Red Andy's Guide to Ireland

Greetings, Internet randomers,

It may have escaped your attention - judging by the traffic on this page, anyway - that I have not been posting for a good week or so. This time, I actually have something of an excuse - I spent three days last week over the other side of the Irish Sea, in that delightful little emerald-coloured isle called Ireland.

So now, for your viewing pleasure, I present you with Red Andy's Guide to Ireland.

HOTELS

Hotels in Ireland are characterised by large buildings with a crowd of people standing outside the entrance. These people will all be wearing exactly the same clothes and smoking exactly the same cigarettes. This is caused by the indoor smoking ban prevalent in the Republic of Ireland, and the result is that you breathe in exactly the same amount of toxic fumes as before, only it's all outside. Which is nice. (Wales, please take note).

GETTING AROUND

The national sport of Ireland is the traffic jam. As such it is probably a good idea to avoid the roads (although Dublin Bus do operate a wide range of efficient, punctual services, which will be something of a novelty for British tourists). For those of you fortunate enough to be visiting Dublin, the DART - Dublin's equivalent of the London Underground, except that it's not underground - is a cheap and effective means of getting places. Look out for the station named "Tara Street," which sounds like some kind of soap-opera slapper, and when travelling to Lansdowne Road be warned that the railway line passes directly under the western stand of this once-great stadium, which is soon to be demolished. Passengers are advised to take out insurance against large lumps of concrete falling through the roof of the train and causing considerable loss of limb.

Those ambitious holidaymakers who intend to take the train from Dublin across the border to Belfast are advised to make alternative arrangements. Due to the recent power-sharing agreement in Northern Ireland, Republican and Loyalist reactionaries are now collaborating on disrupting cross-border train services, mostly through the use of suspicious activities on the railway line, followed by equally suspicious tip-offs to the authorities. In such an event trains between Newry and Belfast will be replaced by bus services, which are truly British buses - everyone has to stand, they are late and they don't go where you want them to. Yes, once you get into Northern Ireland there really is no escaping the fact that you're back in Britain.

FOOD & DRINK
Ah, who cares? Just find the nearest pub and drink as much Guinness as possible. It's true what they say - it really is better in Ireland.

RELIGION

Ireland is well-known for its two famous features - an abundance of drink and an abundance of religious strife.

The Irish paradox

On walking around the centre of Belfast, one will be surprised at the sheer number of denominational churches that exist within the city. Presumably the old Northern Irish joke about atheists works for all of these denominations as well - "Yes, but are you a Protestant Seventh-Day Adventist or a Catholic Seventh-Day Adventist?" As my father dryly observed, with a view to all of the fighting that has gone on over the years: "If there's any city with too much religion, it's this one."

EDUCATION

The official aim of this trip was to visit both Trinity College, Dublin and Queen's University, Belfast. Both are impressive institutions with a good deal of history and some very enthusiastic - well, drunk - students. The Students' Union at Belfast has a conference hall called the "Mandela Hall," presumably voted for by liberal students. However, Dublin is closer to the Guinness factory. This decision could prove to be difficult.

THINGS TO DO IN DUBLIN

1. Get drunk (expensively) in Temple Bar.

2. Get drunk (cheaply) at the Students' Union at Trinity College.

3. Admire the bullet holes in the front of the Post Office on O'Connell Street (remnants of the 1916 Easter Rising).

4. Visit Hodges Figgis, which is sort of like the drunken, Irish uncle of a very large bookstore.

5. Eat lunch in the cafeteria at the Irish National Gallery.

6. Buy a load of tourism-related paraphernalia (read: crap) at one of the thirty million Carroll's stores.

7. Walk down to Sandymount and swear at the people rich enough to live in such a pleasant environment.

8. Give money to any of Dublin's forty-five thousand buskers.

9. Take a History Tour of the city in Russian (watch out for the big red buses).

10. Examine the historic city walls.

By far the best advice if you are going to Dublin is to not go with a group of academics. Thanks to my father's colleague, I have learned more about Urban Morphology and Economic Geography and other things that sound like they should be capitalised than I should ever wish to know. Apparently Dublin is very interesting if you're into Urban Morphology - which you aren't, because nobody is. Not even Urban Morphologists.

But that aside, I highly recommend Ireland. I'm certainly going back - if only for the drink.

