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