Naming & shaming those UK Rioters

Now that the testosterone levels of the country have fallen slightly, the fires been put out, burnt cars towed away and countless broken windows swept up, the true price of these riots is plain to see.

In total 5 people lost their lives, including a man found shot in a car in Croydon and 3 men who were hit by a car in Birmingham. The latest death was that of pensioner Richard Mannington Bowes, who received critical  head injuries when he was attacked in the Ealing riots on Monday night. Like the 3 other men in Birmingham who were trying to protect their neighbourhoods when killed, Mr Bowes was attacked simply for trying to stamp out a fire. Yes, it’s enough to make your blood run cold and boil at exactly the same time.

The last week has all been about identifying, hauling in and prosecuting those horrible specimens responsible and the whole spectacle has certainly made for some interesting viewing, or at least a glimpse of some of the countries worst parents. Many have stood outside the court, effing and blinding at the press and declaring Thug Junior and Minni Oik to be a ‘misunderstood’ little angel in Adidas.

The mother of the 11-year-old who stole a £50 waste bin from a trashed Debenhams store – the youngest looter to be prosecuted – swore and yelled abuse as she left court. Not a shock this one, considering his dad was only recently released from prison after serving time for theft. Mouldy apple didn’t fall very far from that rotten tree did it.

But there is now a glimmer of hope for the country following a long and very depressing week: some parents of underage looters are happy to shop their own kids to the police.

One such mother, on spotting pictures of her 15-year-old son trying to prise open shutters of a shop in Salford, was so disgusted with his behaviour and no doubt horrified that her own sprog was capable of such violence, that she promptly frog-marched him straight down to the police station and handed him over herself. Another father said that if his son had done the crime, then he deserved to have the book thrown at him and would have to deal with the consequences of his actions.

Now that people are being rounded up and marched through the court system at quick speed, what’s alarming to hear (aside from the fact that so many were children) was that many of these looters held positions of responsibilities within their own communities: a care worker with a 2-year-old child of her own, a postman, a lifeguard, an aspiring social worker and a teaching assistant. Heck there was even a ballerina twirling her way through the streets and a millionaire’s daughter running around filling her Louis Vuitton swag bag with stolen electrical goods, cigarettes and alcohol worth £5,500.

Photos of looters have already been posted online and in some city centres so the public can help police identify them. Perhaps however, just to drive the message home a bit more,  the police mug shot of every person charged should be posted (along with their name and a list of the items they took) up on big notice boards around the towns and areas in which they robbed.

Given that these yobs have all desperately tried to shield their identity from the cameras (and their parents) while scuttling in and out of court, I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate being quite so publicly named and shamed.

So just to set the ball rolling, here are a few for the Hall of Shame – and what a bloody dodgy lot they all are! Perhaps if they were going to steal from shops they should have stopped off at Boots first to pocket some soap, a scrubbing-brush and a comb.

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Spare the Rod? No, bring back hardcore discipline.

More outbreaks of thuggery took place last night and even more juvenile delinquents were out swarming through the streets like a plague of locusts, looking for a free pair of trainers, a new flat screen TV, or in the case of some, bags of Basmati rice and a wooden rocking horse.

TV? New Mobile? Designer Trainers? No, let's take the rice.

Many of these masked and hooded looters were only in their mid teens, but some of them were as young as ten. Yes, that’s ten. As in should be at home and under the constant supervision of an adult.

Quite why a child of this age, or even those of 14 or 15, are allowed to be roaming the streets with nothing but violence on their minds is a mystery to any parent who has even the tiniest bit of control over their child’s whereabouts.

But many of these parents I guess are too busy blaming the government and those who pay their taxes for the shitty life they feel they have, not to mention the disappearance of their ‘Layabout Allowance’ and ‘Dysfunctional Benefit’. The ones that are paid with those taxes.

So it’s not a great surprise they probably wouldn’t have noticed or batted an eyelid when Thug Junior and Minni Oik got down from the table without saying ‘Thank you’ and skipped off into town to hurl a couple of petrol bombs and rob a few shops.

Now I’m well aware that I exist in a totally different world to the one in which many of these rioters live, and for that I’m very lucky. Well actually that’s not true. It’s not all down to luck is it. Potentially the fact that many generations of my family made an effort to listen and learn at school and worked bloody hard once they left had something to do with it. There were certainly no silver spoons being shoved into any of our mouths as babies and no titles or inherited wealth to rely on.