Revolutionary and somewhat Celtic regards,

Red Andy

The Waste of Space Awards: March

Greetings, Internet disciples,

After what seems like an unnecessarily long absence due to a severe lack of blogworthy events, it is time to return once again to that monthly barrage of incompetence that is the Waste of Space Awards. This month has seen several individuals and groups make fools of their collective selves once again, and their valued efforts are finally rewarded with this prestigious honour. Let us proceeed with our Honourable Mentions for this month of March, 2007:

HONOURABLE MENTIONS

THE ROYAL NAVY

Despite their own insistence that they were definitely not in Iranian waters at the time that fifteen of their servicemen were captured by Iranian forces, it is becoming increasingly clear that no one (except, curiously, the British and American governments) believes that they are telling the truth. Congratulations to the Royal Navy for committing an offence, getting caught, lying about it and then being ridiculed when their story falls apart. It's a shame that their almost wilful incompetence couldn't give them the top honours for this month.

TEENS-4-CHRIST

Although, technically, this website hasn't done an awful lot in the way of idiocy this month, the fact that this - perhaps the most odious message board on the Internet - still exists is a testament to that long-upheld Internet right of "freedom to spout moronic, distasteful, offensive bile." The reason this site gets an Honourable Mention is because I discovered it this month. Among the snippets of horrendous bigotry is the subforum of the site entitled "Cults," which is dedicated to the discussion of "cults and false religions," among which examples such as Islam, Mormonism and even Catholicism are given. Apparently the administrator of this website has a very narrow interpretation of what being "for Christ" actually is.

Love thy neighbour, anyone?

HONDA RACING

As if the irony of a three-miles-to-the-gallon racing car painted with a map of the world to "raise awareness" about climate change wasn't enough, the Honda Formula One team have gone one step further in this month's season-opening race in Australia, by being outqualified and outraced by their sister team, Super Aguri. This would not be so bad, except for two reasons. Firstly, the works Honda team's current car cost about $300 million to design and build. Secondly, Super Aguri are using last year's Honda car. In other words, the Japanese manufacturer has spend $300 million on making a car go slower. Congratulations, guys.

GORDON BROWN

Everyone's favourite dour Scotsman this month managed to make the tax system even fairer than it already is, by giving his rich friends and those in big business a nice, hefty tax cut, while making the rest of us pay even more to subsidise their 4x4s and long-haul holidays. Thanks a lot, Mr. Brown. I for one can't wait until he's Prime Minister, so that we can put someone with a little more common sense in charge of the Treasury.

As impressive as these entries have been, they in no way compare to our winner for this month. Congratulations to all of them, but even greater congratulations to our winner this month:

THE WINNER:

ARRIVA BUSES

Let us refer to the testimony of my Virtual Friend Leanne Sowter for this one, in an email she sent to me earlier this month:

"From what I can gather the Arriva handbook focuses around the following aspects:

1. Inconsiderate drivers in need of an etiquette lesson
2. Buses verging on celebrating their 20th birthdays
3. Dirt, filth and a general ignorance of all sorts of litter
4. Lateness. Every single day. Regardless of time. Just pure lateness.
5. Breaking down and forcing people, such as my good self, to walk the three miles into the town centre without so much as an apology or a refund
6. An increase in fares twice over the last year, making several people wonder what exactly it is we're paying extra for, because there sure as Hell haven't been any improvements in the service."

Leanne has, as far as I know, begun a "campaign of hate" entitled "Operation: Arriva Must Die" in response to this shoddy service. Good luck to her!

An Arriva bus, presumably shortly before it was destroyed by an angry Derbyshire teenager.

So, another month rolls by and the staggering incompetence of the people with which we share this planet just keeps growing and growing. The only solution, I find, is to laugh at them. The Waste of Space Award, we dearly hope, accomplishes just that.

Revolutionary and moronic regards,

Red Andy: Official Supporter of Operation: Arriva Must Die

The Object of Today's Rage Will Be Opticians

Greetings, Internet nomads,

It is a sad but unavoidable fact that I, like some reasonably large percentage of the world's population, have the sort of eyes that might be of use to a bat, or some other animal that spends most of its time fumbling in the dark, but are pretty much useless to me; this is particularly important when you consider that no matter how much time I spend hanging upside down from the ceiling, I am not a bat. It just helps me to think.

