What do you call someone subjected to bad jokes at inappropriate moments? Shermaine...

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

According to Shakespeare, all the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely players. It’s a fantastic line that I completely agree with. But where does it say that it’s a stage in a comedy club?

I love comedy and, contrary to having achieved Grumpy status years ago, it is quite easy to make me laugh. Whether it be a sit com or a stand-up comic, I’m usually game and can often be found cackling at the most childish of slapstick scenes. It’s my guilty pleasure. There are people who barely have to do anything to make me laugh—tears streaming, belly cramping guffaws—but it is always in the right context.

What I hate more than people who think they’re funny, are those that attempt to pedal their particular brand of humour when the occasion doesn’t call for it. I wonder whether the explosion of social networking and general electronic communication (grrr, text speak) has hindered people’s ability to read emotions and act accordingly.

Is a sense of entitlement killing off our manners?

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

As a Grumpy Young Woman, it would be so easy for me to complain about the distinct lack of manners that society seems to have suffered. When it comes to examples, I’m so spoilt for choice that I’d be here from now until Dooms Day. And I don’t have that kind of time.

Instead, I would have thought that considering the cause of the bad manners would be prudent and might, somehow, make it easier to beat it out of the ill-mannered offenders—er—I mean, nip the problem in the bud. Yes, that was it, nip it in the bud.

Through some painstaking, scientific research (what do you mean the School of Hard Knocks isn’t a recognised institution? Besides, it was confirmed by the University of Life!) I have discovered one of the reasons. Ready? The misguided notion that the culprits are entitled to be rude as whatever gracious act that came their way is owed to them. That’s right, they don’t have to be grateful for what they have a right to. And this distinct sense of self-importance seems to be spreading.

Imagine being asked for directions:

“Excuse me, can you please tell me where X is?”

“Sure. Follow this road to the junction, take a left and then the first right/Sorry, I’m not sure.”
“Great, thanks for your help/no problem.”

Sounds like a familiar process? Ah, but that is when you’re approached by a sane and lucid person. If this has always been your experience, count yourself lucky. Now imagine not getting a request for directions, but a demand. Aggressive voice, aggressive expression, no please or thank you before they storm off on getting a reply.

Even if my purpose in life was to give people directions, I would still expect some manners. How naive I am. My response? “Los siento, no comprendo Ingles.” Find it your damn self. These morons are often too ignorant to even be able to speak their native English, let alone any other language.

Words are wonderful things—allowing us to convey all sorts of information. For example, 'do not smoke in my home'. Should be a simple enough instruction. Not for the asinine few. The asinine will ask for permission, not get it and smoke anyway.

As a volunteer, I suspect that I have inadvertently become part of fated ‘Big Society’ (though you can’t hear me, rest assured that my voice is dripping with contempt when I utter the phrase) which our esteemed leader (more contempt) so loves to promote. For the most part, the people I help are lovely and full of gratitude.

But then there are those that act like you’re working for them rather than simply assisting, they point to a PC and stare at you blankly, expecting your telepathy to kick in. They expect assistance that isn’t even offered and, yet, fail to reply with a tiny word of thanks when you do go out of your way to help.

I’m a pedestrian yet even I’m aggravated by those who seem to slow down when crossing in front of a car that has stopped for them. What is that about? Are people really that absurd? Save your evil look for when it’s absolutely necessary- like when someone tries to mug you or a cashier gives you the wrong change.

Bless my mum for teaching me my Ps and Qs, but I wonder whether her work was wasted. The way things are going, I may as well join the crowd. I reckon I’d make a great diva—where’s my mineral water and basket of puppies? Read more by Shermaine.

Please drink responsibly? Many of us already do, thank you very much!

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

Ah, the New Year. The calm after the storm, or should that be the slump after the storm? Storm, at least, is the right word, as there always seems to be a certain amount of recovery required. Well, it is assumed that recovery is required, with the finger steadily aimed at us, the young.

It is a special time of year, bringing a sense of hope with the newness of it all, as well as an excuse to celebrate to incapacity. I say excuse; it’s almost a requirement as anything else will simply not do.

I have to make an admission, which may seem like a strange one for a woman my age, so brace yourself but, I barely drink. I can’t say that I’m teetotal, but I’m much closer to that than to the habits of those I hear screaming incoherently as they stagger along my street at three in the morning. I do drink, but not to excess and not that regularly.

If that is the way you choose to celebrate, more power to you. However, that shouldn’t result in the assumption that all of us will do the same. I resent it. In the week before Christmas, at an event I attend regularly, I was told that I didn’t have to come in the following week. Not because the facility was closed, but because it was assumed that I would be the worse for wear. The phrase “on the sauce” was actually used.

I did briefly wonder whether there was something else about me that gives the impression that I’m an irresponsible lush – maybe people just think that I need a drink – but I quickly rubbished that idea. It’s just what’s expected from the young during the festive period. It starts at Christmas and lasts until well into the New Year. We’re all supposed to be drinking on a constant basis in a period when asking for a soft drink earns you a look usually reserved for recently crash-landed aliens.

Alcohol makes me talk nonsense and feel sleepy. I recall a particular occasion in my younger days when I was involved in a full-blown, alcohol-inspired debate about the type of fabrics that shrink and/or stretch in the washing machine – no use, or interest, to anyone.

Of course, the effects wear off, but that just leaves me feeling as though I have spent the night swallowing rocks and stuffing cotton wool into every orifice in my head. So forgive me if I want to avoid it, but I’m perfectly capable of having a good time with little or no alcohol.

