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I know a man who, despite having passed his 80th birthday, continues to enjoy his powerful BMW motorcycle.

Last August, he pulled up at traffic lights alongside a grinning woman in her car. She was chattering into her mobie. My chum leaned over, confiscated her 'phone and waited for the lights to change.

They duly obliged and off he went having endured lots of indignant abuse from hissing woman.

A minute later this battle resumed as a second set of lights stopped them again. Chum returned the 'phone along with a lecture about road safety and the law.

The abuse continued... Almost, but not quite, incredible.
 

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Lifestyle cops, eh? Every family seems to have at least one nowadays.

Many years ago I capitulated to pressure, and gave up smoking my beloved pipe.

Within three years the taste of my wife's cooking had returned, so I resumed my pipe.
 

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Predictive text is making me grumpy. You want to write a Forum post and never complains 28th Smith said something worthwhile companion piece that innumerable impressionist painters captured in shiny silver medallist...

See what I mean?
 

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While out on my daily bicycle ride today in cold fog, I was minded of my wedding anniversary last September.

I asked my wife if she'd like to do anything special. She replied most wearily that she wanted to go somewhere she'd never been previously.

Knowing that Pescara, Avus, Nurburgring, Albi, Brno and Rouen were out of the question, I offered to show her the kitchen...

Bandages should be off by Christmas...
 

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Grumpies are too quiet recently. Nothing to gripe about?

Perhaps we should start the Reformed Old Gits Society. Not for me, though, yet.

A new accent emerged in the UK a few years ago, and it's prevalent among young folk. It irritates the carp out of me.

They say gidd morning, pidding instead of pudding, Seezan instead of Susan, and a good-looking bloke is now a gidd licking blake.

Naturally, their grinning countenances punctuate this BS with the word, like, as part of their overall strategy of inefficient communication technique.

Spare us, please.
 

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Started today by inadvertently squirting shampoo into my left eye, and dropping a bar of soap in the bath - eventually retrieved with vociferous use of the most foul language.

I'm now commanded to place an unwanted double bed into the rear of a small Volkswagen - an impossible feat for even the most mindless optimist.

And they wonder why we get grumpy. Ab irato!
 

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To return to Gordonzz first post on this thread, I listened to Hannah Rankin, speaking on BBC Radio 3's prog Private Passions today.

Ms Rankin is an accomplished musician, and a professional boxer who, in conversation with Michael Berkeley, not only started her sentences with "So", but ended them thus as well...

I switched the wireless off, being unable to tolerate this assassination of English. Yoof, eh!
 

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The English language develops very, very slowly. Evidence for this is provided by the definitive Oxford English Dictionary, that includes an average of 2-4 new words annually.

What spreads rapidly is illiteracy. Most concerning is that practitioners of bad English don't even know why their dicta is wrong.
 

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It's that time of year again, isn't it? Off to the seasonal trough with the Munsters...

If only James Dyson would invent something useful - a machine that automatically removes labrador hairs from aunt Hermione's Christmas pudding, for example. Poor old girl's 98 and confuses custard and gravy...

I used to like turkey...
 

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KFW

Yep, you're right. We're getting worse, eh! Last year was the most disturbing ever. Arrived at the Munsters' for noon trough. Uncle Bonkers, who is very deaf, thought he heard intruders.

Farming instinct led him to his fave 12-bore - a prob after the Scotch he'd already necked - which he discharged into the kitchen ceiling without encouragement...

Auntie thought it was fearfully funny. I did not. Uncle Bonkers has spent the last year shouting obscenities at his gun cabinet. For the sake of humanity, it's now empty. But the ceiling's still a mess...
 

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Stuart

A little 'sound' advice for you if I might be so presumptuous. My late father objected, most strongly, to almost everyone and had a solution to their intrusion, which he regarded as unhygenic impertinence.

No one could get near him, especially at Christmas, because... he loved... music.

As soon as he became cognizant of imminent intrusion, he took out his trombone... and played, unaccompanied solos for as long as he needed to.

It's incontrovertible and irrefutable that no one on Planet Earth has ever succeeded in holding an intelligible conversation with a chap playing a trombone, which is just one reason why I continue to exercise loathing for the brass/silver ensembles of orchestras.

I advise, therefore, that you buy a sliphorn; whether you learn to play it, or not, blowing into it will expel people from your home - very quickly in my experience...
 
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