One massive difference that’s very apparent between our 2 worlds is a small matter of discipline, something that these feral little rats out there have obviously never encountered.

Go back a generation (in most parts of society at least) and there was a little something called respect. Respect (mixed with a helping of fear) for teachers, parents, the police and anyone with authority really. And unlike today, where these yobs think they ‘deserve’ respect from everyone and their brother, children back then accepted, or were at least resigned to the fact that respect was something you were given as you grew up and earned it.

When I was at school (a good one admittedly) we didn’t really do anything more rebellious than carve our initials in the desk or pass notes. We were expected to stand up when a visitor entered the room and wouldn’t dream of addressing a teacher by anything other their correct name. We had to keep our socks pulled up, our mouths shut in lessons unless asked to speak and our grubby little feet off  ‘Central Hall Carpet’ – which we did, even though we felt it was a pointless rule.

So discipline was pretty much a given and the punishments for misbehaving ranged from being hit across the hands with wooden rulers, smacked around the face (unacceptable even then but it still happened) whacked with a cane, made to stand outside the classroom, being sent to see the head, given detention or being suspended and, in the extreme cases, expelled.

These days (at some schools) it’s the pupils hitting the teachers with rulers and fists, throwing books at each other, threatening violence if they don’t get their own way, leaving the classroom when they feel like it or simply not turning up to school in the first place.

And why do they act this way? Because they get absolutely no structure, guidance or discipline at home either. Some parents just don’t seem to care that the only qualifications their vile offspring will earn are an ASBO and a criminal record, or that the only lessons in life they’re learning are how to get free handouts for doing bugger all.

These riots are down to ‘poverty’ and being part of a ‘suppressed and ignored society’ these angry hoodies all say, but this is a little hard to take seriously when they’re out on the loot dressed in £100 designer jeans and organising the nightly violent get-togethers on a £300 smart phone. They really need to look up the definition of  ‘poverty’ in a dictionary, but apparently Waterstones have been left well alone, so that’s not likely to happen.

It’s also rather funny how these kids openly resent everyone in this country who works hard to earn their money, yet they idolise soccer players who earn in excess of £100k a week and rap stars who wear diamonds in their teeth and blow a years worth of benefits on one bottle of Champagne. This sort of wealth is OK is it?

So can the actions and shocking attitudes of this apparently ‘lost generation’ all be blamed on the area in which they may live, the state of the economy, the government in power, the high unemployment figures, the state of the education system and a society as a whole that seems to treat celebrity, material wealth and overnight fame as the Holy Grail? No, I really don’t see how they can.

There may be many problems in this country, but none of them can be used as justification by this small group of pathetic individuals who are rioting for fun, stealing for kicks and destroying countless livelihoods and homes because they think they can.

And if all of these reasons above were the only thing to blame, then every child from a single parent family at a badly performing school in a deprived area would be out on the streets. But they’re not are they. The majority are at home with their parents being disciplined, trying hard at school and going on to achieve something with their life.

So in answer to those who are now wondering if it might just be down to a generation of parents being a little too soft on their kids, the answer is yes, of course it bloody is.

These pint-sized hoodlums need to face the consequences of committing this sort of crime. They don’t need a caution, a slap on the wrist or even an ASBO, they need old-school, hardcore discipline. So never mind ‘Spare the Rod, Save the Child’, some parents need to start using sharp sticks and electric cattle prods to get their unruly brats inline.

London riots – why, oh why?

This isn’t a great week to be British and watching the news for the last few days has been something of a depressing affair. Following the shooting of Mark Duggan last Thursday by armed officers in north London, there have been 3 nights of mindless violence with buildings being burnt and shops being looted all across the county.

Mark Duggan - with his pretend gun.

The protest was meant to be in retaliation to the shooting of Duggan, but really it’s just an excuse for thousands of moronic, feral thugs to come out in protest about how incredibly tough their pitiful little life is.

There was no real justification for that sort of protest in the first place. Mark Duggan was a self-styled ‘gangster’ who was being chased by police at the time he was shot. He was also, let’s not forget, brandishing a gun. The fact that he didn’t fire the gun at the police first is neither here nor there. Nice people who haven’t done anything wrong don’t tend to roam the streets with a firearm. And quite frankly, if you don’t want to get shot then don’t carry something you shouldn’t have or give the police a reason to think you’re dangerous.