This is especially handy when you recognise that the world continues to turn and things still need to be done; things that are infinitely easier when you don’t have to hold your head for fear of it floating away or falling off, or praying to the porcelain Gods.

The tradition of New Year’s resolutions seems to me to be rooted in the need to detox after all the revelry. I can’t help thinking life would be so much easier if people didn’t assume that we are all in the same position of needing hangover cures and calling in sick. And, from what I can see, this tendency is certainly not confined to the young – whether grumpy or not. Read more by Shermaine.

Deck the halls with ob-li-ga-tions, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaa

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

GRUMPY CHRISTMAS

Ah, that season is upon us. Winter? Yes, that’s arrived. Like every news programme has already confirmed, it’s cold, snow is falling and we can’t handle it. We know. But that’s not the only thing lurking around the corner, waiting to make our lives more difficult.

I’m talking about the ‘holiday’ season. Whisper it quietly...Christmas. I almost forgot all about it until I was kindly reminded by my efficient borough council who hung Christmas lights in the middle of November. How I love paying my council tax. They seem to be of the same mind as television executives. It started with issuing reminders early, insisting on adding jingling bells to perfectly serviceable theme tunes and boasting about their imminent festive programme schedule. All the same old movies as last year, then? Can’t wait.

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure why it’s called a holiday as the whole concept of ‘time off work’seems redundant. There is always more than enough work to replace that undertaken as part of the normal day job. And you’re not getting paid for all the extra toil.

The reason why it is so problematic: it’s the season of obligations. From cards to gifts to food, they all bring their own duties and tasks. Of course, you have to send a card to everyone that sends you one – trees, be damned! First class Christmas stamps must be purchased, even if the service is actually rather third class.
Technology minded types have worked hard to make sure we have the wonders of telephones and email, lets not waste their gifts. Besides, ‘charity’ Christmas card makers often only give a pathetic fraction of their profits to good causes. You’re better off giving the money directly to a homeless shelter yourself.

We must all buy excessive amounts of food, especially all those that are disliked by many and end up getting thrown away. Well, a bin overflowing with sprouts is traditional, isn’t it? Though the stomach doesn’t suddenly develop a larger capacity, eating to excess is now requirement. Possibly because it makes it easy to choose ‘go to the gym’ as a new year’s resolution.

Recession? What recession? Spend, dammit, spend! Christ’s birth? Who? It’s all about consumerism, which means having to work out what to get people and, for some, taking into account what they got you last year. Of course, the wonders of the Internet mean you don’t have to trudge the cold streets, but then you have to concern yourself with an inept postal service. All for the sake of those essential gifts.

You’re duty-bound to see every member of your extended family- whether you like or get on with them regardless. That can never be good. I’m sure the pressure to have a fantastic time is how all the traditional Christmas arguments begin; exhausted and stressed that infernal goodwill to all ends up working against you.

The problem of feeling obliged is so widespread that even pop stars are suffering. They are obliged to record (bad) cover versions of Christmas songs to inflict them on the world when the season of giving rolls around. Well, they have to make a few bob somehow – they need those royalties to pay for multiple cars, houses, boob jobs, divorces etc.

There is an easy way to improve Christmas...only do what is necessary. Decrease the pressure, increase the pleasure. Easy to say, but imagine how stress free it could all be if you only adopted the attitude: it doesn’t have to be done and I’m not doing any more than needed. Partial bah humbug! Read more by Shermaine

Timing can be everything when it comes to birthdays

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

BIRTHDAY SPECIAL

The first thing I have to make clear is that I don’t mind getting old. Yes, I’m a woman; yes, I’ve reached my thirties, but it still doesn’t bother me. Not all stereotypes are true, you know! I can’t see the problem with growing older; I like the idea of automatically gaining wisdom (at least being seen that way) and demanding respect (because I apparently earned it). I fully intend to grow old disgracefully, making use of all the perks (hmm, bus pass?) and making up for the sober years of my youth ... What are you laughing at?

Anyway, the passing of time is not the problem because, much like taxes (for some of us), it cannot be avoided. Besides, I can’t think of anything worse than living longer than necessary. It makes me picture some type of horrible Death Becomes Her nightmare with endless maintenance being necessary after bits start falling off. No, my issue lies with the manner in which the annual event is marked. Or, more specifically and selfishly, my annual event.

I’m convinced that things would be so different if I had been born in the middle of summer or even with the arrival of spring – doesn’t everything look better when trees are blooming and daffodils sprout? I can’t enjoy this benefit – I was born in the dead of winter. Those who know me will be aware that I hate winter. The sun and I are great friends. What use do I have for cold, wind, rain and snow? What delight can be found in leaving home in the darkness and coming home in the darkness? Apart from the benefits to muggers, burglars and similar members of the criminal fraternity, that is.

This is the backdrop to my birthday, the deepest darkest depths of winter when frigid misery is the order of the day – everyday – until the clocks change again. No one wants to celebrate in these conditions. Not only is the most basic journey a hassle, you certainly don’t want to go somewhere that makes you queue outside to get in.

Not only does the season make for a hateful birthday, but it is also right after New Year and, hence, very close to Christmas. This creates the phenomenon that many December- and January-born people will be aware of: the two-in-one present. What is that? We get the privilege of buying them separate gifts while they get to buy just one? This aint Nike; don’t do it! I know everyone’s broke after Christmas and New Year and, yet, I don’t care. I have to make the effort, so should everyone else.