Anyway, the uselessness of my eyes, combined with the fact that I haven't bothered to have them tested in at least five years, has led to a few embarrassing incidents - mostly involving menus in fish-and-chip shops, although occasionally mistaking complete strangers for close personal friends and collaring them with stories about how I was collared by a random person and told a story. So it dawned on me recently that, once I turn 18 in a few weeks' time, I will no longer be entitled to free glasses on the NHS. Being the good citizen I am, I have decided to exploit this loophole to my advantage.

Or so I thought. After I wandered into two grocery stores, a card shop and an undertaker's under the mistaken impression that they offered eye tests, I finally found the local optician - although not without first stumbling upon a second-hand bookshop. Droitwich's high street is well-known for the fact that an ill-advised mining expedition at some point in the last few hundred years led to the centre of the street spontaneously sinking, leaving a noticeable impression on those buildings that were not irreparably damaged by the sudden geologic movements. This bookshop appeared to have been affected more than most by the tectonic shifts, and appeared not to have been entered since. There was a friendly sign on the wall, stating "Due to stock levels, we are no longer purchasing books." To be fair, I could see why. The place looked as if a library had sneezed into it. In fact, I am almost certain that it was piles of books that were maintaining the structural integrity of the building as a whole, rather than anything substantial like plaster, or bricks.

After my forays into the bookshop - out of which I somehow escaped without buying anything - I remembered I had to find the post office and get a passport application form, my search of the house for a similar form having yielded nothing but a couple of teeth someone had had taken out and carelessly left in the kitchen. I found the post office, by virtue of the large, reasonably visible sign stating "POST OFFICE" directly outside it, and went inside.

Getting the passport form was no problem, but as I was standing in the queue I was mildly amused by a sign on the wall. Essentially it was offering a competition to everyone who signed up for a Post Office Mortgage or Post Office Travel Insurance or Post Office Aromatherapy, to win a state-of-the-art DVD player. The sign, in all its glory, read "Enquire today for free entry into our prize drawer."

A prize drawer? I wonder what that is? Is it:

a) A drawer filled with prizes,

b) A drawer that has won Best Drawer in some kind of competition,

c) Someone who draws prizes?

Answers on a postcard, please. Bearing in mind that if you choose c), I would also appreciate an explanation as to how exactly you "enter" a prize drawer. On second thoughts, I don't want to know.

After the incident with the drawer it was time to go to the opticians. I found my way inside (through the glass doors which are a constant burden to ignorant and/or short-sighted people such as myself) and approached the girl on the desk. "Hello," I said, politely, "I would like to book an eye test."

"I see," she replied, in that way in which people say "I see" when they have been handed a challenge that is quite possibly beyond their cognitive powers to even comprehend, let alone actually attempt it. "What sort of time would be best for you?"

"Preferably a Saturday," I responded.

After this she asked whether I was in full-time education. I didn't really see the relevance of this, but I said that I was anyway, to which she replied: "Oh, I'm sorry. We don't offer appointments for people in full-time education on Saturdays."

Of course, I thought. That makes perfect sense. After all, it wouldn't do to be convenient, would it?

After a few more frustrating minutes I left, without an appointment and without any way of seeing for the next few weeks. I suppose I have managed quite well for the last few years, but I am actually quite looking forward to being able to see again. I just hope I can do it in time for it to be free.

Revolutionary and blind regards,

Red Andy

Damn You, Mark Knopfler

Greetings, Internet followers,

I have a condition. I don't know what it's called, but I'm pretty sure it's genetic, and I've inherited it from my father. Essentially, there are two main symptoms. The first is an inability to go past a second-hand bookshop without going in. The second is an inability, once inside said bookshop, to escape without first purchasing at least one book.

Now, I'm not knocking second-hand bookshops at all. All that I'm saying is that, with hindsight, I could probably have lived without a copy of The Book of Mormon, Irish Wit and Wisdom and a biography of Eddie Jordan. Mind you, I have also picked up some real gems as well - such as The Blind Watchmaker by Richard Dawkins, which I bought for fully seven pounds cheaper than the same book in Waterstone's.