Of course Scotland Yard have apologised to Duggan’s family for the “distress” caused to them in the wake of his death. But it’s hard to imagine Duggan, his family or ‘crew’ apologising to a police officer’s family had the boot been on the other foot. Far from it, if he’d been the one left still standing on Thursday then he’d have probably high-fived his little friends and gone off to boast about how ‘he’s the man’.

So, injustice at this death aside, what the hell have these riots been about? From what I’ve seen it’s all about smashing windows, grabbing what they can and running away with their loot tucked up a hoodie. Wow, what a hard-hitting social and political statement they’re making. Why on earth aren’t the British public nodding with agreement and sympathising with their grievances?

Having seen footage of the rioters hurling anything they can at police, burning cars and robbing people as they lay injured on the ground, I’m not sure what’s scarier. That mob mentality can cause such wide-scale destruction in such a short space of time, or that people of a certain age in this country can be so incredibly thick.

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You only have to hear the comments they come out with when asked for their reasons for doing this. Apparently – and don’t quote me on this as none of them can actually speak anything resembling English – it seems their main gripe is that life’s not fair, they don’t have enough money to buy some sweets and they don’t get enough respect. Oh, where do you even start with that lot?

First off, you little low-life runts, life isn’t fair. Grow up and get over it. Secondly, perhaps if you’d shut your mouth a bit more, turned your mobile off and actually engaged your ears whilst in school, you might have educated your one lonely brain cell. Not to mention realise you need to take some responsibility for your own future and that Don’t Care + Won’t Try = Waste of Bloody Space.

If nothing more, they might at least have learnt how to speak properly when being interviewed on TV. And, come to think of it, realised that if you’re admitting to being a looting little thief, then perhaps it’s not wise to announce it to the nation.

These hard-done by kids complain that there is terrible unemployment where they live (which of course there is), that benefits are being taken away from them (which hopefully they will be) and that ‘the rich’ – that’s those of us who work to bring in an income – have too much. Oh yes, they also whinge that they ‘don’t get no respect’ from the police so they’re not going to give them any in return.

Quite why these weapon-welding delinquents think the world owes them anything is beyond me. And quite why they believe  the police should be respecting their ‘freedom of expression’ is probably passed anyone in my generation and beyond. If it wasn’t so deeply depressing to hear some snivelling little layout bleating to the camera about how ‘we’re going to get the Prime Minister and the government and the rich people’, it would be laughable.

Now Teresa May – that’s our Home Secretary who’s meant to stop the crime – may want to continue to use ‘traditional’ police methods to stop the riots, but perhaps she needs to face up to the reality that the sort of person involved in the riots need something a little more intimidating coming towards them than a policeman in a helmet. They need water cannons, stun guns and bloody tanks with spikes on the front if necessary.

Or, they could drop a large net on them from above, fly them off to the North Atlantic and drop the lot of them in. I’d like to imagine none of them ever listened long enough to learn how to swim. I don’t believe for a second that 99.99% of the British public would actually have an issue with this. In fact I think they’d happily chip in to pay to have it done.

The Survior’s Guide to (Take That) Concert Going

It’s safe to say I’ve never been a big concert-goer. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to, it’s just a small matter of never being in the right city, country or continent at the exact time with enough cash to afford it and the necessary means to get there. Add to that the years spent pregnant, lactating or sleep deprived from small children and the window of opportunity shut even further.

I think the last concert I actually went to was – and here I hang my head in shame and embarrassment – Vanilla Ice at the BIC in Bournemouth about 20 years ago. What can I say? A friend was a fan, we were buoyed up on ‘end of term madness’ and, to our still developing 16-year old brains, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So anyway, roll forward 2 decades and some musical taste later and Take That announced their ‘Progress Tour’. I vowed that for once, regardless of cost or logistics, I would finally find a way to go. So on the day the tickets were released I spent 12 hours on the phone and Internet simultaneously, desperately trying to find a way to get me inside any venue south of Glasgow. Needless to say that, along with much of the country, I failed miserably and ended up with nothing more to show for my efforts than a crick in the neck and a rather sweaty handset. After 20 years of not making an effort to get any tickets it was a rather deflating moment I can tell you.