I have a reason to be extra grumpy because I share my birthday with a sibling. No, not a twin, but exactly six years apart. My mum, bless her, always made an effort when we were children, even after all the hassle of Christmas and New Year, which included a cake that comprised half blue and half pink icing. I suspect that has something to do with my hatred of pink. I had only six years of being special, now I only get half the amount of birthday greetings.

Positive spin is an effort; right after the festive season, shared with my brother, a wondrous winter wonderland *sigh*. Yes, it's all so special. Gimme my two presents, dammit! And a whole cake. Read more by Shermaine.

Mind your backs! Shermaine coming through

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

In those hazy, crazy days when I was a teenager, many moons ago, I was in a mad rush to pass my driving test. Like many other teenagers, I thought a driving licence was some type of badge of honour. Like an ASBO is nowadays.

Despite driving with one hand on the steering wheel and one on the gear stick, taking my eyes off the road to check my pager (it was a long time ago) and speeding through a roundabout in third gear, I passed and got my licence but suspect the examiner fell asleep. The precious little laminated card remains nestled in my purse, though I couldn’t tell you where the paper counterpart is. And don't ask me what I do with it.

Does it act as proof of my legal right to operate a vehicle on the highway, I hear you ask. Of course it doesn’t. It is a means of identification when I need it. Like a few years ago when I was asked for it when buying a bottle of Baileys – ah, that was a good day. Anyway, it will remain as mere ID for the time being because I’m a pedestrian. The past truly is a foreign country as I have no desire to be a driver; I like being a pedestrian, walking is part of my exercise routine (blast those calves – or quads, or whatever they are.)

As much as I love it, it’s not always that easy. There are a great many hazards that you need to contend with when opting for a power-walk. For some reason, many of the pavements around where I live seem narrower than most, made worse by the addition of shop boards and furniture, bushes and trees, and on-going construction. It gets even worse when you live on a thoroughfare for drunkards and animals – they really are messy buggers. While one leaves behind broken glass bottles, the other leaves ripped open rubbish bags. Both also like to display their meals, and not always before it’s been eaten. Generous to a fault.

Another recycling box has just arrived adding to those that are already left strewn along the pavement to turn it into a slalom. I’ve heard some people complain that all the clutter from recycling boxes reduces property values – really? – I’m not concerned about that, more about tripping over them and doing myself a mischief.

Apparently, the roads aren’t sufficient for car drivers – they need to park on the pavements. How kind of them to turn a simple walk into an obstacle course that involves squeezing past a car or dodging them when walking in the road.

At least the stationary hazards are easier to avoid: movement causes all manner of problems. Skaters, scooter riders and cyclists have been joined by mini-motorbikes (what on earth is the point?) and moped riders (seriously!) forcing the need to dodge them like a character in a computer game. Isn’t every vehicle on wheels supposed to be in the road?

That solution would also deal with the pushchair, especially with those that like to offer an optical illusion – such as those that you still can’t see after squinting at it for several long minutes. See how they make you think they’re standing behind it, when in fact they are pushing it while standing to one side. See how they block anyone from passing by. It doesn’t get much better when the rugrats start walking as they seem to have no sense of direction; no matter what you do to avoid them when they run along the pavement, they seem to follow you like you’re a target.

Aww, a loved up couple holding hands...how lovely. Must they stand as far away from each other as their arms will allow? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of holding hands? More importantly, stop blocking the pavement and get out of my way! Then they have the audacity to tut when a polite “excuse me” is offered by those in a hurry. Clearly, pushing past is much more effective. The trouble you have to go through for a bit of exercise – maybe I’d be better off in a car after all. Read more by Shermaine.

Kids say the darnedest, most inappropriate things...

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

I like to think of myself as a fan of music, happy to listen to a range of genres from Billie Holiday to Buju Banton (“Who? Who?” That’s jazz and Dancehall for the uninitiated). However, at the moment, I couldn’t even tell you who is currently filling the charts. Not because I have suddenly gone off music, but something a touch more sinister.

On the occasions when I do hear the strains of some song or other from the charts, whether from a passing car’s sub-woofer (is that the name for one of those powerful speakers that only seem to play bass?) or some neon-tainted television programme, I don’t like what I hear. There seems to be concerted effort on the part of music executives (I believe the blame can be laid at Simon Cowell’s door) to fill the charts with younger and younger people.

I’m not sure that it would be so bad if they were actually singing about something that concerned them (puberty and acne anyone?). But there is something distinctly creepy about a youngster crooning about adult themes. Children should not know about love (unless it’s the type of love that they use to refer to their feelings about pizza or a particular sports brand), or heartbreak, or seduction, or sex. The idea that they do and feel the need to sing about it is a touch cringe-worthy.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that in general children seem to think that they are more grown up than they actually are. However, I really don’t think that it is a situation that should be encouraged: nothing good can come of it. All that happens is that weirdness reigns – from the sublime to the ridiculous. From the moronic teenagers who attack strangers without provocation to a young girl I spied – who could not have been more than about 10 years old – wearing heels larger than my own three inches.

Equally strange are the children’s beauty pageants that are so prevalent in the US and becoming more popular here. There’s nothing quite like seeing a pre-teen with a fake tan fretting about her false hair and make-up. In this country, we are already known for high levels of underage pregnancy; do we really want to make it worse? From ridiculous heels for a baby to a thong bikini for an eight-year-old, there seems to be no chance for children just to be children.

I’m sure there might be some people out there who are only to happy for the opportunity to buy a stripper’s pole for their little girl but, do me a favour, don’t let them sing about it. Read more by Shermaine.

Imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

It’s not me that has the identity crisis, you understand, I am perfectly aware of who I am. It’s other people who don’t seem to get it. The trouble started when a friend of my sister reliably informed her that she had befriended me on Facebook. Hmm, really? That must have been difficult seeing as I didn’t have a profile and I hate Facebook. Yes, I said it! And, no, I won’t be going to see the movie about its creation.

After some CSI type investigation, I found out that someone was posing as me on the website, albeit without any pictures and getting my date of birth wrong by several weeks. Clearly someone that knows me, but not actually me. Though I’m not entirely sure what this nameless moron was getting out of their endeavours, I still didn’t want them doing it, which forced me to become part of the hated ineffective waste of time that is ‘the F word’. 

In addition to my justified anger at the individual who has too much time on their hands, I do have to wonder how it was so easy for someone to create a profile impersonating me. To add insult to injury, I not only had to create an account to tell them that they had an imposter, but wait an age for them to do anything about it. To a certain extent I can understand when cretins do this sort of thing with celebrities. I don’t fall into that special category. So really what benefit do they get?

Not like the donkey that hacked into my eBay account in order to sell e-Gold – whatever the hell that is – and gained access to my credit card details. Oh, what fun to be told by eBay that I shouldn’t give out my password to anyone! Of course, I don’t give out my password to anyone; I know about phishing emails and the like yet somehow I’m still to blame. No wonder internet security firms are making massive profits.

I do have to be grateful that I got off lightly when compared to some horror stories about people who have had their identities’ stolen. I can’t imagine the nightmare of trying to prove that you are who you say you are all while battling some criminal waster for your own identity.   

Supposed advances have brought us Chip and Pin, which allows you to show your PIN number to a whole queue of people. Genius. Paranoia about people standing too close is no longer confined to concern about traditional pickpockets, no, they’ve gone high-tech.

How is it possible that barely a day passes without the arrival of some new mobile/gadget/thingimy-wotsit to waste money on, and yet, there seems to be no way to prevent fraudsters from taking other people’s money? There is something very wrong when criminals can outsmart those who design the apparently secure systems.

Even basic procedures that should be secure are far from it. I seem to get a new person delivering my post every few weeks and – shock horror – have had many instances of expected mail going missing. Maybe it's incompetence, maybe it's fraud, either way, I would love to know if all these people are vetted. An errant household bill may seem trivial, but it becomes much more significant when it is used as a proof of address to get credit. 

When criminals are able to steal the identities of dead children simply by requesting a copy of a birth certificate we are really making it too easy for them. Roll up, roll up! Come get your fake driving licence and passport! Get away with crimes, apply for a credit card, apply for benefit you’re not entitled to! We’ll give you the tools and won’t check a thing!     

Never mind Slim Shady, make sure no one else stands up when the question 'will the real [insert name here] please stand up' is applied to you. Read more by Shermaine.

That's quite enough money grabbing, thank you very much.

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

There’s nothing like a recession to bring out one’s finest qualities, my own being the complete lack of desire to give away my money unnecessarily. Not to be confused with stinginess, you understand; I’m (somewhat) happy to pay for goods and services, just not over the odds.

On realising that my passport had expired, I decided to investigate what would be required in order to update it. Let’s say nothing about the fact that renewing the passport itself costs the better part of £100, not because it isn’t excessive, but because I’ve cussed about it enough already – I can’t look at the form without turning the air blue. A little administration is not worth £100 – for that fee I expect to get the passport hand-delivered on a silver tray.

No, I was mainly aggrieved to be told that submission of the form would cost an additional £8 if done through the Post Office. That is £8 for them to undertake the initial work required, as would normally be done at the passport office. Bearing in mind this doesn’t get the passport to you any quicker, what exactly is the extra money for? The fee isn’t required when the passport office does the exact same work so I can only conclude that it’s money for nothing. The old distraction con: wave the excessive fee in my face while they slip their hand in my pocket.

Then there’s Royal Mail, of course. Ah, Royal Mail, making millions through incompetence for years. Although the service doesn’t improve, the cost of posting correspondence increases every year, but enough of that (air = blue).

My problem is with a handling charge of £1 in addition to the difference in the cost of stamps when a letter had insufficient postage. Why am I being charged? I didn’t send it. What is the point of a return address if you don’t bother using it? As far as I can tell, it is another money making scam: the process of collecting (and paying for) the letter was exactly the same as it is for a letter that went back to the depot because it needed to be signed for and I wasn’t home. That doesn’t attract a charge.

And the supermarket’s trick of gradually putting up the price of products or reducing the size/amount being provided without reducing the price really does my nut in. The massive profits they already make off the back of customers and farmers are simply not enough. They want more, they need more and will stick vacuum hoses in our pockets to get it while distracting us with BOGOFs and bonus points, trying to make us believe we’re getting a good deal.

If avoiding paying for unnecessary nonsense makes me stingy then so be it. I pay enough already, dammit! Read more by Shermaine.

Image: Chris Sharp / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Short but not short of attitude.

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

It was with interest that I read the posts of my fellow Grumpy Youngsters, Shelly and Selina, who stand taller than the average woman. I already know what being short is all about, so I often find myself curious about what life is like for someone taller.

I have no problem with my diminutive height – the world would be a very boring place if we were all the same - but I get the distinct impression that other people are not quite as accepting as I am. In fact, it could actually be rather enjoyable were it not for the moronic behaviour of others; I’d be able to revel in the fact that people automatically assume me to be innocent, I’d lap up the ‘cute’ comments and getting asked for ID (Alright, I confess, it only happened a couple of times years ago, but it still counts). Instead, it ain’t even close to being a barrel of laughs because I have to deal regularly with being patronised.

