer from my rented golf bag we proceeded to take 25 minutes to finish the first hole. Halfway through the second hole the weather snapped and it began to really piss down. I spat on the golf bag.
The Professor, the Kaptain and I took refuge under some trees. The Kaptain and I went cannon ball on another litre of San Miguel and a spliff deviously prepared by the Kaptain.
Revitalised by the cannon ball we thought fuck it, let’s play on. I finally got a ball on the green after perhaps four drops and a few mulligans. I proceeded to shoot it with a driver at full strength. When that didn’t have the desired effect I threw my golf club as far as I could in disgust. This was to repeat itself several more times that afternoon according to my companions. We finally played enough holes to get close to the clubhouse. I managed to convince everyone (with a little help from the Professor) that we should have a drink and then play on. We entered the clubhouse, completely soaked and fairly ‘high-spirited’ in the middle of the annual club raffle or some shit like that. The bar was rammed with 40 something’s with money and no taste. The golf Captain, sporting a ridiculous moustache and a terrible golf club polo shirt, was dealing out raffle prizes to drunken applause from all the rich, single divorcees and the flash, city-slicking breezers filling the place from wall to wall. Despite all the fancy crap, there wasn’t a university degree in there.


Whilst I was enjoying myself as much as is possible with completely wet shoes and jeans in a golf club god knows where surrounded by face-lifts and Hackett shirts, my friends decided to play on. My reaction was to go straight back to the bar and order another Guinness. Fuck them I thought – there’s no way I was going to play more golf in this shit weather. The moment I ordered my pint (and my friends had left), things started turning nasty. The bar man asked if I was a member. I declined and he charged me £3.10 whereas minutes before the price had been £2. I was drunk and getting pissed off with this bullshit. Tried to eye up some women but found it hard to stand up. I was trying not to notice the swamp building in my shoes as the water soaking my jeans gradually made it down. I finished my pint and headed for the gents. I managed to find a cubicle and attempted to pull down my jeans. This was near impossible as they were clamming to my wet legs. Managed to do my business and headed back for the bar. On my way out of the gents the ‘club Captain’ cornered me. He told me this was a private function, and would I leave please? I refused to speak to him, turned around and made my way towards the exit. I glanced back and noticed he wasn’t checking up on me. I ordered another Guinness and began compulsively drinking my pint. My wallet was at the Kaptain’s flat so I had no money (which ruled out going back to London) and standing outside the clubhouse in the pouring rain waiting for my friends to finish their masochistic round of golf wasn’t an option. A band started playing and I hardly noticed. I was roaring drunk and soaking wet, surrounded by people whose existence I wanted no part of. I had almost finished my pint when that fucking club Captain came back a second round, this time slightly more irate. I sipped my pint as he tried to converse over the booming sound of the band. I didn’t understand a fucking word, although the sentiment was clear, - get the fuck out, and get the fuck out now. For a split second my mind drifted and I completely forgot where I was, or the predicament I was in. I finished my pint slowly, staring vacantly at the club Captain’s red and aggravated face. Fuck this I declared in the way only a drunk person can, put down my empty pint, told the club Captain in no uncertain terms where he could stick his club and moustache and headed for the door. Outside it was still raining, and I was now more drunk. The Fridge called me, asking when if at all I would be back in London. He claimed to have some chicks set up. I told him it all depended on when my lift would finish playing golf.
About ten minutes later my acquaintances turned up. I re-entered the bar with them, and managed to get a Guinness of Simon. The Professor started macking the moment he showed up. I went to the toilet again, only to be corned by the fucking club Captain on my return. This time Kazemi, The Professor and Simon where with me. Realising that he wouldn’t get rid of four of us as easily as he had me, he demanded that we buy some raffle tickets. Kazemi replied that all we wanted was to buy some beer. This was obviously not the right answer. Amidst shouts of ‘private club’ and ‘private party’, we offered to buy a ticket each. This made the club Captain, if possible, even more angry. At this stage I no longer cared about the club Captain and any of his shit. All I wanted was some dry trousers, my wallet and an express train to London. What happened next isn’t clear to me. Being forced to support myself on any stable surface, trying to down yet more Guinness whilst dodging the patrolling glare of the club Captain, I lost track of time and space.

By the time we got back in the car it was too late. My plans of going to London were scuppered and to make things worse a thundering hangover was brewing somewhere in the back of my mind.
At least I won the HaringenKop.