Health and Safety is a good thing. Warnings are good if there is a genuine risk of danger. However as a nation we are being treated like idiots. There are some warnings that are useful, a classic is a "Beware of the dog" sign. Great. I know if I go in that area then there is a dog I need to be wary of. The plaque on the top of the food warmer section of the fryers in chip shops that says "Caution: Hot" is unnecessary. If I'm tall enough to touch that part of the equipment then I'm big enough, old enough, supposedly wise enough to realise that, since it is attached to the container of hot oil and is made of metal, it's a bit warm. The sign on the side of petrol pumps telling us they contain a flammable liquid is unnecessary. It's a petrol pump. It has petrol in it. Of course there is a flammable liquid in there, that's the whole point of it's existence. What next, warnings stamped on the heads of sharks saying "Warning: Contains Teeth"?
Did you know that a chainsaw has a moving blade that could chop off a body part? No? Neither did I, that was of course until I read the safety notice on the box of my chainsaw, suddenly I became a safer person, less likely to try and grab the spinning chain, or rest it on my leg whilst it is in motion. No, wait, I did know that, and do you know why? Because I've got a fucking brain in my nut. To be honest, if some numpty is stupid enough to grab the spinning blade of a chainsaw then frankly we are better off without them.
I was in a store in Guisborough, a small town not far from Middlesbrough, that was selling, amongst other things, cutlery. I had some time to kill so I was looking through the items and saw a children's cutlery set. A children's cutlery set, for those who don't know, consists of a small knife, which is about an inch in thickness, round as the top, has no sharp edge and can just about cut through mashed potato, a small fork, which has big rounded ends on the prongs so that a child couldn't stab themselves (or their food for that matter), and a small spoon that is really a mini spatula as it hasn't got a curved surface for things like soup or custard to gather on, they merely run over the side like when you spill a drink on a table. They are designed to be safe in the hands of babies and purposely shaped so they cannot cause an injury. Attached to the packaging was a sticker saying "WARNING! Do not sell to persons under the age of 18!". So, just to clarify that, a teenage mum can't buy that product, but their 1 year old child can use it to eat.
Of course, most of these warning signs are focused on safety. The health warnings are even more staggering. For example, bleach with a "Do not drink" warning on it. Why? It's bleach, I know not to drink it, because it's bleach. Are these companies really frightened of someone downing a bottle of Domestos and then saying "well, it didn't say on the bottle I couldn't drink it". It also doesn't say on the bottle "Not for anal use" but that doesn't mean I'm going to shove it up my arse for my own amusement. Not again, anyway. Hang on, that was toilet duck. Bloody angled neck.
At work this week we had a company do a "Live Well Work Well" session with us. The theory being if we improved our health then sickness levels would drop. I've been to a few of these in the past and found them quite informative. I've learned at these events that my blood pressure was a bit high and that I was very overweight. I also learned that smoking is bad for you, as is eating too much fast food, doing no exercise, and drinking excessively. All useful information that. However, this session was a bit different. The group had to stand up in a circle and imagine being stressed, then imagine what emotion was being felt at the time. The group leader then threw a ball at someone (putting pressure on them to catch it, thus increasing their stress levels), and then they had to share their emotion. Then we had to think of a long term health condition that could result if suffering from stress and the ball was thrown about again. The final thing in this activity was to think of an something that we did to relieve stress. Now, I can pretty much guarantee that 90% of people reading this are thinking of masturbation (I know I was at the time), but as I was around some people I didn't know I didn't think it was the right social setting to share that, so I opted for listening to music instead. Interestingly, most people suggested drinking as their relaxation activity, not very good for your health that.
The final activity was to do with BMI and waist measurement which involved a special tape measure with a BMI wheel on it. Using these measures I discovered I had the waist measurement of a small planet and the BMI of a rhino. Annoyingly all the people who said they drank to relieve stress were much skinnier and healthier looking than me. Perhaps drinking has some benefits after all, not that they'd put that on the label.