As luck would have it my husband, who having never been to a concert of any sort was equally keen to go, eventually managed to lay his hands on those prized golden tickets. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have to kill anyone, donate an organ he still requires or sell our souls to a loan shark to get them, but to be honest, I was so happy to know we were going I thought it better not to ask.

Roll forward to last week and we were finally driving off with a spring in our ‘out of the house without offspring’ step. We made it from rural Norfolk to the scary streets of London in great time; unfortunately it took us ever so slightly longer and one argument later to find a car park. It seems that even the most intelligent sat nav (and it’s user) can confuse a ‘car park’ with a brick wall at the end of a deserted street.

Forward some more and we were racing through multiple tube stations and heading for Wembley, along with, or so it seemed, the entire membership base of the ‘That Take Fan Club’. A fairly female fan club as my husband pointed out, suddenly panicking that he was going to be the only member of a 85,000 audience sporting stubble.

I don’t think the enormity of the event hit me until we emerged into the sun and saw the sheer size of the crowd making their way towards the arena. It was intimidating and exhilarating in one hit and not really the ideal venue for those who don’t do big crowds. After queuing for a life time to get into the men’s toilets (the queue for the ladies was considerably longer) and parting with far too much money for the obligatory T-shirt, we walked in to secure our spot near the stage.

Had I been more prepared and considered how long we’d be waiting, I might have brought a picnic, a rug and some comfy cushions. Other more experienced concert-goers unpacked their cheese, crackers and sandwiches around us and settled back in relative comfort. Having spent most of the spare cash on the said obligatory T-shirt, we sat on the plastic matting with the remaining 2 packets of rice cakes and a bottle of water.

As for the concert itself, well what can I say. Once we’d got the Pet Shop Boys over with (could they really not have got anyone better?) and the music started, it was an amazing 2 1/2 hours of jumping, screaming, singing and shrieking. We weren’t that far back from the stage but some inconsiderate large people decided to stand in front of me, so thank god for the large screens and my newly laser eyes. I spent much of the time on my tip toes with my arms flapping above my head. Bizarrely enough on this occasion high heels would have actually been more comfortable than Converse. Who knew.

The set was great, the theatrics were incredible and Take That themselves…well what can I say. They were everything you imagine them to be in concert and more. Robbie in particular looking wired (although I’m sure he wasn’t) and particularly manic throughout and was obviously put on this planet purely to entertain.

Determined not to get caught up in the crowds, miss the last train and get left with an enormous taxi bill we couldn’t afford (down to that obligatory T-shirt again), my husband dragged me back through the crowds the moment they stopped singing. He did let me listen to some of the encore from the top of the steps, but with the 5 of them still warbling on stage we ran, sprinted and weaved our way out of the stadium, down all the steps, along the very long street and through the countless mounted police there to control the 85, 291 buzzing concert-goers about to leave.

Witnessing the sea of people coming up behind us, all heading for the same rather narrow walkways of the tube station, I have to say I’m rather glad my sensible husband didn’t let me stay any longer than we did. For once he was absolutely right – though don’t tell I said that.

Obviously I didn’t want to forget the night, so I spent much of the time waving my camera above the crowd and alternating between taking photos (below) and video clips. These are for me to look back at in years to come so I can remember that night I dragged myself off the sofa and up to Wembley – and for anyone out there who wanted to go, tried to get tickets and didn’t.

And finally, here are the lessons learned from my experience:

1. Make sure your husband knows just how much you want those tickets.
2. Wear shoes suitable for walking, running, sprinting, jumping & excessive standing.
3. Take as many supplies as you can fit into a back pack – and a husband to hold it.
4. Buy a souvenir T-shirt beforehand. Preferably somewhere cheaper. Like Tescos.
5. Hide your water before going in, being searched and losing it.
6. Be prepared to wait – for quite a long time.
7. Be prepared to queue for a loo – or sip fluids sparingly and cross your legs.
8. Don’t stand next to shrieking, tone-deaf girls who sing louder than the main act do.
9. Edge to the back of the stadium and start running before the music stops.
10. Don’t waste money on pricey seats; pay less & stand, there’s far more atmosphere.

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When beauty is only screen deep

I think it’s highly likely that as with most people, regardless of your shape, size or gender, you probably experience those depressing moments when you look in the mirror and realise the person staring back at you isn’t quite the ‘you’ you had in mind.

