Firstly, I would like anyone reading this blog post to take particular note of the quotation symbols in the title.
“Close the borders” is, in my opinion, a disgusting thing to say and a nasty view to hold.
The latest thing to get this leftie-blogger ranting, is a video which is trending on social media…
Thankfully, the vast majority of the comments surrounding the clip are of condemnation, with many appalled at how racist and ill-informed the woman sounds.
It’s almost as if we’ve seen it all before…
Yesterday afternoon was not a fun one for Roman. It was his bi-annual trip to the vets. This visit would involve a routine vaccination against RHD2, a nail clipping and a general health check.
Unsurprisingly, Roman was not happy about attending and became rather frightened when his carry case emerged. As he only ever leaves the front room, let alone the house, to attend the vets, he knew something sinister was afoot.
HIDE AND SEEK. ATTEMPT #1.
Still, no matter how hard he tried to hide, Claire and my Dad managed to coax/force him into the travel case.
HIDE AND SEEK. ATTEMPT #2.
I do feel sorry for Roman, having to go somewhere he hates, but the potential alternative – suffering a slow and painful death – is not worth contemplating. Plus, his Daddy is forever in and out of hospital, proving that everyone has to do things they don’t like – including cute little bunny rabbits. This particular afternoon was Roman’s turn!
I AM AWARE THAT ROMAN ISN’T HIDING IN THIS PHOTO, BUT HE IS SUPER CUTE.
Claire told me that despite being scared during the journey, Roman was well behaved for the vet. He didn’t even flinch when receiving the injection and even tolerated his nails being clipped.
His health check revealed a clean bill and that he had put on a little weight over the past twelve months. Having felt Roman, I can testify that he is built like a brick shit house, and despite his small stature, is very strong.
Muscle is said to weigh more than fat, so his added girth is presumably from daily exercise, as opposed to THAT birthday cake!
Small print: Whether you are purchasing a new house, mobile phone contract or a cup of latte, there always seems to be small print. This blog post is no exception. This small print is to advise that the three photos used in the post were not taken on the day of the vet appointment. They were obtained four days before Roman’s visit to the vets and were simply used to make Sean’s Stories more interesting. Plus, he looks adorbs in them!
It’s been a few weeks since I last had an appointment regarding my health, so it will come as no surprise to learn that I was summoned to the hospital this morning.
As with my last appointment, I took the wheelchair. By this, I mean that I sat down and Claire pushed me.
We have thankfully progressed beyond the need for hospital transport, so left the ambulance and paramedics to deal with patients in far greater need of the service than me.
Despite not attending the hospital for literally days, Claire still remembered the way and successfully managed to transport me all the way to the radiology department.
You’ll remember that I hate x rays. It isn’t the fact that I have to lie totally still, before being exposed to high levels of radiation. My problem is the “cassettes” that I am forced to rest on, in order to allow David Bailey to take the perfect picture. These cassettes are not like the ones your grandparents would buy in order to record the Top 40*. The cassettes I am referring to are huge boards, apparently used to help capture the x ray image.
* alright. At a guess, cassettes probably arrived after your grandparents’ childhood. Your parents would certainly have had them – plus, however much they’ll deny it, anyone over the age of 30, including yours truly.
See, kids – music piracy was around long before broadband. Plus, unlike today, if you illegally copied that Spice Girls album, using your SHARP TWIN DECK MB-2107-55 Hi-Fi, there was no risk of getting fined by the British Phonographic Industry, or having your internet cut off – mainly because it hadn’t been invented!
Yet again, I have digressed horribly! Where was I? Oh yes..
Luckily for me, I was having an MRI scan, which meant no cassettes. This type of scan also doesn’t use radiation. This is something of a disappointment. I have had so much exposure to radioactive x rays over the years, I was hoping to develop some kind of superhero power and become one of the X Men.
I’VE ALWAYS FANCIED MYSELF AS A SUPERHERO. I WONDER WHO MY ENEMY WOULD BE. TORIES?
To make up for the absence of the cassettes, the radiographers treated me to a new kind of torment – the magnetic resistant wheelchair.
Upon arrival to the unit, I was told that I would not be able to bring my own chair into the scanning room. Presumably this is because my wheelchair is made of metal and would therefore fly through the air, should it enter the scanner’s magnetic field. I must admit, that does sound fun.
I understand their fears. I got double science for GCSE, which practically makes me as brainy as Stephen Hawking.
