Yes, your rage, you nut. Not mine. Share your furies in the comment box below and feel one fuck of a lot better for it. Go on, get it off your heaving chest and let the Kraken mop your fevered brow…
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The week after I lost my job as a writer, a piece of POS appeared above a display in Matalan, proclaiming: “NO NONCENCE T-SHIRTS”
After 38 years of taking great pride in my own spelling, grammar and punctuation, how good did that make me feel on that day in June when I went to sign-on for my pittance down at the Beggar’s Bank?
I must say, all credit to Matalan for correcting it a couple of weeks later but that didn’t warm to to the – presumably fully-employed – wanker who penned the original.
Whoa! But I didn’t hear anything in the news about you running amok through the store with a sharpened towel rail. Fat-handed bastards.
Hope things are better on the job front these days. Something tells me that Matalan might have room for a guy who knows the difference between a dictionary and a bucket of swill.
On Tuesday morning I got fed up with a sore throat and swollen glands that had been threatening to overwhelm me since the weekend.
I phoned the GPs receptionist, who assured me that I didn’t need to see the doctor and they could have a prescription for anti-biotics ready at the pharmacy of my choice by the end of the day.
I worked late on Tues, so called at 09:00 Weds morning. Nope, nothing. Pharmacist phoned GP receptionist who confirmed, from online notes, that doctor had signed for some medicine. They’d fax up a copy, but no-one could locate the original form.
I left chemist to go to work. Got back to shop to find it was Wednesday and they close for a half-day!
Weds night had hardly any sleep from raging, burning throat that was so tight I could hardly sip water, and now throbbing pain in Eustachian tubes.
Thurs morning, no voice; ear ache; cancelled work (got cover for shift) and went back to Chemist. STILL no fax. They suggested I go to GP surgery.
Felt so wobbly decided not to try parking, so went home and slept. Phoned GP’s surgery and they confirmed that they had had another prescription signed (since original had vanished) and it was waiting for the pharmacy to call in and collect it. The Pharmacy apparently call in on Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays. I whispered to ask why it wasn’t faxed. Oh she said, no-one asked us to fax the copy, if they had, we’d have pencilled a letter “f” on the prescription pad. At this point I strained to force out enough squeaks to mention that I wasn’t f*ing impressed.
Finally, at 16:00 on Thurs afternoon I collected a bottle of one week’s worth of tablets from the Chemist. Luckily they have now started to work and I managed to function enough today not to have any more time off.
Had I called in to see the doctor, and bypassed the receptionist, the whole thing would have taken less than an hour.
In the meantime, I ordered a book online on Tues afternoon/evening. I had two emails, the second one gave me a parcel tracking code, and the postman knocked at 07:00 on Weds morning.
I am having a problem with the concept of health SERVICE.
Jesus, service that ain’t. It sounds hellish! How much faffing about should it take to get a fistful of antibiotics?
Here is my rage, at my current and probably soon to be ex man crush, Crush 2.0
“Dear Crush 2.0
What the fuck?? Three months of knowing you, talking to you on FB for pretty much hours everyday, hanging out til after midnight and everyone’s gone at open mic nights every week, the night you came over and cooked for me, we stayed up drinking and then you hung out here the whole next day, like I’d suddenly acquired a house husband, me dropping hints like crazy, you not doing anything to put me off the idea – and after all this I finally pluck up the courage to ask the blindingly fucking obvious question ‘is this friends or something else?’ – because a blind bat with its eyes gouged out and stuck up its backside could see we’re clearly on the something else page by now (I sat up and listened to your recordings of rain for fucks sake!!!! You think I do that for someone I’m not interested in????) and you’re response is ‘We all need friends ’ and that’s it, before you disappear off into some philosophical bullshit about reality versus ideas, because you don’t have the balls to say ‘yes I like you’ or ‘no I’m not interested’. Seriously, man the fuck up!!! Maybe you meet attractive people of the opposite sex who you get on with as well as we do every day of your fucking life, but I don’t, you know that, and you’ve known that for quite a while, so I am fucking angry that I was totally, heart-on-the-line straight with you, and you couldn’t be arsed or were just too gutless to do the same back. For fucks sake. Sort your fucking life out and tell me what the fuck is going on in your head or fuck the fuck off.