In your head you’re feeling pretty good about how you look – maybe not quite reaching a supermodel level of gorgeousness, but at the very least the best possible version of yourself. What you see in the reflection however is a rather disappointing mid-winter version; a pale and pasty post-Christmas being that’s eaten one mince-pie too many, had no recent exposure to sunlight or a hairdresser and obviously hasn’t felt the necessity to buff, exfoliate or de-fuzz since the previous summer.

And on these occasions – known as bad hair, face and body days – when your reflection fills you with feelings of hopelessness and despair, being continuously bombarded with an onslaught of impossibly perfect looking people in the media really doesn’t help to boost your moral.

Of course these beautiful creatures who sell us promises of flawless glowing skin, bouncy hair and eyelashes long enough to hail a taxi aren’t actually real. Somewhere between the photo shoot and the glossy pages of the magazine they’ll have had a helping hand, a nip and a digital tuck. Because let’s be realistic, they would have needed to swallow a light bulb to get such a radiant glow. Or sat in a wind tunnel to achieve that long billowing hair. Or stuck on false lashes to achieve that impressive volume and length. Oh yes, they admit that one now don’t they.

True, no one would want to buy clothes or hair and skin products if the model sporting them looked like an unwashed, overweight tramp, but why can’t they be slightly more realistic? Why use prepubescent twiglets to sell skinny jeans and wrinkle creams to more ‘experienced’ women with crows feet, stretch marks and kids in tow?

It’s true we all choose to be a little gullible from time to time – it justifies the joy of shopping and the excessive purchasing of new products we can’t afford – but we’re not entirely stupid. The average person does actually realise a Miracle Cream won’t have you walking on water and Magic Knickers won’t turn you into a super skinny Debbie McGee.

It’s all smoke, mirrors and Photoshop and it really shouldn’t be allowed. Never mind making the average person feel they lucked out on Glamour-Puss DNA, why should kids be growing up believing they need to look like an airbrushed Barbie to be beautiful? Or consider imperfections a problem to be surgically fixed? Or think that even freckles are an unwelcome flaw.

So for all those who are experiencing a bad hair, face and body day, or have daughters who need to see that beauty is most definitely screen deep, here’s a little something to remind you that when it comes to these impossibly perfect people, it is just that. It’s impossible to look that perfect.

OK granted they’re all still gorgeous before being ‘tweaked’, but doesn’t that just  prove that even the ‘beautiful people’ aren’t considered quite good enough to live up to the ridiculous ‘ideal’.

And if they can’t manage it, god help the rest of us. We might as well give up all hope and go and buy a brown paper bag.

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BOGOF Brown

It’s probably been a good few years since I felt really proud to call myself British.

Of course I love the history and culture of the land itself. The buildings that pre-date other civilisations and the great moments in time that have helped to shape the world. I also love the stunning English countryside and the quaint old country pubs dotted around.  Not for their alcohol mind, but for the unbeatable character and charm.

What I don’t love however is the politics. Our government has been so damn useless for the last decade that it’s enough to have you packing away your Union Jack and heading Down Under. Literally.

But the recent elections have revived my patriotic spirit and reminded me how glad I am to have the passport that I do. The British one I mean, not the other one that entitles me to BBQ’s for 9 months of the year and skin cancer.

So a few months ago, with elections on the horizon, I arranged to vote by proxy.

Volcanic ash nearly stopped my letter arriving in time, but luckily for me, the plucky pigeon in question was obviously far to determined to be deterred by something as minor as misplaced dust.

Perhaps he was jealous of those lucky Labour ducks in their luxury accommodation – and was looking for some payback.

Being on the other side of the world certainly gave me the advantage of time difference. I was able to watch the seats come in while most people in the UK were fast asleep. Seeing the country turn ‘blue’ was a strangely exhilarating experience. It was as if the population was willing on change, and the opportunity to start digging our way out of the great big hole the nation has fallen into.

Unfortunately time zones were against me yesterday, when it came to the final result. I had to find out on Facebook this morning that Cameron and Clegg were in and Brown was well and truly out.

Truly a BOGOF offer that even Tescos would be hard pressed to beat. I suppose now the country has technically gone Green – seeing as Blue and Yellow have finally come together.

I think it was the image of our two new leaders outside Downing Street that made me want to bring out the tea and cucumber sandwiches.