Usually my condition results in little more than a rather full bookshelf and an inexplicably lightened wallet. However, yesterday I was confronted with a terrifying experience, and one I would rather not repeat. It involved a bookshop that, despite my travelling past it on the bus at least three times a week, I had never previously noticed. On Wednesday afternoon, however, I spotted it as we sat in the inevitable traffic jam, and decided that I would pay it a visit at the weekend.

I entered the shop, and was pleased to find it was an archetypal second-hand bookshop. Not one of these pseudo-chain things they try out at Oxfam and St. Richard's Hospice charity bookshops - excellent as they may be - but a proper, old, rustic bookshop, where it was considered highly unfashionable to be covered in anything less than two inches of dust. Even the middle-aged man sat behind the counter, doing Sudoku and listening to Classic FM, was suitably dusty and looked like he hadn't moved for weeks.

One of the great advantages of bookshops like this is that there are never any signs, anywhere, telling you what category the books on the nearest shelf fit into. You are forced, instead, to look at each title individually and conclude from it that you are currently looking at Gardening & Cookery. The other thing that is endearing is the totally illogical arrangement of the categories, so that just to the right of Gardening & Cookery is Philosophy, and after that is Music.

As I contemplated a sizeable tome by Aldous Huxley, the news came on. The man at the counter noticeably shifted his attention from Sudoku to radio. As soon as "the Government" was mentioned, in the second or third news item, he uttered just a single word. "Twats." This was then followed by "stupid bastards" a few moments later.

Brilliant. I had stumbled into a bookshop inhabited by a middle-aged, dusty man with Tourette's syndrome. By now I was beginning to wish I were elsewhere, but my condition would not let me leave until I had bought something. Putting a book about Guns N' Roses back on the shelf, I saw above it a biography of Mark Knopfler, legendary frontman for Dire Straits.

That would do. I went over to the counter, and the dusty man flicked back the cover and asked for the five pounds marked in pencil on the inside. For the uninitiated, five pounds is a fairly high price for a second-hand book, but the condition was good and the content - I hoped - interesting, so I was willing to shell out.

"Mark Knopfler, eh?" he said, his voice betraying a tone of mild amusement. "Surprised he's still alive, if you know what I mean." He then did a crude impression of somebody snorting cocaine and injecting heroin, just in case I didn't know what he meant. I did.

I smiled and took the bag with the book inside, hoping I would be able to leave very soon and the whole ordeal would soon be over. Unfortunately, it was not to be. "Mind you, they were all like that - the Stones and everything. Still going, the Stones, you know? Still raking it in, doing their world tours and all that."

Half an hour later - after the dusty man had given his opinion on modern music, teenage girls and the price of petrol, and told me at least four vaguely contradictory accounts of his childhood - I had been smiling, laughing politely and subtly looking at my watch for so long I was sure I was never going to escape, at least until the dust rapidly sedimenting onto my body was of a sufficient thickness for me to blend in with the surroundings. I felt as if I knew more about this man than I did about myself, and he had given me a promotional flyer for a local nightclub, despite the fact that I had told him at least twice that I didn't like clubs, and I didn't like hip-hop, and no, I didn't even like the artist that was playing at the club tonight.

As I bid him farewell and turned to leave, I reflected that he really should have put up a sign:

WARNING. Carbon dioxide levels around this man may be dangerously high. In the event of an emergency, oxygen masks will descend from the ceiling. Help yourselves, then help the children.

I walked out of the door and spotted a man surveying the basket of books outside. As I turned to head down the street and into the town centre, I shot him a look. It was a look that said, No! Don't go in there. You might die. I hope he heeded my advice.

Revolutionary and dusty regards,

Red Andy

Excitement at SPAR: Shoppers Baffled

Greetings, Internet randomers,

Okay, so I lied in the title. My place of work hasn't really been that exciting at all. But, in the notable absence of anything else to talk about, I thought I'd share with you all an anecdote or two about my place of work.

Since the store was refitted last year, there has been a large Portakabin out the back, which has served the wonderful dual purpose of storing lots of beer and being a great place to sit around and do nothing in those frequent periods when there is sod all to do. Unfortunately one of the neighbours doesn't like looking out of his bedroom window to the sight of a hulking great industrial storage container, and has written to the council to complain about it, which is what all old people do. Being the good people they are, the council have kindly demanded that we remove our Portakabin as soon as possible.