Damn I feel better now. Thanks Kraken
My pleasure, darling. What a fuckatollah! And recordings of rain? I’d never listen to one of those unless it was to bag me a shag. Lovely girl, I feel your pain. In fact, this rant is so fabulous that it should be published somewhere.
Thank you darling!! I did enjoy it!!! and seriously, no one listens to recordings of rain unless they’re trying to get laid!!!
Bastard self service tills! I’ve scanned it. You know it’s there. IT’S NOT UNEXPECTEDLY IN THE BAGGING AREA. And I’m not shoplifting, so stop surreptitiously looking at the carrier bag to make sure, you old bag. *stress, stress*
I. Fucking. Hate. Self. Service. Tills.
They never do what they are supposed to do and my ire is further provoked when assistants offer to do it for me: “Just open the bastard freaking checkouts and serve me properly, will ya!”
Even B&Q have the fucking things now. So not only do you have to waggle and entire kitchen through the checkout but you have to twat about with the bar codes too.
I hate that you get treated like a criminal when you’re buying a pint of milk. “Did you use your own bags? Really?” Unexpected item in the bagging area? Yeah, my rage.
p oliticians, please. Of course I know that some people are bastards who will steal and scrounge, this annoys me, but I accept it will happen sometimes. But please for fuck sake surely you can see that it’s much more annoying to be scrounged off by someone who is doing a shitload better than me already, than to be scrounged off by someone who has no money, a shit life with few prospects?
So please stop trying to tell me that my jobless neighbour is the problem because she’s on welfare and needs some help for a while, and instead concentrate on the already wealthy individuals who are responsible for leeching BILLIONS from the economy, who take advantage of our (tax funded) infrastructure to make a lot if money, who set up complex accounting arrangements to hide their income, bank offshore and pay nothing back. I have no common cause with the scroungers at that end if the system, stop trying to tell me that they are good for our country. They fucking aren’t.
Oh Father Pie, I think I might love you…
Actually I thought if something even more annoying – cats shitting in my fucking vegetables
Nothing like a tag nut in your curly kale, is there?
I don’t even know what that means but it sounds awful
Ever have a week where you’ve had to bite your tongue too many times to count? Here are some of the things I wish I’d been able to say this week but haven’t, all mixed together so I don’t offend anyone directly:
You’re too stupid to own a computer… In your face, GL, IN YOUR FUCKING FACE… Stop pretending you’re not crying inside… I miss you and I wish you hadn’t gone… No, really, you’re too stupid to own a computer… Sorry, that was really TMI and I wish I hadn’t said it (but they really were green!)… I don’t care which of you geeks caused the bloody problem, but fix it before I turn up at your house and destroy your Millennium Falcon model… Trollies is IES not YS, for fuck’s sake… how on earth do you expect me to advertise a course about sexuality without using the word “sex”?… I know the pair of you acted out of the best of intentions, but thanks a fucking bundle for fucking up what should have been a nice family weekend… You’re not your, FFS… Enable the fucking pop-ups like you were asked to in the first place… If you haven’t completed the course before deadline, don’t start it at two hours to go and expect me to sort out your incompetance… I wish you could see things the way I do, and were prepared to listen… see this? It’s a computer – and you’re too stupid to own one… etc etc etc
Go get ‘em darling! I’m going to make you a honorary kraken.
I did enquire how else they thought we could advertise a course called “Sex, sexuality and disabled children”, (which just sounds like it’s asking for a Saville gag…), just so we could get it through firewalls without being tagged as offensive. Nookie? Rumpy pumpy?!?
You know what has been annoying me lately, actually filling me with rage? My surname. Well actually my two surnames. I don’t like either of them. Both were given to me by men. I could have chosen not to use my married (I’m separated now) name of “Byrne”. Then I thought, “hang on, my maiden name of Sims was given to me by my father – I didn’t have a choice in that either!”. Two surnames, both from men who, let’s say, are not my favourite people! So I was thinking that sometime in the future, I might just change my name by deed poll to a surname that I actually like, one that I choose, not one that I’m stuck with because of my relationship to any man. Anyone else ever get annoyed about their surname(s)?