Friday 21 October 2011
Saturday 8 October 2011
Buses
Economics. The simple reason why I use the bus to get to work. £18 a week to travel to and from my job from home, compared to £20 just to park the car at work, before fuel costs, tyre wear, the cost of cleaning pedestrian blood off the bonnet etc.. It makes complete sense to use public transport on the basis of cost. However, using public transport has a hidden price: my sanity.
For starters, there's the bus driver. God. The man/woman who believe that because they can operate a ticket machine (or not, in some cases) they control the world, that all before them must bow down at their feet. I am sure that bus drivers are manufactured with a drawstring in the back that is pulled when a phrase is needed. things like "I don't stop there" or "£10? Sorry, I can't change that, it's too early". What? Too early? By that do you mean your brain hasn't woken up yet and you can't do subtraction? "If I change that I'll have no change left". So let me get this right, you don't want to give change out because you'll have no change left, well why have any in the first place if you're not going to use it? Why not make customers pay in chocolate or whisky miniatures or pies so you can keep your precious change to use when you play the Sega Rally games at service stations?
After that, bus drivers fall into two categories, the Steady Eddie and the rally driver. The Steady Eddie never goes above the speed limit, drives smooth and consistent and as a result makes you late in rush hour traffic. The rally driver travels everywhere at 60mph, drives past stops he's far too early for, then sits for 10 minutes at the side of the road so as not to be too early at the station. To the rally driver, the speed bump is not a traffic calming initiative, but a ramp to indulge their Red Bull X Fighter inner being that is dying to get out.
The minimum expectation of any driver by the passengers on board is that the driver knows the route. I have been on a bus where the driver stopped and asked the passengers for directions. I was on another bus where the driver started on the wrong route, stopped at a bus stop to be told by a woman waiting at the stand "You're in the wrong place, the X5 doesn't go this way".
The drivers, however aren't the worse thing about buses. The bus itself is a grotty little sweat box with the comfort level of a pit of snakes and the noise level of a OAP's television. The seats are stuffed with offal (well, they smell like they are), and are packed so close together that if you have legs, you need to remove them and leave them at the front before sitting down.
But even the bus isn't the worst thing about bus travel. I am. Me and every bugger else who sits or stands and is transported from A to B via Guatemala, whether it's on the route or not, inflicting little bits of our personality, or lack thereof, on our fellow passengers. Teenagers, leaving college for the day, who think it is acceptable to play shite on their mobile phones whilst talking about rimming Girls Aloud to the spot covered walking tampon they got on board with. Alpha males, tight tops, beer gut, wanking arm considerably larger that the tissue arm, carrying a bag from Sports Direct that probably has a sports bra in it so they can try and sneak into a women's only gym to try and coax some life into their steroid shrivelled nob. The worker, the backbone of the country, keeping the economy moving, however they are like a social leper in this environment because they aren't pushing a pram or eating a Greggs sausage roll. The young mother, barely out of her teens, pram, Primark bags, child twice as big as it should be eating a bag of crisps, other child running into the legs of fellow passengers and making grunting noises.
The worst offenders, in my opinion, the elderly. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for the elderly, they have somehow kept this nation working, fought for our liberties and won. However, if I have piles, or herpes, or rashes, or thrush, or incontinence trousers I keep it to myself. The elderly, they have the war mentality. "They blew up my coal bunker but they haven't beaten me yet". Stiff upper lip, standing up to the enemy and winning, showing they won't be beaten. The modern equivalent to this? "Well, the doctor says I have anal bleeding so Alf rubs cream into my bottom twice a day and I've never felt better". I DON'T CARE!!! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW!!! There is never an acceptable social situation to discuss your warts, I know this and they've been around longer than me. And how do I know they have been around longer than me? Because they tell me. All the time. "I'm 72 and I'm still here". I WISH I WASN'T!!! Seriously, well done, you're old, you look it, I can tell, don't patronise me by telling me your old, I'm not blind.
Then there's me. Fat, bald, wears a baseball cap with my work clothes to stop my head getting sun burnt, iPod on. I must be the strangest of the lot because when the bus is full, and there are very few seats left, the seats next to the young, the old, the young mothers and the Alpha males all get filled by their peers. Me? Well, people would rather stand in the aisles than sit next to me. What does that tell you?