The new Prime Minister and his Deputy standing there, side-by-side, both young, well-educated and articulate. They emitted exactly the sort of energy and charisma necessary to follow through with what  needs to be done.

It was like a scene from ‘Love Actually’ and Hugh Grant couldn’t have portrayed it any better. All that was really missing was ‘Tiffany’ and some dodgy dancing on the stairs.

Surely now things can only get better – in the long-term, if not the short. But only time will tell whether this new alliance can put the Great back into Britain and restore people’s faith in their elected government.

In the words of David Cameron, “We are announcing a new politics where the national interest is more important than the party interest. This is a remarkable and very welcome day.”

Indeed it is.  Now for god sake Prime Minister, just don’t f**ck it up.

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Going to hell in a breadbasket

Who doesn’t love to eat out?

The joy of someone else having to decide what to cook and clearing up the mess at the end of the meal. The perfect chance to order something you wouldn’t have a clue how to cook, with ingredients you’d certainly never recognise in the supermarket. Eating out is a valid reason to eat off a table instead of a tray. It’s the opportunity to actually hold a conversation, instead of woofing down your food in front of the TV.

Yes, going out to eat is the perfect time to relax and enjoy your food. Unless, that is, you have children. Then it’s really only one small step removed from hell.

It has to be said that, whichever way you look at it, there’s absolutely nothing relaxing about walking through the doors of any restaurant and wheeling an overloaded pram through the very tiny space. Or ordering off the menu when you suspect your children will refuse to eat a thing. Or clearing up spilt drinks and bread rolls that cover every inch of the table. Or needing 6 books, 3 colouring pads and a pack of crayons just to get through the starter. Or having to take them for a poo the exact moment your main meal arrives. Or having to consume your own cold and congealed meal in 60 seconds because everyone else has finished and the waiters are eyeing you up, your bill and coats in hand.

By the end of such a meal out, both you and the people seated around you, are inevitably wishing you’d just saved the money and avoided the stress by staying at home. There at least you can scream at a decibel of your choice and stop your children leaving the table until something has made it past their lips.

We were at Sizzlers a while back, having one of those impromptu meals out that always seem to be such a great idea when you drive past a restaurant starving. Sizzlers is a one of those restaurants that offers various slabs of meat and fish on a plate, as well as a ‘eat as much you can’ salad and desert bar. These always seem like such a great idea on the way in, but the food generally ends up looking and tasting the same – something along the lines of ‘fridge’.

With some serious training in the food eating and table manners department under their belt, my kids, for the most part, aren’t too bad when it comes to eating out. There have of course been those moments when I’ve wanted to curl up and die, but compared to some restaurant monsters I’ve seen, mine are an absolute delight in comparison.

We were at Sizzlers a while back, having one of those impromptu meals out that always seem to be such a great idea when you drive past a restaurant starving. Sizzlers are one of those restaurants that offers various slabs of meat and fish on a plate, as well as a ‘eat as much you can’ salad and desert bar. These always seem like such a great idea on the way in, but the food generally ends up looking and tasting the same – something along the lines of ‘fridge’.

Upon arrival you have to queue up, choose your meal from a picture on the wall and pay for it as you go in.  So if and when it arrives looking nothing like the picture on the wall and tastes like shit, there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Except perhaps throw up.

Anyway, disappointing food aside, it’s the clientele at Sizzlers that can really turn your stomach.

Sat next to us was a family who had more food on the floor around them than they did on their table. The chief culprit was a small child standing up in her high chair and throwing platefuls of whatever she could reach onto the floor. The mother, who was sat only feet away, was either oblivious or brain-dead – between you and me; I’d say she was both.

To make matters worse, the other little feral children at the table were busy scurrying backwards and forwards to the food bars and bringing the majority of the contents back with them. Not to eat mind you, just to stack up, squash and leave as ammunition for Baby Feral in the high chair.

Seated on the other side of us were a mother and daughter combo – an unstoppable eating machine if ever I’ve seen one. In the space of time that it took for us to get our garlic bread, they had consumed half a cow and chips each, trawled the salad bar several times and been up the desert station 3 times. Just when we thought there was nothing else but the furniture and fittings left for them to eat, the daughter winched her sizeable frame out of the chair and nipped (I’m being kind here, there was nothing nippy about her) back to get one last bowl of ice cream. With all the toppings.

Between our 2 neighbouring tables, it’s surprising there was anything left for the rest of the room to eat.