Let’s leave aside all the clothing alterations that I have to get done. (I’ve accepted the fact that clothing manufacturers hate short women, as proven by the fact that petite clothing ranges are harder and harder to find.) At least my dry cleaner loves me (yep, I can’t sew; the shame!) The issue of clothes that don’t fit becomes positively trivial when someone, who successfully gives the impression of having a two-digit IQ, speaks down to you.

Not only do people speak to you like an idiot, but being petite seems to make people assume that you are a pushover who will happily take their nonsense. Though, I do get some pleasure from the surprise that results when I reveal the fact that I don’t suffer fools. Apparently, being small also means that I can’t speak for myself.

My theory is that, to many people’s minds, short equals young and young equals stupid. It’s called the Moron Theory.

All this is on the basis that I’m actually noticed. Of course, there are occasions when not being seen can be greatly beneficial, but its mostly just plain annoying. I can’t count the number of times that I have been walking along the pavement, my pathway clear and free from obstructions, only for someone walking on the other side of the pavement to turn directly in my path. I have had fully sighted people actually bump into me in broad daylight when I’m walking in a straight line on a wide pavement. Never have I wanted to punch someone in their face more than when the answer to “What do you think you’re doing?” is “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” Then again, I’m probably too short to reach: I could elbow them in the stomach first. I’m well aware that I’m shorter than average but I’m far from being the size of Tinkerbell.

It can even affect the mundane things like going to the supermarket, which becomes a hazardous pursuit. Not because I put myself in danger by clambering up to reach high shelves – it’s a risk I’m prepared to take – but because of how I hold my basket. The level it reaches is the perfect height for small children to run into as they tear around the supermarket without watching where they are going in an attempt to knock themselves out. It really is the final straw when you go unnoticed by people smaller than you.

I learnt very early on that making assumptions about people will often leave you with egg on your face, but I obviously went to a different school of life to many others. Today there is only one very easy lesson. Pens at the ready...don’t judge a book by its cover. Well done, you’ve passed. Read more by Shermaine.

Image: Marcus74id / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This be the grumpy verse!

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

Who are these people at my door?
I know I’ve never seen them before.
Disturbing my peace when I want to unwind,
To try to impress me with well-rehearsed lines,
Ready to confirm they’re the best one to choose,
The acts of the others that’ll cause them to lose.
They wander the streets tightly gripping their files,
Trying to blind with the brightest false smiles.
They talk of new wheelie bins and reduced council tax
And speak of all their opponents being totally lax.
Who knows how many trees they’ve killed
To create all the flyers for which we’ll get billed?
Endless letters create more postage cost,
Promising the world before they get lost.
It’s the tip of the iceberg in the national debate,
So we can decide which leader we least hate.
The television and newspapers are filled to the brim
With conflicting opinions on him, him and him,
Studying all aspects of each of their lives,
(As we’re bound to be swayed by the state of their wives)
Creating false stories and digging up dirt,
Promote their campaign while the others’ they hurt,
Trotting out supporters and enemies alike,
Each seeking credit for the greatest sound bite,
Proclaiming they’re what people of the country need,
Hoping their voice is the only one we heed.
Best image and policy are the name of the game,
When, in reality, they’re very much the same.
Sweet words to deceive us as they think we don’t know
We can see it’s a circus and all part of the show.
This excessive fuss is almost more than I can bear;
In the great scheme of things, who the hell cares!

Read more by Shermaine.

Is civility dead?

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

I’ve discovered the reason why I can be deemed a Grumpy Young Woman. It really is so simple that I don’t know how I didn’t realise it before. I used to think that it was just the actions of other people that naturally left me seething, but I’ve come to the conclusion: I have the ability to soak up fury. Like some dodgy lotion that should be avoided because of the chemicals it contains, the bile seeps into me and settles into my organs.

This is why my aggravation is always worse when I am forced to use the London Underground. What is it about public transport that makes people act like lunatics? Why would anyone feel the need to do battle for a seat during a journey to a location where they will spend the day sitting down? In fact, the seat is so precious that it cannot possibly be offered to anyone who needs it more. In my experience, the culprit is invariably male and clad in a pin-stripe suit.

To make matters worse, men love to spread their legs in a concerted effort to occupy the seats either side of them, apparently to accommodate their substantial balls. Well, they have to do something now that the recession has made it uneconomical to fill the Porsche/Hummer/whatever with petrol.

“Apparently, it is easy to confuse public transport with your own living room.”

For the most part, the utter lack of common courtesy doesn’t appear intentional; it stems from an inability to recognise that there are other people around them. Egocentric somehow doesn’t seem to provide an adequate description. It is the only explanation for why anyone would open up a broadsheet in a position where it covers the book that their neighbouring passenger is reading. Apparently, it is easy to confuse public transport with your own living room.

Those who don’t make a mad dash for the seats can be equally annoying, but just in a different way. It is clearly too much trouble to stand out of the way of other passengers. Standing in the aisle and blocking empty seats is much more preferable.

Now I don’t remember myself as a teenager – it was much too long ago – but I’m sure I wasn’t as loud as those who seem to live at the back of the bus. Not only do they love the sound of their own voices; they think everyone else also loves it so much that they think nothing of singing aloud in public. Can you imagine – whole groups of teenagers singing? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they were tuneful, but even Simon Cowell’s botoxed face would form a frown if he heard it.

It doesn’t get any better when you decide to walk anywhere, because you have to contend with drivers who show little courtesy towards each other and even less for pedestrians. I’m sure the Highway Code says that a pedestrian has the right of way if they are in the process of crossing the road. It doesn’t say blow your horn at them and attempt to intimidate them with the car bumper.