I am in the process of writing to the gentleman who has decided to complain about the Portakabin. "Dear Sir," I would begin, "I am writing to inform you that when I stand inside my Portakabin, I can see your bedroom window. Frankly, it is an eyesore and I would like it to be removed...." I would then forward this letter to the council, explaining that the bedroom window was a monstrosity and impinged upon my right to a decent view while working. I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that such an action might get me shitcanned.

Anyway, the order to remove the Portakabin came around Christmas, and as of March nothing has been done about it. However, Claire told me today that the powers-that-be were intending to move all of the stock into our pretty tiny store room fairly soon.

"Can you let me know when they are planning to do that?" I asked. "Only I have a feeling I might be ill that week."

Claire also explained to me that the removal of the Portakabin was the reason for shuffling around the store room at the back of the shop, so it would at least look like there was more room for the mountains and mountains of beer we have to hold at any given time (just-in-time stocking system, my arse). I believe the original idea was to make the store room look slightly less like a delivery van had driven through the wall and then exploded. However, the considered opinion is that it still looks like a delivery van-explosion; it's now just a different kind of delivery van-explosion.

You will all be pleased to know that SPAR Live is still blaring out the same songs over and over again, despite the promise of a "No-Repeat Work Day!" which is itself repeated in a tiresomely ironic fashion. The highlight of today's audial entertainment, however, came about in an advert for SPAR Super Great And Incredibly Super Honey.

"Honey," the voiceover assured us, "is a great substitute for sugar in tea, and it really helps to soothe a sore throat!"

What? What? Now, I'll admit that I'm no expert on tea - the British Empire was built on cups of tea, which is more than enough of a reason to avoid it altogether - but even I know that you don't put honey in it. That would just be cretinous. Furthermore, I am highly sceptical of the use of honey as a painkiller.

But then, I'm highly sceptical of "alternative" medical treatments anyway - that is, to me they appear only to be an "alternative" to the sort of medical treatments that make you better. Call me old-fashioned, but I really don't think it is wise to trust a man with no medical qualifications armed with a needle, particularly when he works for a shop with such a grammatically nightmarish name as "Dr & Herbs." Nor is it wise to trust a voiceover when she tells you that honey is better than ibuprofen.

That said, it did give me some entertainment today, which is more than can be said for the Saga of the Soon-to-be-Disappearing Portakabin (expect a DVD release around September for that thriller). And I hope it did for some of you, too.

Revolutionary and medicinal regards,

Red Andy

The Waste of Space Awards: February

Greetings, Internet travellers,

Awards season may be almost over in that near-hellish land of Hollywood, but here at the Waste of Space we have the wonderful benefit of an awards season that lasts for the whole year. So, without further ado, let us look at the Honourable Mentions for the Waste of Space Award for the month of February:

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

RUPERT MURDOCH AND HIS DISGUSTING GLOBAL MEDIA EMPIRE

No, it's not a poorly-named Motown act, however appealing that possibility may (not) be. This month Murdoch's daily rags (sorry - newspapers) such as The Scum, The Daily Wail, The Daily Scum, The Scummy Wail, The Wailing Scum and The What-the-Heckspress have been publishing "news" (in the loosest possible sense of the term) about the impending deportation of Britain's own Prince Harry (who himself only just missed out on an Honourable Mention this month) to a battlefield somewhere in Iraq. The popular consensus seems to be that poor Harry will only be a target for foreign detergents (sic). The Waste of Space asks: if the media is so concerned for his safety, why are they telling us all where he's going to be? Perhaps some corporate responsibility would be nice - if that isn't too much of an oxymoron for you.

THE BRITISH TRANSPORT NETWORK

It may not have escaped your attention this month that a light dusting of snow accidentally ground the British transport network to a halt this month. This was terribly embarrassing for all sides, particularly as some Swedish tourists were overheard saying "Ha ha ha ha look at the useless British and their useless transport network," observing the fact that they are regularly blighted by large blizzards and don't do so much as bat an eyelid. However, in Britain - unsurprisingly for a country founded on the Protestant work ethic - any excuse will be taken for a day off, and a small amount of snow on a railway line is as good an excuse as any.

