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