Great comment and I’d never thought about it in this way before. I kept my maiden name when I got wed because it’s my name and not a symbol of who ‘owns’ me. My daughter also has my name and my husband’s name as a hyphenated effort. The pressure to ‘take’ a man’s name is huge though! The explaining I have had to do over this choice has been astounding and only made me even more determined to do it. And yeah, why not change your name if you want to? I think it’s a great idea, especially if your current name has annoying connotations.
My surname isn’t even my father’s, it’s my stepfather’s. But at least he chose to take me on and didn’t move without leaving a forwarding address, so I think he has rather more right to give me a name than the other one did. Great rant though.
i would not go back to my father’s name. never even met the bastard!
Shopping trollies – not any one particular stores trollies but all of the fuckers. I have never been to any store and actually managed to get a trolley to go in the same direction as myself. Fresh veg – no lets bypass that coz my wheels want to take me to frozen. By Christ it annoys me. And now at most stores if you want a trolley you have to put a pound in the slot to release one and then what happens you get one of the fuckers with wonky wheels and no sense of direction. Boy it makes my blood boil . I believe that each store should have an employee that test drives each trolley each day and any that don’t go in a straight line go to trolley heaven. Oh no wait a minute that means that there will be no trolleys left and we will have to use baskets but hey at least someone will be employed checking.
Darling, I feel your wheel-based pain. If we can put machines on Mars you’d think we could make four castors all go in the same fucking direction.
My rant is about idiots who think it’s starbucks fault that they don’t pay tax, instead of the morons who wrote the laws around tax. And who then decide they’ll boycott starbucks – what they ought to do is go in and ask for the cup of coffee we as taxpayers deserve for subsidising their business. Because you can’t tell me that none of their staff are receiving in work benefits, they are. Meaning we are paying for them to work for Starbucks.
Gah. Incoherent, but still raging.
I can’t think of a single company that wouldn’t try to get away with this if it could. Starbucks exists to make money so if it can do that without coughing up tax that’s exactly what it is going to do. Rocket science, it ain’t.
There’s a man in this pub called Jonty. He has a coat that looks like a quilt and stupid glasses. His arms are folded and when someone says something funny he says ‘Oh. That’s very good.’
Whoa! I shit you not, SAHD, earlier today I was thinking of how Jonty was a really fucking annoying name. And this particular Jonty sounds really annoying indeed. Do me a favour. Buy some pork scratchings and chuck one at him, will you? Ta, love.
The Mummy Mafia on the school playground. Individually they seem quite noce peaople, as a pack they are nothing more than bitches. I don’t care if my clothes don’t have the right labels, I don’t give a sod if I haven’t got a full face of slap on, or my hair isn’t coiffed into the perfect style and I don’t give a rats’s arse if I don’t drive a brand new 4×4.
Aaarrrgh sorry for the typos……tired and emotional (read on my 1st glass of wine)
God, it sounds hideous. If I were you I’d drink that wine before going into the playground, not after.
The playground is poison. I have adopted the ‘drive by’. This entails me screeching up outside school in a very small car, unrecognisable from the dog hair and mud, whilst the door is opened and my son is jettisoned from the passenger seat before I zoom off down the road. At pick up I am deliberately late in order to meet my son who has been given strict instructions as to where to wait so I can again retrieve him without ever getting out of the car. It works for me.
Woah! Sounds like military precision. And, yeah, I hate the playground too. You are so not alone.
Absolutely. I term the playground leader ‘Golden Goose.’ The imagery makes her and the gaggle ‘slightly” more bearable. *Honk, waddle, shakes bum feathers…*
So many things this week, I’ll start with the petty stuff-
My friend and her ‘car as status symbol shit’ I don’t care about cars so long as its safe and reliable. My husband being out three nights so far this week, missing the kids bedtime then being a dick about my plans to go out for one night next week.
On a more serious note I am incandescent with rage and despair over the death of Savita Halappanavar, I was raised in a catholic household and this is not, nor ever will be justified by any faith, I’m absolutely repulsed at the disregard and incompetence this poor woman suffered.