THE COUNTRYSIDE ALLIANCE

Observing a magazine published by the top echelons of the SPAR Corporation, it was duly noted that the Countryside Alliance - perhaps Britain's most odious pressure group, filled as it is with toffee-nosed inner-city businessmen who wish for the countryside to remain full of uneducated yokels entirely unlike themselves - rose to new levels of incompetence this month when they awarded a SPAR store somewhere in Wales with an Award for Excellence or something, purely on the basis that they stocked partridge (a delightfully rare delicacy that toffee-nosed inner-city businessmen enjoy shooting for something they call "sport," which is roughly analogous in standard English to "mindless violence"). The Waste of Space spits on the Countryside Alliance. Literally.

THE SPAR CORPORATION

The final Honourable Mention goes to the aforementioned SPAR Corporation, for actually being proud of the Award for Excellence they received.

As idiotic and incompetent all these entities may be, they are no match for this month's Waste of Space Award winner. So, let us point and laugh at the second-ever recipients of the Waste of Space Award:

THE WINNER:

THE WELSH NATIONAL RUGBY TEAM

The Waste of Space has observed with delight this month the plight of the Welsh rugby union team this month, as they have staggered to never-before-seen heights of inadequacy in the face of opposition from some of the other Six Nations teams. Although I was fortunate enough to see Wales' last victory, at the Millennium Stadium against Canada, it appears that Wales are faltering under the pressure of competition from good teams. Although it would be a tragic instance if Wales were to win the Wooden Spoon this year, the Waste of Space would be observed to laugh long and loud. Good luck, boyos - you'll need it.

Welsh rugby team with ball: a rare occurrence in this year's Six Nations.

Unfortunately that's all we've got time for in this month's Waste of Space Awards, so let's all say congratulations to our Honourable Mentions and our winner, and wish everybody a thoroughly idiotic month of March.

Revolutionary and incompetent regards,

Red Andy

And Now For Something A Little Different....

Greetings, Internet seekers,

I thought I'd keep this blog short and sweet. Instead of saying much, I'll leave you this video I knocked up in a spare twenty minutes for little reason whatsover.

Enjoy.

Revolutionary and technological regards,

Red Andy

Another Snow Anecdote

DISCLAIMER: The following blog makes no attempt to be gender-neutral. We apologise in advance to all paper girls who may be offended.

Greetings, Internet blog-readers,

The snow of which I wrote in my last blog has long since disappeared, and it's back to normal service for the British transport system: meaning, of course, that it's still late, but at least it's consistent. But, in the absence of anything else to blog about (except the fact that it's Valentine's Day, of course, but I did all that last year), I thought I would share with you a nice story about an event that befell me in the remnants of the snow on Saturday morning.

Most of you will know that Saturday mornings have meant one thing for me over the past eighteen months: work. Every Saturday morning at seven I crawl into the shop, usually curling up in a corner between the honey and the pickled onions and going to sleep peacefully for a few hours. But this morning, it was not to be. Oh no.

The careless, stupid and utterly, utterly selfish paper boy has decided that the week in which the weather conditions resembled somewhere between the Northwest Passage and the upper reaches of the Himalayas would be the perfect time to break his leg. So, of course, those of us actually doing real work in the shop are expected to cover for him. The infuriating thing about his particular round is that it involves houses in reasonably close proximity to the shop, with owners too lazy to get up and actually pick up their paper themselves.

When Brian used to work at the shop (when he wasn't trying to kill me), he would always tell the paper boys the same thing. "If the paper doesn't fit through the letter box, put it on the doorstep and ring the bell. We're all up, so why shouldn't they get up and get their paper? Lazy bastards." Trudging through the frozen wastes of Droitwich at eight-thirty on a Saturday morning, I couldn't help but agree.

Particularly galling is the house immediately opposite the shop that has the Daily Mail delivered. It is not an exaggeration to state that I could quite easily stand in the doorway of the shop and throw the newspaper into their front garden. That is how close they are, yet the lazy fools can't be arsed to waddle ten yards into the shop and pick up a newspaper. I would have thrown the paper into their front garden, but I decided they probably wouldn't be too happy if it was soaking wet. After all, everybody knows the only use for the Mail is as a good source of kindling. Or toilet paper. In either case, its functionality is inhibited when wet.