In fact, the spirit of entitlement and selfishness is so bad that, not long ago, in a supermarket close to where I live, a man died after being attacked over an argument about a place in a queue. Had all parties involved remembered their manners and dealt with the matter in a civilised way, the whole tragic mess could have been avoided.

There are some glimmers of hope, though. A teenager held the door open for me at Wimbledon’s Centre Court. This is despite the fact that I was several steps behind her and she was perfectly within her rights to let the door go, but she saw me, stopped and held it open. Of course, I thanked her; I’m sure she thought it was only for the door, but it was actually for renewing my faith in youngsters!

The normally hateful chore of supermarket shopping was made a little better when an assistant offered me the opportunity to pick apples from a brand new pallet when he saw me attempting to choose from the shrivelled crap that was on the shelf – bless him for helping me get my five a day. I thanked him twice and skipped off to the checkout.

There are still signs of life – quick, pass the defibrillators! Read more by Shermaine.

Must we watch women put on their faces in public places?

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

If there is only one thing you need to know about me, it is that I’m not a morning person. Having to get up in the morning is one of the banes of my life, and every day that I don’t have to do it is a good day.

Nevertheless, as much as I hate it, I still do it when it is necessary.

Were it possible for me to be fine and fragrant the moment I rolled out of bed then I’d be laughing but, alas, that is not the case. I make time to get ready, because I have enough respect for my fellow Londoners not to leave my house looking like the love child of a troll doll and a gremlin.

It takes a lot of time and effort to get me looking decent enough to leave the house, but I get out of my bed so that I have enough time to do it. To me, it is a common courtesy but, apparently, this isn’t a belief shared by all.

There’s a reason why I keep my grooming rituals confined to my home and it isn’t just because it ain’t pretty. It’s also because there are just come things that need to be kept private. Whether it is applying make up or shaving your legs, there a some things that a woman needs to keep to herself, not undertake on a tube carriage or a train platform. Yep, I said women, because women appear to be the worst culprits. I know we have more maintenance to undertake but that should be no excuse for letting everyone see it.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve seen men acting in a disgusting manner as if they believe themselves to be invisible. Most notably was a man who felt it necessary to pick his teeth by shoving his finger into his mouth as though searching for gold. And they do love rearranging their junk (or maybe checking that it’s still there). I don’t want to see the things that people should keep to themselves, whether they be male or female. This is an equal opportunity rant.

I do not want to see other women dragging at their faces in the process of applying make up as though they’re in the privacy of their own bathrooms. Call me picky, but I don’t want to be covered in foundation powder and I hate the smell of nail varnish. I shouldn’t have to be assaulted in this manner.

I’m well aware that the media have a lot to do with it, making women think that we can only look good by using all the lotions and potions we can find. Don’t believe the hype, people! It’s all airbrushing – don’t be swayed by it. In any case, many women I’ve seen look a lot better without all the slap that they insist on wearing. This helps when it comes to the common argument of needing to use public areas because “I don’t have enough time in the morning”. Do without, and save both time and money.

We shouldn’t all have to be subjected to it. Get out of bed earlier so that you have enough time for your morning ablutions, change out of the pyjamas, shave everything that needs it, spray on the smellies and slap on the war paint. Alternatively, go to war without it. Whatever you do – keep it to yourself. Not least because being choked by a cloud of perfume isn’t fun for anyone. Read more by Shermaine.

Image: Graeme Weatherston / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Seriously, who would sell their home because a fake letter told them to?

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

It takes a person with a special talent to be able to annoy others despite not having any direct contact with them. In my world that unique honour goes to estate agents. Why is it that anything to do with property brings out the worst in people?

Sadly, estate agents are a necessary evil. Even with the proliferation of do-it-yourself house sales and purchases, I can accept that some people still want to go to an agent to make use of their services. ‘Go to’ being the operative phrase. But an estate agent touting for business where there is none really takes the chocolate HobNob.

In my area, they market themselves in the same way as takeaway restaurants, with endless leaflets cluttering up the letterbox. The only difference is that they do make the effort of putting their mailshots in an envelope to give the impression that it is actually a real letter. Sometimes, rarely, they do the research to find out the name of the addressee. Most times they can’t be bothered and simply address it to ‘The Occupier’.

And no matter which company they come from, these missives are all along the same lines: “We have qualified applicants looking for a property just like yours.” Really? Have they actually seen my flat? Was that them I caught looking in my windows? I’m sure that if they saw the newspaper and book-strewn rooms and weird layout I call home, they’d change their minds.

I’m beginning to suspect they all coordinate their efforts specifically to piss me off. There is often a brief, deceptive quiet spell before you get deluged with attempts to convince you to sell or rent out your home. I wonder whether they genuinely believe that people will make such a major decision in the same way that they peruse menus for their dinner.

Botheration by correspondence is one thing; it is quite another when they get in my face. One of the perils of living in a flat is coming into contact with one of them when they are showing another unit. Finding one of their damned minis parked in the space that belongs to me, despite the space belonging to the flat they are showing being empty, causes me to have a reaction similar to that achieved by dunking a Gremlin in a bucket of water. It ain’t pretty.

It gets even worse when the agent doesn’t bother to lock the communal door – the same door that morons have previously attempted to force. Not a good idea with a territorial and belligerent woman in the building. I caught up with him and politely requested that he make sure the door was locked and that he stayed out of my space. He responded with excuses. I responded by loudly mentioning the attempted break-ins within hearing distance of a pair of potential renters. War!