So there you go. The perfect example of badly behaved children and people eating to excess all rolled into one depressing restaurant. Needless to say we haven’t been back since.

There is one nearby restaurant however that has perhaps come up with the perfect solution for parents who want to eat in peace. If I rated the food, I might have been tempted to take them up on their offer. Unfortunately I find the food here pretty dire, though considering what might be tucked away in their kitchen, I’m not really that surprised.

I can’t even image what the conditions of this offer might be. Perhaps the children have to be washed beforehand, or have any buttons or sharp jewelery removed?

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On the downside, the restaurant also has this sign on the door, so perhaps they aren’t quite so parent friendly after all..

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Raining Cats, Dogs and Maltesers

Mother Nature wasn’t very happy yesterday. In fact, I’d go as far as to say she was pretty pissed off. If I was a guy I’d probably say it was a case of PMT, but I’m not, so I’ll just hazard a guess and say she was having one hell of a bad hair day.

Whatever the reason, Ms Nature certainly gave 2 fingers up to anyone in Perth who’s been moaning about the weather. Or more specifically, the 40 degrees of constant heat with not a drop of rain since November.

Now I do appreciate that to people in wetter isles, England lets say, the idea of nearly 5 months without rain might seem like something of a dream. But let me tell you, it’s not. When a total lack of precipitation is teamed up with temperatures more suited to melting iron ore, it can make for some pretty uncomfortable living. Not to mention a rather dry, dusty, brown and monotonous landscape.

So that said, I think it would be quite safe to assume that rather a lot of people in Perth (and some extremely dehydrated plants) were rather looking forward to the dry spell breaking. And break it did. With bells on.

With barely enough time to drag the dog through the fly screen, the blue sunny sky disappeared and the hailstones arrived. Hailstones the size of Maltesers, pouring out of the sky so fast you’d think God had accidently left his freezer door open, and a passing angel had carelessly tipped it over. We were lucky only to get Maltesers, in the city they were apparently the size of golf balls.

Then came the rain. Or should I say the downpour, pelting in at us from at every angle but up. Within minutes our garden was several inches under water, and there was, what could only be described, as a flash flood going past the end of our drive.

Being me, of course I tried to take some photos of the hailstones stacking up 9 inches deep at our back door. But the moment I opened the door to take the picture, the bloody dog shot off into the garden. How stupid is he? He see’s, what to him must have looked like a Noah’s Ark moment, and he still decides to go out for a quick dig in the sand.

Needless to say once he went out I refused to let him, or his soggy wet fur, back in again. He may be of the non-smelling variety of pooches, but even a soaking wet Spoodle has something of a whiff about it. So I hardened my heart and held my resolve – right up until the point where my daughter stood sobbing at the window, looking down at a pathetic excuse for a fur ball, trying to pin himself flat against the wall with his damp ears plastered around his snout. Two clean towels and a vigorous blow dry later and he was back inside and on the rug. I hope he’s learned his lesson, that nothing is worth the pain of a dig in the hail.

Dumb dogs aside, in the sort of weather that heralds the start of Armageddon the average person normally chooses to stay indoors, steer clear of windows and turn up the TV. Sadly I’m not average, so I grabbed the car keys, swam to the car and set off with oars at the ready.

Of course as the sky turned pitch black overhead and the odd branch blew past like tumbleweed, it did cross my mind that this might not be the most sensible decision in the world. But really I had no choice. My son, who isn’t partial to loud noises and the car wash at the best of times, was stranded at his nursery 8 minutes down the road. Even if he’d had the foresight to take his water wings with him that day, I very much doubted he’d have managed the journey alone.

“The clouds are very angry” he told me, over and over all the way home.

My poor husband arrived back quite a bit later than usual that night.  Something to do with me having his car, the train tracks being flooded, every cab being taken and the buses being fit to burst. I’m not sure it necessarily helped, when I pointed out that if he had had his car that day, he’d no doubt still be stuck in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, as the world and their wet dog struggled to leave work.

Needless to say the news teams and anchormen (I would be P.C. and say anchorwoman, but all the women sound like men anyway) were practically salivating with joy on the TV last night. Finally, something worth reporting in Perth that didn’t involve a drunken AFL player, a misplaced kangaroo and a runaway shopping trolley on the freeway.

