llamedos
New Member
Nasty man
Best not put that pic on social media, someone will think you have oven ready lamb!
things that make you smile
- Thread starter rob1
- Start date
Best not put that pic on social media, someone will think you have oven ready lamb!
And a sachet of mint sauce included! Hmm i wonder what deborah meaden or peter jones would think of that bright idea!Nasty man
Best not put that pic on social media, someone will think you have oven ready lamb!
Blod
Member
Missing a call from someone who bought a bull just over 10 months ago and having a fleeting moment of doubt before calling him back only to discover he just wanted to let us know how pleased he is. 35 bulled and in calf and nearly all held to first service. Small lively calves which he says promise to grow well. A very happy customer who thought Dad would you want to know. He did and he is
michael N123
Member
Cocaine and hookers
- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
I love the way the chap doesn't even flinch when he drops one on his toe
Nearly
Member
- Location
- North of York
Apparently the 'carbs' in wine are 'different'.
multi power
Member
- Location
- pembrokeshire
No toothache today yee ha
- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
At the risk of sharing something off Facebook ...........
- Location
- Glen Clova, Angus, DD8 4RD
Not much less than He does looking at him
Philip Watkins
Member
- Location
- Back in Shropshire
- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
I'd make sure you are the only one in charge of any tools tonight
- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
Paddington
Member
- Location
- Soggy Shropshire
- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
So would my dogs riding up front until we got to the campsiteI'm sure the bears will like that.
Robigus
Member
http://www.thetimes.co.uk/edition/comment/phone-obsessed-idiots-weve-got-your-number-2lltff2zx
GILES COREN
march 3 2017, 5:00pm, the times
Grumpy old gits across England — your columnist foremost among them — were jubilant this week at the doubling of fines and point penalties for people caught using their phones at the wheel of a car. The increase to £200 and six points for each offence means, among other things, that young people, whose point limit before a mandatory driving ban is half the 12 allowed to more experienced drivers, can lose their licence altogether for a first offence. Woohoo! Little phone-tapping, millennial, sex-crazed, disrespectful barstewards. That’ll learn them.
And our jubilation only increased as the first stories and photographs rolled in of people caught out by the launch of the new legislation, including a 19-year-old lad busted and banned in the Thames Valley, who commented, “I just feel pee'd off, to be honest. All I was doing was trying to find a garage to change my tyre.”
Rubbish! I know young people. He was blogging his morning smoothie on YouTube. He was instagramming his haircut. He was trawling for rumpy on Tinder. He was snapchatting his goolies. He was yakking to his bonehead pals because he hasn’t the attention span to focus on a single activity — such as the potentially life-threatening business of conveying a motor vehicle down a public highway — without seeking some kind of witless aural diversion. Penalty charge! Lovely.
But cars aren’t the only place where a clampdown is needed. There are all sorts of situations in which using a phone should be subject to police intervention. Such as, for example, cyclists, who sit up all tall and clever, look-at-me-I-can-cycle-without-holding-the-handlebars and scroll their phone while riding down the middle of suburban streets. Oh, how you want a car to pull out unexpectedly from a side road while they’re filling in their Ocado order at 20 miles per hour and . . . well, obviously I don’t want to wish actual death on anyone. But a cycling ban and a fat fine ought to be standard.
And also anybody waddling down a pavement carrying two phones or even three in the same hand, usually bald, often fat, always in tracksuits, thinking they are so bloody important. Like we’re going to believe that one is for mates, one is for birds and the third is for “bidniz”. Rubbish, they’re all for phoning Domino’s Pizza, you bloated lunk. Penalty charge!
And people in restaurants. Couples who sit at dinner, two feet apart, after a day at their boring offices in front of blinking screens and then meet up for dinner and sit there in silence with their heads bent down at their phones, going scrit, scrit, scrit, scratching at the global digital super-scab because they know no other form of human interaction. Slap! Six points! Fine!
And friends of mine at lunch, who know not to pick up their phones when I’m talking because I will cut out their eyes with my coffee spoon, so keep staring at them, there on the table, and stroking them, and flipping them over and nudging them to try to see if they’ve had a message or a tweet alert or whatever the hell they think they are missing. Penalty charge!