When they’re not killing trees for their publicity or giving people the opportunity to burgle me, they still make their omnipotent presence felt with endless advertising boards. Flimsily constructed, they are the ideal plaything for many a drunkard to find and brandish as a trophy on the stagger home.

And the quality doesn’t stop there. These are highly trained professionals, aren’t they? I’d like to know exactly how much training you need for the skilled job of unlocking a front door. Not that much. The last time I made use of the services of an estate agent, I learnt that one was a bricklayer the week before and another was doing the job part time whilst studying. The high level of staff turnover that most estate agents experience is very telling. The majority of them are completely unqualified to do the job and it shows. Nice to know your biggest purchase or large piece of monthly expenditure is entrusted to such an honourable bunch then.

No one can possibly have any faith in a profession that has been the subject of repeated documentaries that blatantly exposed their fraudulent ways. I certainly can’t. But I will take the Thai takeaway menu, though. Read more by Shermaine.

Image (money house): Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Image (door): Michelle Meiklejohn / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Age is wasted on the old

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

Good thing that I’m grumpy now because I can’t imagine why I would be when I get older. I’m not entirely sure what all the codgers have to complain about.

I actually can’t wait to attain codger status because I imagine it to be akin to the portrayal by Jenny Joseph in her wonderful poem Warning.

I’m looking forward to experiencing the pleasure that must come from tutting and complaining about the insolent youngsters who have the audacity to sit in one of the precious front seats of the bus. A feeling that can only be improved on by bluntly declining any audacious offer of a seat on the basis that “I’m not that old!” Outrage hurts so good.

It must be such a delight to start conversations with random strangers, fully expecting them to engage in chat about the weather, my dog’s bad leg, my bad back and/or the price of Spam. I can’t wait to give people advice that they don’t ask for merely because I am older and wiser – I’d have seen it all and know when someone was making a mistake. Codger status will come with the knowledge of the correct way to do anything and everything.

It’s this comprehensive knowledge that will give me free reign to berate anyone who crosses my path if they have done wrong – my opinion of what constitutes ‘wrong’, of course – and point out where they have fallen short. In view of it being for their own benefit and because of my age, I’ll go in all guns blazing and expect no comeback no matter how horrendous I am perceived to be (merely perceived because, in reality, I’ll be a harmless old lady).

I’ll pull my wheeled trolley round after me wherever I go, especially when I choose to ignore designated crossings for the sake of shuffling across the road wherever I feel like it, forcing traffic to stop and wait for the time that it takes for me to get to the other kerb. I’m so looking forward to using said trolley to rumble along in the middle of the pavement, failing to make way for anyone attempting to pass by me. They have to wait – what have they got to hurry for anyway?

And despite me not being in a hurry, that won’t stop me from fulfilling my right to queue jump, pushing in on the basis that “I’m old and can’t stand for long periods on account of my bad feet”. This will be one of several ailments that I’m afflicted with, but I’ll gain great pleasure in complaining about them at every opportunity, including the random strangers I just love to engage.

Trips to the Doctor’s office are fun and will be so numerous that I’ll get my very own seat in the waiting room.

I think it will be a lot of fun complaining about the good old days when everyone spoke English, but see no irony in going abroad and shouting at people in order to be understood.

Ahh, the life of a pensioner – expecting instant respect for no reason other than their age. They don’t know they’re born. Read more by Shermaine.

You can keep your Valentine's Day pity

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

It was only when displays of red decorative tack appeared in my local supermarket that I even realised that the dreaded day was approaching. I bet you’re thinking: “Poor girl!” Well, hold that thought, because you don’t actually have to feel sorry for me.

The day is a dreaded one, not because I’m a sad and lonely singleton, but because everyone expects me to be one. It’s the anticipation of the sympathetic looks that will inevitably follow my answer to the question “What did you do for Valentine’s Day?”

Is there some sort of legal requirement that says you must be in a relationship at all times, especially on 14th February? If so, the cupid coppers better slap on the handcuffs (as long as they’re not heart-shaped). I’m likely to end up getting additional time.

I suppose I could better understand all the hoo-ha if all of us could literally only express our love on one day in the year, but that isn’t the case. Oh, hang on, maybe someone better versed in relationships should confirm that. Anyone? The question is: what do couples do for the rest of the year? Are they all stony-faced automata who reveal no emotion at all? If so, all I can say is that 15th February must be highly depressing. If not (which I suspect is the case), then what is the big deal? We’re all individuals so I’m not quite sure why many expect everyone to do as they do.

Those who impose their issues and insecurities on me imagine me to be desperately lonely and craving a man because I’m not doing anything special on Valentine’s Day – Bridget Jones has a lot to answer for.

It can’t possibly mean that I’m just fickle and get bored within mere months of being in a relationship – no, I must be desperately hoping for a knight to arrive on a horse. I reckon it’s some sort of conspiracy that involves the Tories and their proposal for tax breaks for married couples. Of course, the rest of us don’t deserve tax breaks because we contribute nothing. But, I’m not bitter, as the discount is far from substantial. Certainly not enough to comfort the likes of Mrs Tiger Woods and Mrs John Terry.

Some of us don’t get the appeal of long-term relationships and others would do well to simply accept that and move on rather than trying to convert people like some unhinged evangelist. Maybe I should start retaliating with my opinion on serial monogamists and then we’ll see who comes out unscathed.

Although, I can’t really be too critical: the chat shows I love so much would be nothing were it not for dysfunctional relationships. “My best friend’s cousin’s mother took my man so I stole her dog.”

And poor divorce lawyers would be twiddling their thumbs.