Thanks m’love. Despair and rage are good words and yes it is unjustifiable. Utterly and totally.
my rage is primarily focussed at my landlords, and the estate agents they use to keep us at arm’s length. on a deeper level though my rage is for all dodgy landlords (is there another kind?) and estate agents everywhere, as well as all members of the property-owning classes and those with any political power whatsoever in this country who i believe are all responsible for allowing the housing situation to be such a bloody nightmare for all but the extremely lucky.
i have never had a stable home since the day i left my parents aged 17. i’ve rented privately, i’ve squatted, i’ve lived in nurses accomodation in the middle of fucking hospital carpark, in student halls, i once had a council tenancy but i shared it with a very angry man who was so bad for my mental health i had to leave (and because we’d never had sex and i wasn’t willing to make him homeless i lost all rights to that flat and became officially classed as having made myself “intentionally homeless” which means years without any help whatsoever from my local authority) and i once lived in a housing co-op which no longer exists because the space it sat on was needed for a car park for folk attending the olympics.
i was living in a lovely flat with a friend, up until last summer. we were both doing sex work and so could afford the ridiculous rent we were being charged. ignored the petty rules and regulations and the snobbery of our unfriendly neighbours. that was nice, for a while, until my partner (not my flatmate) raped me. this triggered severe PTSD and depression which my flatmate could not handle living with, and left me utterly unable to contemplate having sex with anybody, however much they paid me. so then i became homeless again.
another friend suggested getting a group of us together and finding a place to live that we could afford, that i could afford even on housing benefit. it took some effort, energy and time but we managed it. last autumn 6 of us moved into a four bedroom place right next to a large park, and it felt good. we share meals, buy healthy food in bulk together, and although it’s often hard emotional work sharing a relatively small space with so many people, it mostly works well. three of us have mental health diagnoses, all of us have lived through difficult times, but we support each other and share what we have with each other, whether materially or emotionally. i feel relatively safe here.
if only it wasn’t riddled with mould, i could even be happy sometimes. but it is.
because you lied to us didn’t you, landlords and estate agents. you lied and you covered up and you ripped us off.
you pretended there was no mould problem at all at first. then we showed you the mould, last winter, as it crept across our bedroom walls, you feigned shock and surprise. you promised to treat it. you sent men into our home, into our bedrooms, who poked at it and who make more promises. of course you only did that week later, after we had asked and asked and asked that you do something. until we had threated you and harrassed you and used up all the energy we did not have.
sometimes they claimed to be treating it, with expensive products that you complained were costing you dearly. until i innocently pointed out that the products being used were nothing more than paint. just paint. water to wash the black marks off with, and paint to cover over what was left. ok maybe i am being unfair now, there was one man who did use an actual anti-mould product at one point last winter (or was it spring by then? it went on so long my memory has gone). but did he apply it properly? of course not. why would he waste his valuable time doing that?
when the mould inevitably returned we knew better than to bother asking for your help with it. we read up on the internet and we talked to friends and family and we treated it the way we learnt was best. all just temporary treatments, because as you well know the actual real way to properly treat this mould would be to fix the pointing, to do real work on the outside of the house so that the rain stays out instead of trickling down my bedroom wall on the inside, making my pillows and duvet wet.
so we treated it on a temporary basis, knowing we would have to do it again and again and again. which is where we are at now. because now it’s back worse than ever. and still you don’t care, and still there’s no point repeatedly telling you because if you were to actually do the work on your property to make it inhabitable for human beings you would lose profits, wouldn’t you, mr and mrs landlord. you wouldn’t be as rich as you are, you wouldn’t get as much money in your bank account, and that’s what it’s all about it isn’t it.
so instead i spend day after day sorting out which of my personal possessions i can save, and which have too much mould growing out of them to be salvagable, and i throw the latter out. no matter that they are irreplacable, that the 6 year old who drew that picture is no longer here, or that that particular copy of that book was given to me at a specific moment in my life which is past now and which i did not want to ever forget. the mould has spread so fast through my room this last fortnight that there is no wall free of it, and still it snakes across the ceiling spreading further every day while all i have time and energy to do is sort through my belongings, and carry them in sealed binbags across to the bins outside.
apparently i don’t get to have nice furniture in my home, nor precious pictures, books, or knick knacks.
apparently i don’t get to live in a clean space which does not pollute my lungs every time i breathe.
apparently i’m not worthy of such luxuries. i am poor, therefore i get to share my home with black mould and indoor rain instead.
just as long as you still pocket the profits, hey, that’s what really matters isn’t it.
from your pissed-off tenant B.