And those people on planes who, the moment it lands, spark up their phones and start swiping furiously at them, desperate to find out what they have missed on email or Facebook in the 90 minutes they were out of range. Nothing, pal! And nobody noticed you were gone. This plane could have crashed and your body could have lain rotting in an Alpine pass for a week before anybody noticed you hadn’t come to work, you sad, lonely phone-befuddled barsteward! Fine! Penalty points!
And my wife. Her phone going Ping! Ping! Ping! when I’m trying to watch television, with her bloody friends who can’t send one long message but have to send their witterings one sentence at a time, “ping, ping, ping . . .” Penalty charge!
And then nannies in the playground or wheeling prams, yakking in Polish and whatever they speak in the Philippines, yak, yak, yak, while the child puts its fingers in electric sockets and licks batteries. You’re being paid £25,000 after tax, with accommodation thrown in, to look after someone’s children, not natter with the family you left behind while your employer’s kid walks under a bus.
And dads, at the swings, pushing your kid on a Saturday morning, nattering away on your phone and thinking you are doing a great parenting job — you’re not! Your boy doesn’t give a hoot about the swinging, he just wants to be with you and bond with you, and that can’t happen if you’re not mentally there. He won’t cry when you die, you know. Penalty charge!
And old people. Always with the tiny Nokia that their fingers are too stiff to work properly. Too deaf to hear it ringing in the theatre and then when they finally do hear it, look around irritably to see whose it is. And then when they do realise it’s theirs, can’t find it in their bag and then can’t work out how to turn it off. Penalty charge! Lifetime ban!
And people walking their dogs in the park while on the phone. You got the stupid mutt because you said you were lonely, so who the hell are you talking to? If you’ve got so many friends to talk to on the phone then get rid of the stinking hound! And pick up that turd!
And people in the countryside, phoning while ploughing fields or riding horses — stop it! I come to the countryside to witness proper bucolic scenes, not idiots on phones. I can get that in the city. And anyway you live in the countryside, what can you possibly have to say that is so urgent it can’t wait for at least a week?
And road workers, standing there staring into a hole, leaning on a barrier, nattering away while ten miles of traffic snakes all the way back to junction 12. Get off the phone and fill the effing hole! Penalty charge!
And Philip Green. Most of all, Philip Green. The man is never not on his phone. In every single photograph, there he is: in a suit at the fashion shows — on his phone; shorts and a hoodie on Kensington High Street — on his phone; swimming trunks and a big cigar on a yacht — on his giant stupid fat man’s phone. Such a very important man. So much to say. And always scowling into it and looking angry. He never looks like he’s saying, “I love you”, does he? He always looks like he is ordering a hit on someone. Or a kneecapping. Penalty charge! Another £363 million ought to do it.
@gilescoren
GILES COREN
march 3 2017, 5:00pm, the times
Phone-obsessed idiots, we’ve got your number
Let’s widen the crackdown on motorists using mobiles to nannies, cyclists, frequent fliers, Philip Green . . . and my wife
Grumpy old gits across England — your columnist foremost among them — were jubilant this week at the doubling of fines and point penalties for people caught using their phones at the wheel of a car. The increase to £200 and six points for each offence means, among other things, that young people, whose point limit before a mandatory driving ban is half the 12 allowed to more experienced drivers, can lose their licence altogether for a first offence. Woohoo! Little phone-tapping, millennial, sex-crazed, disrespectful barstewards. That’ll learn them.
And our jubilation only increased as the first stories and photographs rolled in of people caught out by the launch of the new legislation, including a 19-year-old lad busted and banned in the Thames Valley, who commented, “I just feel pee'd off, to be honest. All I was doing was trying to find a garage to change my tyre.”
Rubbish! I know young people. He was blogging his morning smoothie on YouTube. He was instagramming his haircut. He was trawling for rumpy on Tinder. He was snapchatting his goolies. He was yakking to his bonehead pals because he hasn’t the attention span to focus on a single activity — such as the potentially life-threatening business of conveying a motor vehicle down a public highway — without seeking some kind of witless aural diversion. Penalty charge! Lovely.