So, I won’t be doing anything special on Valentine’s Day and feel no compulsion to conform. If I want to get into a relationship, I will. In the meantime, I am perfectly capable of cooking meals for myself and buying my own jewellery and could do without a cheap supermarket card that will end up in the recycling bin. Thanks all the same. Read more by Shermaine.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Putting the YOU in 'queue'

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

With all the money that banks make, I would have thought that their profit margin would allow them to invest in technology that actually works. But – silly me – that would effect the bonuses that have made so many people redundant.

No, I’m not talking about the carousel that is the automated telephone line that banks love so much, or even the ATMs that give you a receipt not for your own account but for the person who used it before you. Great security.

The particular contraption with which I take umbrage is the paying-in machine. The bank that I use (apparently the world’s second or third largest – staff have informed me of this fact several times, but I tend to glaze over every time) moved locations not long ago, from a small site on a busy high street to a larger site across the road. It should have been a good thing: more space, more tellers, more assistance! Could it be? An efficient bank?

No such luck.

In fact, what they did was reduce the number of teller windows to two (remember: busy high street) and loaded the place with machines. Now, this particular bank used to have paying-in machines that worked perfectly – cash and cheques in an envelope and pop it in the machine – but these were obviously too simple and they got rid of them. The new machines have the ability to sort the deposits, though, and don’t require any staff to empty them so I suspect that has something to do with it.

I have to confess, I wouldn’t actually mind them if they worked once in a while, but what is the point of filling a bank with machines and then covering them with ‘out of order’ signs? The ones that do work still don’t work properly: woe betide anyone who tries to deposit any notes that have wrinkles, dog-ears, creases, writing or anything else the machine doesn’t like. The machine has class: “Dahhhling, if it’s not pristine, I don’t want it.”

Besides that, you can’t deposit cash and cheques in the same machine – how foolish of me to think I could. Waiting in one queue before waiting in another is my favourite pastime.

The member of staff standing by the door like a greeter, looking important and efficient with the addition of a clipboard, is never any help. Question: “Why are your machines always broken?” Answer: “They are due to be repaired soon.” Not only is that not what I asked, but it means nothing when I am standing there wanting to deposit my money. You would have thought that they would be eager to take my cash so they could get back to playing on the stock market.

When the inevitable queue does build up at the two windows behind which actual humans sit, Clipboard actually tries to encourage those waiting to use the machines: “Roll up, roll up! See the wonders of another queue. Wait your turn to see the amazing sight of a fortune teller – let it tell you whether your notes have ever been folded.”

I don’t know about you, but I really don’t want to be standing at a machine with a wad of notes in my hand while it whirrs and clicks as it considers assisting me.

If it was a one-time occurrence, it wouldn’t be so bad, but the fact that it happens all the time makes it even more galling that the very same bank sees fit to call and email me to offer me some sort of premier account. (“All for the low, low price of £12.95 a month!”).

What’s premier about it? Are they going to ensure that their machines work? Are they going to make sure my calls to them get answered by a real-life person? Of course not. All the same inconvenience with some useless stuff thrown in that I’ll never use.

Hmm, yeah, I’ll pass. Thanks anyway. Read more by Shermaine.

Image: graur razvan ionut / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The law really is an ass

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

Who knew that I would ever discover a newfound respect for one of that group I normally consider so loathsome – a celebrity. The individual in question is Myleene Klass, all the more surprising because I considered her personality so lightweight and saccharine. It appears that she has more balls than first thought.

If newspaper reports are to be believed, Ms Klass scared away intruders on her property by banging on the window and brandishing a knife. Considering she’s a young woman and was in her own home with a young child to look after, I would have thought it was an action to be commended. All the poor woman actually got was a warning from the coppers that her action could be constituted as carrying an offensive weapon. The audacity of the woman – trying to defend herself, her child and her property from trespassers (potential thieves, rapist and murderers).

I can’t even take any comfort from knowing that so-called celebrities get treated the same as us mere mortals: my blood boiled equally hot when several fine members of law enforcement treated me like an idiot.

On calling them when some punk tried to break into my block of flats (not a mistake I will make again), they tried to treat me like the criminal: taking down my details and telling me where to stand. They then tried to suggest that it was simply someone else who lived in the (four-unit) building that I don’t know. That must have been why he was trying to force the door and ran away when I screamed at him.

I utilised great restraint to stop myself confirming that I knew the three other occupiers in the block that I have lived in for six years; instead, I asked how long I would have got if I had held him off with some Chemical Mace. I know it’s illegal, but what else am I supposed to do when three gormless coppers tell me there’s nothing they can do? Do their job for them is what I say – what’s wrong with a bit of vigilantism in the right circumstances?

It seems that the story of people becoming victims is more acceptable in the news than that of people defending themselves.

It’s no wonder that our prisons are overflowing when we seem to care more about criminals that we do about the victims of crime. In fact, people are actually going to jail for defending themselves against criminals. Yes, I know the law, I studied it – more fool me! – and know all about reasonable force. Screw that for a game of soldiers: if someone wants to try to break into my home then they deserve to get beaten within an inch of their lives (baseball bat, if you’re asking – “it’s not an offensive weapon, guv. I play a spot of rounders at the weekend”).

Much like the story about the escaped convict who taunted police via Facebook – ah, the benefits of social networking – the case of Ms Klass is just another one of those stories that make the police look ridiculous.

With her husband away, I can only imagine how scared she must have been. Keep your knife to hand, I say. When it comes to the crunch, you can only rely on yourself. Read more by Shermaine.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net