The one thing I discovered once again on this particular paper round is that people clearly carefully choose their front doors to ensure maximum difficulty for the people delivering their newspapers. Those people with the smallest letter boxes invariably ask for a Daily Telegraph, which has to be divided into its constituent parts, shredded and then deposited through the letter box with a roll of Sellotape and instructions as to how to stick it back together again. And those people with Telegraph-sized letter boxes always want a copy of the Sun. Not only this, but most letter boxes appear to have mechanisms attached to ensure that no matter how fast you try and remove your fingers, you always get them caught. Many a time, I'm sure, has someone picked up their morning paper only to find a bloody finger or two wrapped inside. This is why there are so many paper boys: the old ones all have to retire once they've lost both hands (and, in some cases, feet).

Actually, some people's letter boxes were so tiny that it was difficult to see how people could get letters through them, let alone something as big as a newspaper. I have written to the Telegraph to ask them to please start producing a "paper boy-friendly" version of their paper, which will fit through the average-sized letter box. I will also begin posting notes through people's doors requesting that a) they get a bigger letter box, and b) they move their dog out of the hall. This is another occupational hazard: those paper boys that manage to avoid having their fingers severed by a demonic letter box usually end up having their arm chewed off by something that is a cross between a Rottweiler and a rabid wolf with a hangover, only more violent.

On Saturday there was an additional threat to my extremities: the cold. In some ways I would have preferred to have my hands detached from my person by a dog or a letter box, rather than frostbite. Paper boys can't wear gloves, or the supplements from the newspaper will inevitably slip out of their grasp and into the nearest drain (that's another thing - why are newspapers almost gravitationally attracted to drains?), causing much grief when the owner of the house attacks the paper boy with a rusty kettle.

Thinking about it, this could actually be one of the most dangerous jobs in Britain. As soon as the insurance companies latch onto this, the paper boys are screwed. Forget bomb technicians and deep-sea fishermen: no amount of high explosives or North Sea squalls could possibly pose the same risk as a man-eating letter box.

Revolutionary and high-risk regards,

Red Andy

Snow joke....

Greetings, Internet wanderers,

Those of you in possession of a) eyes and b) windows will not have failed to notice the curious weather condition that is, I am told, affecting most of the British Isles today. Don't panic - the mysterious white powder coating your houses and cars is just snow, not anything else.

For me the snow is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I'm not going to college today (although it is alleged to open at 10:10, I won't be able to get there thanks to the glorious ineptitude of First Buses.) This is great because, aside from it being the last day of the half term, it means I can spend the day catching up on things I haven't been able to do in the last week or so (like staring inanely out of the window.) Unfortunately I got up before I heard that I couldn't get into college, so staying in bed like a normal person wasn't really an option.

On the other hand, however, I spent about four hours last night finishing off my Chemistry coursework, which is due in today. You can now add to the list of "things Red Andy hates" such delightful entities as yeast, enzymes, catalase, hydrogen peroxide, kinetics, two biochemists called Michaelis and Menten, and the whole subscience of rates of reaction. The point is, had I known I'd be getting the day off college, I wouldn't have bothered - I'd have done it today instead.

Looking out of the window, I can see it's still snowing quite a lot out there. I imagine some people are already outside, building snow men and throwing lumps of ice at one another. Those people are mentally retarded. I prefer to stay inside, remain warm and drink coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Mmmmmmmmm.

Later on I must venture outside to work. Hopefully it'll have stopped snowing by then, and I won't slip embarrassingly and fall on my arse. If I do, I'll be sure to post pictures.

Revolutionary and wintry regards,

Red Andy

The Waste of Space Awards: January

Greetings, Internet adherents,

In a vain attempt to increase traffic to the long-forgotten outpost of the Internet known as the Waste of Space, the powers-that-be have decided it is necessary to introduce a few gimmicks that will hopefully introduce some much-needed humour to what is fast becoming a tedious dirge of poorly thought out jokes, long sentences and phrases that only make sense to a few of the best-versed advocates of Red Andy's peculiarly bizarre sense of humour. (I could talk now about sadistic equine necrophilia, but that would just be beating a dead horse.)