As I know I’m rather prone to the odd bit of exaggeration (creative license and all), I’ve added the pictures below to show that for once, Perth really did have something happen to get excited about.

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Couldn’t have said it better myself

Living in Perth, you really have to wonder about some of the people here. Do they have a warped sense of humour, or are they just incredibly thick? I’m talking number plates, and some of stupid things people choose to have stuck on the front of their cars. I’ve already listed some of the more ‘interesting’ plates that I’ve seen before, but below are a couple that really stood out from the crowd.

The first car I saw in the shopping centre yesterday, when it drove into the car park at a speed only acceptable on the German Autobahn or a race track. Once the lives of passing shoppers had been suitably put at risk, the driver screeched into the disabled bay /taxi rank right in front of the entrance, climbed out of the car and lolloped inside.

I use the word lollop, because for all extent and purposes he had the definite whiff of Neanderthal about him – no shoes, skanky feet, clothes that even the homeless would turn down. His tattoos encircled every limb, his hair was matted and greasy enough to fry a dozen eggs and he had, what could only be described, as the remains of dead rat hanging down his back. Basically he looked like something you might see painted on a cave wall, with a club in one hand and a dead animal in the other.

As he disappeared off to buy whatever it is that modern-day cavemen buy, several words did immediately sprung to mind – but I needn’t have bothered forming my own opinion. With his carefully chosen number plate, he’d already gone to the trouble of describing himself. How thoughtful and spot on. Maybe he was more articulate than first thought.

I didn’t actually see the driver of the second car, but I’m guessing they share many of the same qualities as the first driver.

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In case you’re unfamiliar with the word ‘feral’, it’s one that seems to be widely used here to describe a certain sort of person. The following description is from  www.urbandictionary.com, and I couldn’t have put it better (or more colourfully) myself.

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An individual who usually lives in a housing trust neighbourhood who loves wearing flannel shirts, tight faded jeans, tracksuits (usually FUBU, EMINEM, etc branded). Usually has a pack of smokes tucked under the shoulder of their knitted jumper/wifebeater, and one behind the ear for ‘ron.

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Commonly spotted at shopping malls and fast food outlets and especially Centrelink which is their sole source of income with the exception of drug dealing/manufacture/growing/selling stolen goods. Known to swear a lot and are frequently found not wearing shoes, much like their offspring who are usually dirty looking with snot running from their noses.

“What the **** are you looking at ****?” said the feral female with no shoes with a major muffin top over her 4 sizes too small mini skirt and no bra.“Nothing” replied the man walking by and minding his business.

“Well do ya wanna root? If I have another kid I can start me own footy team and Centrelink will fund it!” Asks the feral skank who can be smelled from 20 metres away.

“No thanks. I’d rather have sex with a garden mulcher. It’s much safer than your diseased, stinky p****” Replies the man about to be robbed by the group of male ferals waiting for him around the corner.

So that said, would you seriously want this word on your car?!

what you can do with a pile of sand

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Here’s a little gem from youtube that’s well worth 8 minutes of your time. I’d even go so far as to say I guarantee you’ll also end up watching it more than once… and utter the word ‘Wow’ at least half a dozen times.

The video shows the winner of 2009′s ” Ukraine ‘s Got Talent “, Kseniya Simonova. Her ‘talent’ – drawing a series of pictures on an illuminated sand table – is incredibly mesmeric to watch, as the continuous flow of images tell the rather emotional story of how ordinary people were affected by the German invasion during World War II.

She begins by creating a scene showing a couple sitting holding hands on a bench under a starry sky – then war planes appear and the happy scene is obliterated.

It is replaced by a woman’s face crying – then a baby arrives and the woman smiles again. Once again war returns and Miss Simonova throws the sand into chaos, from which a young woman’s face appears.

She quickly becomes an old widow, her face wrinkled and sad, before the image turns into a monument to an Unknown Soldier.

This outdoor scene becomes framed by a window as if the viewer is looking out on the monument from within a house.

In the final scene, a mother and child appear inside and a man standing outside, with his hands pressed against the glass, saying goodbye.

During The Great Patriotic War, as it is called in Ukraine, one in four of the population was killed, with 8 to 11 million deaths out of a population of 42 million. Little wonder then, that so many in the audience were moved to tears and this incredible artist went on to win the top prize of about $ 75,000.

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Click on the picture below to watch this truly amazing performance..

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