What I could not comprehend, was why I couldn’t bring my wheelchair into the room, while the scanner was turned off. There is almost certainly some good reason for this rule. I wasn’t prepared to tell a radiographer how to do their job, just like I wouldn’t expect them to tell me how to do mine. Hang on a minute… there was that time five years ago – I was working on the IT Helpdesk and I received a call from this radiographer…
The MRI-friendly wheelchair may have been pals with the scanner, but it was anything but Sean-friendly! It was almost as if someone had been commissioned to build a chair, as difficult to get in and out of as possible.
I COULDN’T FIND A PHOTO OF AN MRI WHEELCHAIR, SO FOUND SOMETHING ONLY SLIGHTLY LESS UNCOMFORTABLE TO SIT ON.
The seat was really low down, but worst of all, the chair had what I can only describe as poles sticking out near the wheels. This caused me great panic, when my foot became trapped underneath one of the poles, while attempting to transfer to the MRI table.
The purpose of the scan was to check my right eye socket. When I threw myself off my scooter last November, the bone around the socket was apparently damaged – although I suffered no pain or symptoms as a result.
I thought scanning around one eyeball wouldn’t take long. I must have been in the scanner for over 45 minutes! During this time, I was given an injection and forced to wear a cage over my face, in order to keep my head still.
Midway through the proceedings, I was told that they were taking distorted images, as I was moving when I breathed. I almost replied, asking if I should stop breathing, but realised that my well-intended offer of help would most likely come across as rude.
Scan over, I was sent home. Not before having to transfer from the scanning table, onto the worst wheelchair in the World, before finally getting into my own.
Bring back those cassettes…
This is the second of five confessions, which after many years, I have decided to finally come clean about and tell you all.
My previous confession occurred 27 years ago. While this latest one isn’t quite as old as that, it still occured a long time ago.
Besides being closer to the modern day, this second confession also has one major difference to the first – I have changed the names of all involved. This is because I still remain in contact with one or more of them – although this may not necessarily be in a professional capacity.
The way I am building up this story, you would be forgiven for expecting a tale of murder, or at least a bank heist. If this is the case, then sadly you are going to be very disappointed. Think burst ink cartridge in the bogs (Confession #1) and you’ll be close to the severity of the crime…
THERE WAS LITTLE CHANCE OF APPEARING HERE.
Across the course of my career, I’ve generally enjoyed my jobs and going to work. Like most of my colleagues, past and present, I feel that I work hard, but also find the time to have a laugh, without going too far.
Even a goody-two-shoes like me can overstep the mark from time to time, and while no damage was caused by my naughtiness, there could have been.
Ollie had a temper on him. There have been many folk tales of him exploding with rage and damaging equipment and threatening to damage colleagues. Luckily I think these threats to members of staff were just that. Threats.
I know that I am painting Ollie to be a right arsehole, but he was a genuinely good guy.
AN ANGRY MAN, BUT A GOOD MAN.
On a rare slow and boring afternoon, I was on the hunt for some work to do. If not work, something to provide me with a laugh and keep me entertained until home time.
I noticed Robin, looking equally fatigued and disinterested with the prospect of spending an afternoon in the office.
It was by chance that Robin and I spotted each other sharing the same dull expression. We also clocked sight of Ollie, engrossed in his work, looking very stressed and busy. It was at that moment, Robin and I decided to play a practical joke on Ollie.
We made this decision for two reasons…
1) Ollie had recently been getting unnecessary angry, so deserved it.
2) Ollie had recently been getting unnecessary angry, so causing him further fury would be hilarious. For us, at least.
I don’t know how the two of us decided upon the trick. I may have wheeled my office chair all the way to Robin’s desk, he may have approached mine.
Given my hazy memory of the event, we could have even emailed each other our plans – therefore exposing us as the perpetrators, to anyone with the ability to monitor user mailboxes.
Considering I was working within an IT Department at the time, there was an abundance of people with that level of access. You could say Robin and I were Bath’s Dumbest Non-Criminals.
Whether it was Robin or myself who instigated the trick is irrelevant. We both played an equal part and were jointly guilty of the crime that wasn’t a crime, that we were about to commit.
For the sake of this story, let me say that Robin made the first move, before I jumped in and inadvertently made things worse.
OK… are you ready to read about an atrocity so bad, that it has made it into my five greatest confessions, over the course of my 37 years on planet Earth?
Along with my colleague-cum-accomplice, I decided that it would be funny to shrink the size of Ollie’s mailbox, meaning that he would no longer have enough space on his account to store his emails, or send and receive any more.