Darling, thank you, thank you. I can only hope that hollering this at my blog has helped to get some of the awful pressure off your chest. I’ve had some spectacularly heinous landlords in my time too (one of whom stalked me) but nothing on this scale. All I can offer is a tiny bit of understanding but one fuck of a lot more rage that you’ve had to put up with all of this for so long. I can only hope that things get better soon and until then you’re free to rage it all away on here any time you like.
thank you. it does actually help, having a space i can vent. writing that helped. this website helps. thank you for making this space for us all.
I nearly punched the radio.
They had an item on women bishops, and had two women on talking about it – both from within the church.
One was a liberal voice, supported women bishops. The other one was completely anti. Committed member of the Anglican church, blah blah blah, but said that it was in Genesis that men and women were created together, and that men had absolute authority over women, it was in the Bible, and that the church should reflect that. Then went on into the Episcopalian church in America, and what a mess it was in (ie allowing gay priests etc, shock horror, but not actually saying that).
I cannot understand how anyone as a woman can feel that way. How anyone can think so little of themselves that they should submit to the authority of a bloke.
Made my blood boil.
Women’s Hour does not usually make my blood boil. This is new.
Fuck me, Lucy. I have no idea what makes any woman think that this is OK. None at all. The bible also says that women should slaughter pigeons on the last day of their period. Wonder if this bishop does that too.
I read or heard something a couple of days ago now, which I can’t remember where the life of me was – otherwise I’d post the link here – about working mothers.
The crux of the article seemed to be written from the point of view that it was the duty of the mother to stay home and look after her children. But, oh no, they didn’t actually say that – they dressed it up in different clothes.
The angle seemed to be that if a woman was unlucky enough to feel that she has no choice to go out to work to support her family and increase the family income, that she should be supported in that choice.
What the fucking fuck? It takes the view point that a “natural” motherhood precept is that you will want to stay home with your offspring to nurture their wellbeing. And that “having” to go out to work is somehow unnatural??!!!
Jesus fucking wept (and when typing that I still hear my daughter saying “why was Jesus wet, Mummy?”). What about the mother’s needs? The mother’s mental health? The mother’s sense of balance?
I know many stay at home mums who are happy with their choice, but equally I know loads of working mothers who are best suited by a balance of work and child rearing.
This has been making me grind my teeth for three days now. I wish I could remember where I read/heard the original bit.
Oh. My. Fuck. Please don’t tell me it was the Daily Mail. This has made me put my head in my hands.
No, I don’t think it was the Mail. It may have even been the Guardian or Thought For The Day on the Today Programme. Certainly something relatively sensible anyway.
Or maybe it was a link to something in the Telegraph or something…
I read an article in the Guardian (I don’t know what I expected, but still) and am now FUCKED OFF at people telling me what I should and shouldn’t do because I happen to be a mother.
I SHOULD BE AT WORK AND MY KID SHOULD BE AT NURSERY. Oh FUCK OFF. I don’t WANT to put my kid in nursery. I WANT to be at home with her. I STILL WORK SO WHAT’S YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM, YOU CUNT? AND WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF YOURS WHAT I CHOOSE TO DO WITH MY LIFE AND MY CHILD?
I AM UNFEMINIST BECAUSE I CHOOSE TO WORK FROM HOME AND BE WITH MY CHILD RATHER THAN PUT HER IN NURSERY. Again, FUCK OFF. Isn’t feminism supposed to be about CHOICE? THIS IS MY CHOICE, YOU COCK-KNOCKER.
How would YOU feel if I started pointing at you and saying ‘hey you, child-free Annie. You should have a kid. Chop fucking chop. Hey you, working mother. You should be at home, you know.’ You’d be furious and call me a cunt so WHY is it OK for you to do it to me?
Thanks Cath, I feel much better now xx
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