As such, it has been foisted upon me to introduce the Waste of Space Awards. This monthly award is awarded every month (circular reasoning, I know) to the person, group or entity that is considered by Red Andy to be the biggest Waste of Space of the month. Each monthly award "ceremony" will consist of four Honourable Mentions, followed by the recipient of the Award. Everyone taking part will receive a short blurb on what they have done to receive such a prestigious honour.

This award ceremony has the advantage over other award ceremonies in that there are no washed-up celebrities presenting the trophies (in fact, there are no trophies), no week-long acceptance speeches and no tables to negotiate when you take to the stage to accept your award. So, without further ado, let's give a round of applause to our Honourable Mentions for the month of January, 2007:

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

The Home Office

Once again, everyone's favourite governmental department has been the pinnacle of bureaucratic incompetence. Whether they're refusing to jail sex offenders on the basis of overcrowded prisons, or failing to restrict the travel of convicted drug traffickers, the blunders of the Home Office would have been hilarious if they didn't have such grave implications for our quality of life. Hats off to Mr. Reid and the gang, whose ill-thought-out attempt to deflect attention from the latest spate of escaped murderers from open prisons by proposing a schism in the department was barely sufficient to cover even a day's worth of news. We thought we'd better include them now, as by next month the whole thing could have been renamed the Prisons, Immigration and Security Service, with hilarious consequences for all.

George W. Bush

Even by the normal standards of Washington, January has been a particularly foolish month for the Commander-in-Chief of the "War on Terrrr". While popular opinion at home and abroad seems to advocate a "strategic withdrawal" (read: run like hell) from the hornet's nest that is Iraq, Bushie's solution has been the same as it was last time. And the time before that. And the several times before that, too; namely, to send in more troops. Rumours that Bush's military strategy was being dictated to him by someone with an abnormally high chromosome count were unable to be verified, so we couldn't award Bush our highest honour. Yet.

Jade Goody

While the Waste of Space officially despises reality TV and has nothing to do with it, the debacle that is Celebrity Big Get Me Out Of The Idol Factor hasn't escaped our notice. In particular, the antics of a so-called "celebrity" (whose status, ironically enough, stems from a lack of success on a previous reality TV show) have been deplorable at best. It would be unkind to exploit the negative press this individual has been receiving for a few cheap laughs, but thankfully cheap laughs is our business. Not only that, but destroying the credibility of any "reality TV star" is something we're more than happy to do. Congratulations, Jade, for first-class idiocy.

The Catholic Church of Britain

This minor religious fringe group has been causing trouble this month, in protest against new laws preventing discrimination against homosexuals. The Catholic Church, who run several publicly funded adoption agencies in the UK, have pointed out that this new legislation will impede their freedom to berate homosexuals and condemn them to Hell. Worse, it will compel them to give away innocent children to households of ignorant sodomites - all of whom will now doubtless be queueing at the door of their nearest adoption agency, clamouring to exploit this blatant discrimination against the Church. The Waste of Space says: Why are we letting a church run an adoption agency anyway?

THE WINNER:

All of our Honourable Mentions strived (strove?) very hard to achieve great levels of incompetence and idiocy over the last month. However, their foolishness pales in comparison to this month's winner. It is our great pleasure to award the inaugural Waste of Space Award to the individual who has, by far, been the biggest Waste of Space of the month. The award goes to:

Kent Hovind

For the uninitiated, Kent Hovind is a Christian evangelist whose Creation Science Evangelism ministry tours the United States, teaching children and adults alike the truths that the miserable and nasty Richard Dawkins has been trying to hide from us for so long: the world is six thousand years old, there really was a global flood in the time of Noah and dinosaurs did coexist with humans. Kent wins our award for his services to incompetence: this month he was jailed for ten years for tax evasion. He should think himself lucky - the maximum sentence the judge could have imposed on him was 288 years.

Congratulations, Kent, for defrauding the American public with your lies about science, and then defrauding them again by failing to pay your taxes. We salute your stupidity, and remind you of that famous Biblical verse:

Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and render unto God the things that are God's. But for those things that are neither Caesar's nor God's, feel free to write them off; for yea, they be deductible.

- The Gospel according to Red Andy, 9:21-22.

It's a shame the IRS didn't think your income was deductible.

This was the least smug-looking picture we could find of Kent Hovind. Really.

From all of us here at the Waste of Space:

Revolutionary and award-giving regards,

Red Andy