A DIFFERENT TYPE OF FULL MAILBOX.
Hilarious. Well, it would have been, had our joke gone to plan…
Robin did indeed lower the mailbox quota on Ollie’s account (get me with the technical jargon!). Ollie did indeed notice something was amiss and predictably exhibited rage. As a potty mouth would say, it was “funny as f**k”… for about three minutes.
As I have previously mentioned, an angry Ollie is a dangerous Ollie. It wouldn’t be unfair to compare him to an enraged male chimpanzee. A chimpanzee full of testosterone, feeling very territorial, and worst of all, one that has not had its morning cup of PG Tips.
Robin and I, fearing a little for our jobs, but more importantly our lives, decided that it would be best if we immediately restored Ollie’s mailbox to its former state. The error messages would then disappear, Ollie would assume there had been a glitch in the matrix, calm down and make us all a cup of tea. Coffee in my case.
The solution didn’t quite go to plan…
I accessed Ollie’s mailbox privileges and was able to successfully reverse the changes made by Robin. Hooray! Three cheers for me! Hip hip…
The problem was, that despite successfully granting Ollie lots more mailbox space, his damn computer failed to notice what I had done.
Basically, Microsoft Outlook instantly noticed and applied the changes, once Robin had LOWERED Ollie’s mailbox size, but when I INCREASED the quota, it didn’t want to know. It was almost as if the software was laughing at my worry and Ollie’s fury. Outlook is shit.
Totally oblivious to the fact that the mess was a result of two of his stupid colleagues messing around, Ollie rang Victor – a member of the network team.
Victor checked Ollie’s mailbox himself, and was naturally left very confused. Of course Victor was confused – everything would have looked absolutely fine. There was no indicator on the network, to state that two idiots had been pissing about!
By this point, Victor had left his office and arrived at ours. Probably to check that Ollie hadn’t done anything idiotic…
One thing that is commonplace with people who work in an IT Department, anywhere in the world, is that they believe somebody with less computer knowledge than them must be stupid. This prejudice extends to colleagues within the IT Department, as well as anyone outside of it.
A STEREOTYPICAL, BUT SURPRISINGLY ACCURATE DEPICTION OF YOUR TYPICAL ‘COMPUTER GUY’.
Victor clearly – but unfairly – believed Ollie must have done something stupid, in order to shrink his own mailbox. Most likely, following a hyperlink within an email from a Nigerian prince, telling him that he had won the lottery.
Consumed by guilt and worry, I asked Victor what would happen in the event of somebody changing Ollie’s mailbox size, before switching it back.
I would make a terrible murderer, as I would give the game away before even being questioned by a police officer.
Victor told me that changing the mailbox size would be a very silly thing to do, but something which would correct itself by the morning.
He knew what I had done. It was clear that Victor knew. Luckily for me, he didn’t give a shiny turd.
While I was sweating with fear, in sharp contrast, Robin was chilled out – most likely munching his way through a packet of biscuits, while surfing the internet. There’s a joke about cookies there, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Ollie’s bubbling rage had now reduced to a luke warm annoyance. My guess is because his home time was fast approaching.
My worries continued throughout the evening. I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t need Victor to tell me that Ollie’s mailbox would be fixed by the morning. I knew it would.
That didn’t prevent me from having an evening meal, consisting of bitten fingernails. This, as well as spending hours searching the internet for websites confirming what I already knew – NOT TO PISS ABOUT WITH MAILBOX PRIVILEGES!
FINGERNAILS. TASTY.
The next day everything was ok. The events of the previous afternoon weren’t even mentioned.
What was meant to be a light hearted and harmless joke, clearly backfired. The only person left affected by the incident was me – and not for the right reasons.
While I am sure that Ollie was pleased his email was working again, I was the happiest chappy in the department, when I realised everything was back to normal.
I couldn’t help but notice a new commemorative coin, which has gone on sale.
The new coin is in the style of a fifty pence piece, although I do not believe it to be legal tender.
The coin depicts the mass murderer, Jack the Ripper.
Now, I am aware that many of his crimes date back over 130 years and still manage to fascinate people from all over the world, but let it not be forgotten, the man did brutally murder many innocent women.
I can only assume that the justification for releasing such a coin, is the age of the killer’s crimes. I therefore wonder that if in the year 2120, there will be a similar collectors’ coin, featuring Fred and Rosemary West…
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