But cars aren’t the only place where a clampdown is needed. There are all sorts of situations in which using a phone should be subject to police intervention. Such as, for example, cyclists, who sit up all tall and clever, look-at-me-I-can-cycle-without-holding-the-handlebars and scroll their phone while riding down the middle of suburban streets. Oh, how you want a car to pull out unexpectedly from a side road while they’re filling in their Ocado order at 20 miles per hour and . . . well, obviously I don’t want to wish actual death on anyone. But a cycling ban and a fat fine ought to be standard.
And also anybody waddling down a pavement carrying two phones or even three in the same hand, usually bald, often fat, always in tracksuits, thinking they are so bloody important. Like we’re going to believe that one is for mates, one is for birds and the third is for “bidniz”. Rubbish, they’re all for phoning Domino’s Pizza, you bloated lunk. Penalty charge!
And people in restaurants. Couples who sit at dinner, two feet apart, after a day at their boring offices in front of blinking screens and then meet up for dinner and sit there in silence with their heads bent down at their phones, going scrit, scrit, scrit, scratching at the global digital super-scab because they know no other form of human interaction. Slap! Six points! Fine!
And friends of mine at lunch, who know not to pick up their phones when I’m talking because I will cut out their eyes with my coffee spoon, so keep staring at them, there on the table, and stroking them, and flipping them over and nudging them to try to see if they’ve had a message or a tweet alert or whatever the hell they think they are missing. Penalty charge!
And those people on planes who, the moment it lands, spark up their phones and start swiping furiously at them, desperate to find out what they have missed on email or Facebook in the 90 minutes they were out of range. Nothing, pal! And nobody noticed you were gone. This plane could have crashed and your body could have lain rotting in an Alpine pass for a week before anybody noticed you hadn’t come to work, you sad, lonely phone-befuddled barsteward! Fine! Penalty points!
And my wife. Her phone going Ping! Ping! Ping! when I’m trying to watch television, with her bloody friends who can’t send one long message but have to send their witterings one sentence at a time, “ping, ping, ping . . .” Penalty charge!
And then nannies in the playground or wheeling prams, yakking in Polish and whatever they speak in the Philippines, yak, yak, yak, while the child puts its fingers in electric sockets and licks batteries. You’re being paid £25,000 after tax, with accommodation thrown in, to look after someone’s children, not natter with the family you left behind while your employer’s kid walks under a bus.
And dads, at the swings, pushing your kid on a Saturday morning, nattering away on your phone and thinking you are doing a great parenting job — you’re not! Your boy doesn’t give a hoot about the swinging, he just wants to be with you and bond with you, and that can’t happen if you’re not mentally there. He won’t cry when you die, you know. Penalty charge!
And old people. Always with the tiny Nokia that their fingers are too stiff to work properly. Too deaf to hear it ringing in the theatre and then when they finally do hear it, look around irritably to see whose it is. And then when they do realise it’s theirs, can’t find it in their bag and then can’t work out how to turn it off. Penalty charge! Lifetime ban!
And people walking their dogs in the park while on the phone. You got the stupid mutt because you said you were lonely, so who the hell are you talking to? If you’ve got so many friends to talk to on the phone then get rid of the stinking hound! And pick up that turd!
And people in the countryside, phoning while ploughing fields or riding horses — stop it! I come to the countryside to witness proper bucolic scenes, not idiots on phones. I can get that in the city. And anyway you live in the countryside, what can you possibly have to say that is so urgent it can’t wait for at least a week?
And road workers, standing there staring into a hole, leaning on a barrier, nattering away while ten miles of traffic snakes all the way back to junction 12. Get off the phone and fill the effing hole! Penalty charge!
And Philip Green. Most of all, Philip Green. The man is never not on his phone. In every single photograph, there he is: in a suit at the fashion shows — on his phone; shorts and a hoodie on Kensington High Street — on his phone; swimming trunks and a big cigar on a yacht — on his giant stupid fat man’s phone. Such a very important man. So much to say. And always scowling into it and looking angry. He never looks like he’s saying, “I love you”, does he? He always looks like he is ordering a hit on someone. Or a kneecapping. Penalty charge! Another £363 million ought to do it.
@gilescoren