For starters, there's the bus driver. God. The man/woman who believe that because they can operate a ticket machine (or not, in some cases) they control the world, that all before them must bow down at their feet. I am sure that bus drivers are manufactured with a drawstring in the back that is pulled when a phrase is needed. things like "I don't stop there" or "£10? Sorry, I can't change that, it's too early". What? Too early? By that do you mean your brain hasn't woken up yet and you can't do subtraction? "If I change that I'll have no change left". So let me get this right, you don't want to give change out because you'll have no change left, well why have any in the first place if you're not going to use it? Why not make customers pay in chocolate or whisky miniatures or pies so you can keep your precious change to use when you play the Sega Rally games at service stations?
After that, bus drivers fall into two categories, the Steady Eddie and the rally driver. The Steady Eddie never goes above the speed limit, drives smooth and consistent and as a result makes you late in rush hour traffic. The rally driver travels everywhere at 60mph, drives past stops he's far too early for, then sits for 10 minutes at the side of the road so as not to be too early at the station. To the rally driver, the speed bump is not a traffic calming initiative, but a ramp to indulge their Red Bull X Fighter inner being that is dying to get out.
The minimum expectation of any driver by the passengers on board is that the driver knows the route. I have been on a bus where the driver stopped and asked the passengers for directions. I was on another bus where the driver started on the wrong route, stopped at a bus stop to be told by a woman waiting at the stand "You're in the wrong place, the X5 doesn't go this way".
The drivers, however aren't the worse thing about buses. The bus itself is a grotty little sweat box with the comfort level of a pit of snakes and the noise level of a OAP's television. The seats are stuffed with offal (well, they smell like they are), and are packed so close together that if you have legs, you need to remove them and leave them at the front before sitting down.
But even the bus isn't the worst thing about bus travel. I am. Me and every bugger else who sits or stands and is transported from A to B via Guatemala, whether it's on the route or not, inflicting little bits of our personality, or lack thereof, on our fellow passengers. Teenagers, leaving college for the day, who think it is acceptable to play shite on their mobile phones whilst talking about rimming Girls Aloud to the spot covered walking tampon they got on board with. Alpha males, tight tops, beer gut, wanking arm considerably larger that the tissue arm, carrying a bag from Sports Direct that probably has a sports bra in it so they can try and sneak into a women's only gym to try and coax some life into their steroid shrivelled nob. The worker, the backbone of the country, keeping the economy moving, however they are like a social leper in this environment because they aren't pushing a pram or eating a Greggs sausage roll. The young mother, barely out of her teens, pram, Primark bags, child twice as big as it should be eating a bag of crisps, other child running into the legs of fellow passengers and making grunting noises.
The worst offenders, in my opinion, the elderly. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for the elderly, they have somehow kept this nation working, fought for our liberties and won. However, if I have piles, or herpes, or rashes, or thrush, or incontinence trousers I keep it to myself. The elderly, they have the war mentality. "They blew up my coal bunker but they haven't beaten me yet". Stiff upper lip, standing up to the enemy and winning, showing they won't be beaten. The modern equivalent to this? "Well, the doctor says I have anal bleeding so Alf rubs cream into my bottom twice a day and I've never felt better". I DON'T CARE!!! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW!!! There is never an acceptable social situation to discuss your warts, I know this and they've been around longer than me. And how do I know they have been around longer than me? Because they tell me. All the time. "I'm 72 and I'm still here". I WISH I WASN'T!!! Seriously, well done, you're old, you look it, I can tell, don't patronise me by telling me your old, I'm not blind.
Then there's me. Fat, bald, wears a baseball cap with my work clothes to stop my head getting sun burnt, iPod on. I must be the strangest of the lot because when the bus is full, and there are very few seats left, the seats next to the young, the old, the young mothers and the Alpha males all get filled by their peers. Me? Well, people would rather stand in the aisles than sit next to me. What does that tell you?
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